Children of the Mist (2024)

Author of “Down Dartmoor Way,” “Some EverydayFolks,” “My Laughing Philosopher,” “LyingProphets,” etc.

1898

BOOK I: THE BOY’S ROMANCE

1. THE PIXIES’ PARLOUR
2. A CLEAR UNDERSTANDING
3. EXIT WILL
4. BY THE RIVER
5. THE INCIDENT OF MR. JOEL FORD
6. AN UNHAPPY POET
7. LIBATION TO POMONA
8. A BROTHERS’ QUARREL
9. OUTSIDE EXETER GAOL
10. THE BRINGING OF THE NEWS
11. LOVE AND GREY GRANITE
12. A STORY-BOOK
13. THE MILLER’S OFFER
14. LOGIC

BOOK II: HIS ENTERPRISE

1. SPRINGTIME
2. NEWTAKE FARM
3. OVER A RIDING-WHIP
4. DEFEATED HOPES
5. THE ZEAL OF SAM BONUS
6. A SWARM OF BEES
7. AN OFFER OF MARRIAGE
8. MR. BLEE FORGETS HIMSELF
9. A DIFFERENCE WITH THE DUCHY
10. CONNECTING LINKS
11. TOGETHER
12. THROUGH ONE GREAT DAY
13. THE WILL
14. A HUNDRED POUNDS
15. “THE ANGEL OF THE DARKER DRINK”
16. BEFORE THE DAWN
17. MISSING

BOOK III: HIS GRANITE CROSS

1. BABY
2. THE KNIGHT OF FORLORN HOPES
3. CONCERNING THE GATE-POST
4. MARTIN’S RAID
5. WINTER
6. THE CROSS UPREARED
7. GREY TWILIGHT

BOOK IV: HIS SECRET

1. A WANDERER RETURNS
2. HOPE RENEWED
3. ANSWERED
4. THE END OF THE FIGHT
5. TWO MIGHTY SURPRISES
6. THE SECRET OUT
7. SMALL TIMOTHY
8. FLIGHT
9. UNDER COSDON BEACON
10. BAD NEWS FOR BLANCHARD
11. PHOEBE TAKES THOUGHT
12. NEW YEAR’S EVE AND NEW YEAR’S DAY
13. MR. LYDDON’S TACTICS
14. ACTION
15. A BATTLE
16. A PAIR OF HANDCUFFS
17. SUSPENSE
18. THE NIGHT OF JUBILEE

BOOK I
THE BOY’S ROMANCE

CHAPTER I
THE PIXIES’ PARLOUR

Phoebe Lyddon frowned, and, as an instant protest, twin dimples peepedinto life at the left corner of her bonny mouth. In regarding that attractiveripple the down-drawn eyebrows were forgotten until they rose again intotheir natural arches. A sweet, childish contour of face chimed with herexpression; her full lips were bright as the bunch of ripe wood-strawberriesat the breast of her cotton gown; her eyes as grey as Dartmoor mists; while,for the rest, a little round chin, a small, straight nose, and a highforehead, which Phoebe mourned and kept carefully concealed under masses ofcurly brown hair, were the sole features to be specially noted about her. Shewas a trifle below the standard of height proper to a girl of nineteen, butall compact, of soft, rounded lines, plump, fresh of colour, healthy, happy,sweet as a ripe apple.

From a position upon swelling hillsides above the valley of a river, shescanned the scene beneath, made small her eyes to focus the distance, and sopursued a survey of meadow and woodland, yet without seeing what she sought.Beneath and beyond, separated from her standpoint by grasslands and a hedgeof hazel, tangled thickets of blackthorn, of bracken, and of briar sank tothe valley bottom. Therein wound tinkling Teign through the gorges of Fingleto the sea; and above it, where the land climbed upward on the other side,spread the Park of Whiddou, with expanses of sweet, stone-scattered herbage,with tracts of deep fern, coverts of oak, and occasional habitations for thedeer.

This spectacle, through a grey veil of fine rain, Phoebe noted atmid-afternoon of a day in early August; and, as she watched, there widened arift under the sun’s hidden throne, and a mighty, fan-shaped pencil ofbrightness straggled downwards, proceeded in solemn sweep across the valley,and lighted the depths of the gorge beyond with a radiance of misty silver.The music of jackdaws welcomed this first indication of improved weather;then Phoebe’s sharp eyes beheld a phenomenon afar off through themomentary cessation of the rain. Three parts of a mile away, on a distanthillside, like the successive discharges of a dozen fowling-pieces, littleblotches of smoke or mist suddenly appeared. Rapidly they followed eachother, and sometimes the puffs of vapour were exploded together, sometimesseparately. For a moment the girl felt puzzled; then she comprehended andlaughed.

“’Tis the silly auld sheep!” she said to herself.“They ’m shakin ’theer fleeces ’cause they knaw therain’s over-past. Bellwether did begin, I warrant, then all the restdone the same.”

Each remote member of the flock thus freed its coat from the accumulatedmoisture of a long rainfall; then the huddled heap, in which they hadcombined to withstand the weather and show tail to the western storm, beganto scatter. With coughs and sneezes the beasts wandered forward again, andpursued their business of grazing.

Steadily the promises of the sky multiplied and Phoebe’s impatienceincreased. Her position did not, however, depend for comfort upon the returnof sunshine, for she stood out of the weather, where sundry giant rocks tothe number of five arose in a fantastic pile. Nature’s primalarchitects were responsible for the Pixies’ Parlour, and upon the awfulmorning of Dartmoor’s creation these enormous masses had first beenhurled to their present position—outposts of the eternal granite,though themselves widely removed from the central waste of the Moor. Thisparticular and gigantic monument of the past stands with its feet in landlong cultivated. Plough and harrow yearly skirt the Pixies’ Parlour; itrises to-day above yellow corn, to-morrow amid ripening roots; it crowns thesucceeding generations of man’s industry, and watches a ceaseless cycleof human toil. The rocks of which it is composed form a sort of rude chamber,sacred to fairy folk since a time before the memory of the living; briars andivy-tods conceal a part of the fabric; a blackthorn, brushed at this seasonwith purple fruit, rises above it; one shadowed ledge reveals the nightlyroosting place of hawk or raven; and marks of steel on the stone show clearlywhere some great or small fragment of granite has been blasted from theparent pile for the need of man. Multi-coloured, massive, and picturesque,the Parlour, upon Phoebe Lyddon’s visit to it, stood forth against thered bosom of naked land; for a fierce summer had early ripened the vanishedharvest, and now its place was already ploughed again, while ashes of deadfire scattered upon the earth showed where weed and waste had been consumedafter ingathering of the grain.

Patches of August blue now lightened the aerial grey; then sunshine set amillion gems twinkling on the great bejewelled bosom of the valley. Underthis magic heat an almost instantaneous shadowy ghost of fresh vapour roseupon the riparian meadows, and out of it, swinging along with the energy ofyouth and high spirits, came a lad. Phoebe smiled and twinkled a whitehandkerchief to him, and he waved his hat and bettered his pace foranswer.

Soon Will Blanchard reached his sweetheart, and showed himself a brown,straight youngster, with curly hair, pugnacious nose, good shoulders, and afigure so well put together that his height was not apparent until he stoodalongside another man. Will’s eyes were grey as Phoebe’s, but ofa different expression; soft and unsettled, cloudy as the recent weather,full of the alternate mist and flash of a precious stone, one moment alla-dreaming, the next aglow. His natural look was at first sight a littlestern until a man came to know it, then this impression waned and left acritic puzzled. The square cut of his face and abrupt angle of his jaw didnot indeed belie Will Blanchard, but the man’s smile magicallydissipated this austerity of aspect, and no sudden sunshine ever brightened adark day quicker than pleasure made bright his features. It was a sulky,sleepy, sweet, changeable face—very fascinating in the eyes of women.His musical laugh once fluttered sundry young bosoms, brightened many prettyeyes and cheeks, but Will’s heart was Phoebe Lyddon’snow—had been for six full months—and albeit a mere country boy inknowledge of the world, younger far than his one-and-twenty years of life,and wholly unskilled in those arts whose practice enables men to dwelltogether with friendship and harmony, yet Will Blanchard was quite old enoughand wise enough and rich enough to wed, and make a husband of more thancommon quality at that—in his own opinion.

Fortified by this conviction, and determined to wait no longer, he nowcame to see Phoebe. Within the sheltering arms of the Pixies’ Parlourhe kissed her, pressed her against his wet velveteen jacket, then sat downunder the rocks beside her.

“You ’m comed wi’ the sun, dear Will.”

“Ay—the weather breaks. I hope theer’ll be a drop morewater down the river bimebye. You got my letter all right?”

“Ess fay, else I shouldn’t be here. And this tremendous matterin hand?”

“I thought you’d guess what ’t was. I be weary o’waitin’ for ’e. An’ as I comed of age last month, I’ma man in law so well as larnin’, and I’m gwaine to speak toMiller Lyddon this very night.”

Phoebe looked blank. There was a moment’s silence while Will pickedand ate the wood-strawberries in his sweetheart’s dress.

“Caan’t ’e think o’ nothin’ wiser than tosee faither?” she said at last.

“Theer ban’t nothin’ wiser. He knaws we ’mtokened, and it’s no manner o’ use him gwaine on pretendin’to himself ’t isn’t so. You ’m wife-old, and you’vemade choice o’ me; and I’m a ripe man, as have thought a lot inmy time, and be earnin’ gude money and all. Besides, ’t is adead-sure fact I’ll have auld Morgan’s place as head waterkeeper,an’ the cottage along with it, in fair time.”

“Ban’t for me to lift up no hindrances, but you knawfaither.”

“Ess, I do—for a very stiff-necked man.”

“Maybe ’t is so; but a gude faither to me.”

“An’ a gude friend to me, for that matter. He aint got nothing’gainst me, anyway—no more ’s any man living.”

“Awnly the youth and fieriness of ’e.”

“Me fiery! I lay you wouldn’t find a cooler chap inChagford.”

“You ’m a dinky bit comical-tempered now and again, dearheart.”

He flushed, and the corners of his jaw thickened.

“If a man was to say that, I’d knock his words down histhroat.”

“I knaw you would, my awn Will; an’ that’s bein’comical-tempered, ban’t it?”

“Then perhaps I’d best not to see your faither arter all, ifyou ’m that way o’ thinkin’,” he answeredshortly.

Then Phoebe purred to him and rubbed her cheek against his chin, whereonthe glint vanished from his eyes, and they were soft again.

“Mother’s the awnly livin’ sawl what understandsme,” he said slowly.

“And I—I too, Will!” cried Phoebe. “Ess fay.I’ll call you a holy angel if you please, an’ God knaws theer’s not an angel in heaven I’d have stead of ’e.”

“I ban’t no angel,” said Will gravely, “and neverset up for no such thing; but I’ve thought a lot ’bout the worldin general, and I’m purty wise for a home-stayin’ chap, come tothink on it; and it’s borne in ’pon me of late days that themarried state ’s a gude wan, and the sooner the better.”

“But a leap in the dark even for the wisest, Will?”

“So’s every other step us takes for that matter. Look at themgrasshoppers. Off they goes to glory and doan’t knaw no more ’nthe dead wheer they’ll fetch up. I’ve seed ’em by the riverjump slap in the water, almost on to a trout’s back. So us hops alongand caan’t say what’s comin’ next. We ’m built to seejust beyond our awn nose-ends and no further. That’sphilosophy.”

“Ban’t comfortin’ if ’t is,” saidPhoebe.

“Whether or no, I’ll see your faither ’fore night andhave a plain answer. I’m a straight, square man, so’s themiller.”

“You’ll speed poorly, I’m fearin’, but ’t isa honest thing; and I’ll tell faither you ’m all the world to me.He doan’t seem to knaw what it is for a gal to be nineteen year oldsomehow.”

Solemnly Will rose, almost overweighted with the consciousness of what laybefore him.

“We’ll go home-along now. Doan’t ’e tell himI’m coming. I’ll take him unbeknawnst. And you keep out the waytill I be gone again.”

“Does your mother knaw, Will?”

“Ess, she an’ Chris both knaw I be gwaine to have it out thisnight. Mother sez I be right, but that Miller will send me packing wi’a flea in my ear; Chris sez I be wrong to ax yet awhile.”

“You can see why that is; ’she ’s got to waitherself,” said Phoebe, rather spitefully.

“Waitin’ ’s well enough when it caan’t be helped.But in my case, as a man of assured work and position in the plaace, Idoan’t hold it needful no more.”

Together the young couple marched down over the meadows, gained the sideof the river, and followed its windings to the west. Through a dip in thewoods presently peeped the ancient stannary town of Chagford, from the summitof its own little eminence on the eastern confines of Dartmoor. Both Will andPhoebe dwelt within the parish, but some distance from the place itself. Shelived at Monks Barton, a farm and mill beside the stream; he shared anadjacent cottage with his mother and sister. Only a bend of the riverseparated the dwellings of the lovers—where Rushford Bridge spanned theTeign and beech and fir rose above it.

In a great glory of clearness after rain, boy and girl moved alongtogether under the trees. The fisherman’s path which they followedwound where wet granite shone and ivy glimmered beneath the forest; and theleaves still dripped briskly, making a patter of sound through the underwood,and marking a thousand circles and splashes in the smooth water beneath thebanks of the stream. Against a purple-grey background of past rain the greenof high summer shone bright and fresh, and each moss-clad rock andfern-fringed branch of the forest oaks sent forth its own incense of slendersteam where the sunlight sparkled and sucked up the moisture. Scarce half amile from Phoebe’s home a shining yellow twig bent and flashed againstthe green, and a broad back appeared through a screen of alder by thewater’s edge.

“’T is a rod,” said Will. “Bide a moment, andI’ll take the number of his ticket. He ’m the first fishermanI’ve seen to-day.”

As under-keeper or water-bailiff to the Fishing Association, youngBlanchard’s work consisted in endless perambulation of theriver’s bank, in sharp outlook for poacher and trespasser, and in thesurvey of fishermen’s bridges, and other contrivances for anglers thatoccurred along the winding course of the waters. His also was the duty ofnoting the license numbers, and of surprising those immoral anglers whosought to kill fish illegally on distant reaches of the river. His keen eyes,great activity, and approved pluck well fitted Will for such duties. He oftenwalked twenty miles a day, and fishermen said that he knew every big trout inthe Teign from Fingle Bridge to the dark pools and rippling steps underSittaford Tor, near the river’s twin birthplaces. He also knew wherethe great peel rested, on their annual migration from sea to moor; where thekingfisher’s nest of fish-bones lay hidden; where the otter had herhome beneath the bank, and its inland vent-hole behind a silver birch.

Will bid the angler “good afternoon,” and made a few generalremarks on sport and the present unfavourable condition of the water, shrunkto mere ribbons of silver by a long summer drought. The fisherman was astranger to Will—a handsome, stalwart man, with a heavy ambermoustache, hard blue eyes, and a skin tanned red by hotter suns than EnglishAugusts know. His disposition, also, as it seemed, reflected years of atropic or subtropic existence, for this trivial meeting and momentaryintrusion upon his solitude resulted in an explosion as sudden asunreasonable and unexpected.

“Keep back, can’t you?” he exclaimed while the youngkeeper approached his side; “who ’s going to catch fish with yourlanky shadow across the water?”

Will was up in arms instantly.

“Do ’e think I doan’t knaw my business? Theer ’smy shadder ’pon the bank a mile behind you; an’ I didn’tope my mouth till you’d fished the stickle to the bottom and missed tworises.”

This criticism angered the elder man, and he freed his tailfly fiercelyfrom the rush-head that held it.

“Mind your own affairs and get out of my sight, whoever you are.This river’s not what it used to be by a good deal. Over-fished andpoached, and not looked after, I’ll swear.”

Thus, in ignorance, the sportsman uttered words of all most like to setWill Blanchard’s temper loose—a task sufficiently easy at thebest of times.

“What the hell d’ you knaw ’bout the river?” heflamed out. “And as to ’my affairs,’ ’t is myaffairs, an’ I be water-bailiff, an’ I’ll thank you for thenumber of your ticket—so now then!”

“What’s become of Morgan?” asked the other.

“He ’m fust, I be second; and ’t is my job to take thelicense numbers.”

“Pity you’re such an uncivil young cub, then.”

“Gimme your ticket directly minute!”

“I’m not going to.”

The keeper looked wicked enough by this time, but he made a great effortto hold himself in.

“Why for not?”

“Because I didn’t take one.”

“That ban’t gwaine to do for me.”

“Ban’t it? Then you’ll have to go without any reason.Now run away and don’t bleat so loud.”

“Look here,” retorted Will, going straight up to thefisherman, and taking his measure with a flashing eye, “You gimme yourticket number or your name an’ address, else I’ll make’e.”

They counted nearly the same inches, but the angler was the elder, and aman of more powerful build and massive frame than his younger opponent. Hisblue eyes and full, broad face spoke a pugnacity not less pronounced than thekeeper’s own finer features indicated; and thus these two, destined forlong years to bulk largely each upon the life of the other, stood eye to eyefor the first time. Will’s temper was nearly gone, and now anothersneer set it loose with sudden and startling result.

“Make me, my young moorcock? Two more words and I’ll throw youacross the river!”

The two words were not forthcoming, but Will dropped his stick and shotforward straight and strong as an angry dog. He closed before the strangercould dispose of his rod, gripped him with a strong wrestling hold, andcross-buttocked him heavily in the twinkling of an eye. The big man happilyfell without hurt upon soft sand at the river’s brink; but theindignity of this defeat roused his temper effectually. He grinnednevertheless as he rose again, shook the sand off his face, and licked hishands.

“Good Devon, sure enough, my son; now I’ll teach yousomething you never heard tell of, and break your damned fool’s neckfor you into the bargain!”

But Phoebe, who had wandered slowly on, returned quickly at the sound ofthe scuffle and high words. Now she fluttered between the combatants andrendered any further encounter for the time impossible. They could not closeagain with the girl between them, and the stranger, his anger holding itsbreath, glanced at her with sudden interest, stayed his angry growl, sufferedrage to wane out of his eyes and frank admiration to appear in them.

“Doan’t be fighting!” cried Phoebe.“Whatever’s the mischief, Will? Do bate your speed of hand!You’ve thrawed the gentleman down, seemin’ly.”

“Wheer ’s his ticket to then?”

“Why, it isn’t Miller Lyddon’s young maid,surely!” burst out the fisherman; “not Phoebe grown towoman!”

A Devon accent marked the speech, suddenly dragged from him bysurprise.

“Ess, I be Phoebe Lyddon; but don’t ’e fall ’poneach other again, for the Lard’s sake,” she said.

“The boy ’s as tetchy in temper as a broody hen. I was onlyjoking all the time, and see how he made me pay for my joke. But to think Ishould remember you! Grown from bud to pretty blossom, by God! And I dancedyou on my knee last time I saw you!”

“Then you ’m wan of they two Grimbal brothers as was to behome again in Chagford to-day!” exclaimed Will.

“That’s so; Martin and I landed at Plymouth yesterday. We gotto Chagford early this morning.”

Will laughed.

“I never!” he said. “Why, you be lodging with my awnmother at the cottage above Rushford Bridge! You was expected thismarnin’, but I couldn’t wait for ’e. You ’m JanGrimbal—eh?”

“Right! And you ’re a nice host, to be sure!”

“’T is solemn truth, you ’m biding under our roof, the‘Three Crowns’ bein’ full just now. And I’m sorry Ithrawed ’e; but you was that glumpy, and of course I didn’t know’e from Adam. I’m Will Blanchard.”

“Never mind, Will, we’ll try again some day. I could wrestle abit once, and learned a new trick or two from a Yankee in Africa.”

“You’ve come back ’mazin’ rich they say, JanGrimbal?”

“So, so. Not millionaires, but all right—both of us, thoughI’m the snug man of the two. We got to Africa at the right moment,before 1867, you know, the year that O’Reilly saw a nigger-childplaying with the first Kimberley diamond ever found. Up we went, the pair ofus. Things have hummed since then, and claims and half-claims andquarter-claims are coming to be worth a Jew’s eye. We’re allright, anyway, and I’ve got a stake out there yet.”

“You ’m well pleased to come back to dear li’l Chagfordafter so many years of foreign paarts, I should think, Mr. Grimbal?”said Phoebe.

“Ay, that I am. There’s no place like Devon, in all the earth,and no spot like Chagford in Devon. I’m too hard grit to wink an eyelidat sight of the old scenes again myself; but Martin, when he caught firstsight of great rolling Cosdon crowning the land—why, his eyes werewetted, if you’ll believe it.”

“And you comed right off to fish the river fust thing,” saidWill admiringly.

“Ay, couldn’t help it. When I heard the water calling, it wasmore than my power to keep away. But you ’re cruel short of rain,seemingly, and of course the season ’s nearly over.”

“I’ll shaw you dark hovers, wheer braave feesh be lyingyet,” promised Will; and the angler thanked him, foretelling a greatfriendship. Yet his eyes rarely roamed from Phoebe, and anon, as all threeproceeded, John Grimbal stopped at the gate of Monks Barton and held the girlin conversation awhile. But first he despatched Will homewards with a messagefor his mother. “Let Mrs. Blanchard know we’ll feed at seveno’clock off the best that she can get,” he said; “and tellher not to bother about the liquor. I’ll see to that myself.”

CHAPTER II
A CLEAR UNDERSTANDING

Monks Barton, or Barton Monachorum, as the farm was called in a Tudorperambulation of Chagford, owed its name to traditions that holy menaforetime dwelt there, performed saintly deeds, and blessed a spring in theadjacent woods, whose waters from that date ever proved a magical medicamentfor “striking” of sore eyes. That the lands of the valley hadonce been in monastic possession was, however, probable enough; and someportions of the old farm did in truth rise upon the ruins of a still moreancient habitation long vanished. Monks Barton stood, a picturesqueagglomeration of buildings, beside the river. The mill-wheel, fed by a streamtaken from the Teign some distance up the valley and here returned again tothe parent water, thundered on its solemn round in an eternal twinklingtwilight of dripping ferns and green mosses; while hard by the dwelling-housestood and offered small diamond panes and one dormer-window to the south.Upon its whitewashed face three fruit-trees grew—a black plum, acherry, a winter pear; and before the farmhouse stretched a yard sloping tothe river ford, where a line of massive stepping-stones for foot-passengerscrossed the water. On either side of this space, walled up from the edge ofthe stream, little gardens of raspberry and gooseberry bushes spread; andhere, too, appeared a few apple-trees, a bed of herbs, a patch of onions,purple cabbages, and a giant hollyhock with sulphur-coloured blossoms thatthrust his proud head upwards, a gentleman at large, and the practicalcountrymen of the kitchen-garden. The mill and outbuildings, the homesteadand wood-stacks embraced a whole gamut of fine colour, ranging from the tawnyand crimson of fretted brick and tile to varied greys of drying timber; fromthe cushions and pillows of moss and embroidery of houseleeks and valerian,that had flourished for fifty years on a ruined shippen, to the silver gleamof old thatches and the shining gold of new. Nor was the white face of thedwelling-house amiss. Only one cold, crude eye stared out from thistime-tinctured scene; only one raw pentroof of corrugated iron blotted it,made poets sigh, artists swear, and Miller Lyddon contemplate more of thesame upon his land.

A clucking and grunting concourse of fowls and pigs shared the farmyard;blue pigeons claimed the roof; and now, in the westering light, with slowfoot, sweet breath, and swelling udder, many kine, red as the ripehorse-chestnut, followed each other across the ford, assembled themselvestogether and lowed musically to the milkers. Phoebe Lyddon and John Grimbalstill stood at the farm-gate, and they watched, as a boy and an aged man cameforward with buckets and stools. Then, to the muffled thud of the water-wheeland the drone and murmur of the river, was added a purr of milk, foaming intotin pails, and sharp, thin monitions from the ancient, as he called the cowsby their names and bid them be still.

In John Grimbal, newly come from South Africa, this scene awakened alively satisfaction and delight. It told him that he was home again; and sodid the girl, though it seemed absurd to think that Phoebe had ever sat uponhis knee and heard his big stories, when as yet he himself was a boy and theworld still spread before him unconquered. He mused at the change and lookedforward to bringing himself and his success in life before those who hadknown him in the past. He very well remembered who had encouraged hisambitions and spoken words of kindness and of hope; who also had sneered,criticised his designs unfavourably, and thrown cold water upon his projects.John Grimbal meant to make certain souls smart as he had smarted; but hefeared his brother a little in this connection, and suspected that Martinwould not assert himself among the friends of his youth, would not assume aposition his riches warranted, would be content with too humble a manner oflife.

As a matter of fact, the ambition of neither extended much beyond a lifeof peace among the scenes of his childhood; but while the younger travellerreturned with unuttered thanksgivings in his heart that he was privilegedagain to see the land he loved and henceforth dwell amid its cherishedscenes, the greater energy and wider ambition of his brother planned aposition of some prominence if not power. John was above all else asportsman, and his programme embraced land, a stout new dwelling-house,preserves of game in a small way, some fishing, and the formation of a newrifle-corps at Chagford. This last enterprise he intended to be the seriousbusiness of life; but his mind was open to any new, agreeable impressionsand, indeed, it received them at every turn. Phoebe Lyddon awoke a very vitaltrain of thoughts, and when he left her, promising to come with his brotheron the following day to see the miller, John Grimbal’s impressionableheart was stamped with her pretty image, his ear still held the melody of hervoice.

He crossed the stepping-stones, sat down upon the bank to change hisflies, and looked at the home of Phoebe without sentiment, yet not withoutpleasure. It lay all cuddled on the bosom of a green hill; to the weststretched meadows and orchard along the winding valley of the river; to theeast extended more grass-land that emerged into ferny coombs and glades andriver dells, all alive with the light of wild flowers and the music of birds,with the play of dusky sunshine in the still water, and of shadows on theshore.

A little procession of white ducks sailed slowly up the river, and each asit passed twisted its head to peer up at the spectator. Presently the drakewho led them touched bottom, and his red-gold webs appeared. Then he paddledashore, lifted up his voice, waggled his tail, and with a crescendo ofquacking conducted his harem into the farmyard. One lone Muscovy duck,perchance emulating the holy men of old in their self-communion, or elseconstrained by circumstance to a solitary life, appeared apart on a littleisland under the alders. A stranger in a strange land, he sat with bent headand red-rimmed, philosophic eyes, regarding his own breast while sunsetlights fired the metallic lustre of his motley. Quite close to him a deadbranch thrust upwards from the water, and the river swirled in oily play ofwrinkles and dimples beyond it. Here, with some approach to his old skill,the angler presently cast a small brown moth. It fell lightly and neatly,cocked for a second, then turned helplessly over, wrecked in the sudden eddyas a natural insect had been. A fearless rise followed, and in less than halfa minute a small trout was in the angler’s net. John Grimbal landedthis little fish carefully and regarded it with huge satisfaction beforereturning it to the river. Then, having accomplished the task set by suddendesire,—to catch a Teign trout again, feel it, smell it, see the ebonyand crimson, the silver belly warming to gold on its sides and darkening tobrown and olive above,—having by this act renewed sensations that hadslept for fifteen years, he put up his rod and returned to his temporaryquarters at the dwelling of Mrs. Blanchard.

His brother was waiting in the little garden to welcome him. Martin walkedup and down, smelled the flowers, and gazed with sober delight upon thesurrounding scene. Already sunset fires had waned; but the high top of thefir that crowned Rushford Bridge still glowed with a great light on its redbark; an uprising Whiddon, where it lay afar off under the crown ofCranbrook, likewise shone out above the shadowed valley.

Martin Grimbal approached his brother and laid his hand upon thefisherman’s arm. He stood the smaller in stature, though of strongbuild. His clean-shaved face had burned much darker than John’s; he wasindeed coffee-brown and might have been mistaken for an Indian but for hiseyes of ordinary slate-grey. Without any pretension to good looks, MartinGrimbal displayed what was better—an expression of such frank benignityand goodness that his kind trusted him and relied upon him by intuition.Honest and true to the verge of quixotism was this man in all dealings withhis fellows, yet he proved a faulty student of character. First he was in ameasure blinded by his own amiable qualities to acute knowledge of humannature; secondly, he was drawn away from humanity rather than not, for nocynic reason, but by the character of his personal predilections andpursuits.

“I’ve seen father’s grave, John,” were his firstwords to his brother. “It’s beside the mother’s, but thatold stone he put up to her must be moved and—”

“All right, all right, old chap. Stones are in your line, not mine.Where’s dinner? I want bread, not a stone, eh?”

Martin did not laugh, but shrugged his shoulders in good-tempered fashion.His face had a measure of distinction his brother’s lacked, and indeed,while wanting John’s tremendous physical energy and robustdetermination, he possessed a finer intellect and instinct less animal. Evenabroad, during their earlier enterprises, Martin had first provided brainssufficient for himself and John; but an accident of fortune suddenly favouredthe elder; and while John took full care that Martin should benefit withhimself, he was pleased henceforth to read into his superior luck arevelation of superior intelligence, and from that moment followed his owninclinations and judgment. He liked Martin no less, but never turned to himfor counsel again after his own accidental good fortune; and henceforwardassumed an elder brother’s manner and a show of superior wisdom. Inmatters of the world and in knowledge of such human character as shall befound to congregate in civilisation’s van, or where precious metals andprecious stones have been discovered to abound, John Grimbal was undoubtedlythe shrewder, more experienced man; and Martin felt very well content thathis elder brother should take the lead. Since the advent of their prosperitya lively gratitude had animated his mind. The twain shared nothing save bondsof blood, love of their native land, and parity of ambition, first manifestedin early desires to become independent. Together they had gone abroad,together they returned; and now each according to his genius designed to seekhappiness where he expected to find it. John still held interests in SouthAfrica, but Martin, content with less fortune, and mighty anxious to be freeof all further business, realised his wealth and now knew the limits of hisincome.

The brothers supped in good spirits and Will Blanchard’s sisterwaited upon them. Chris was her “brother in petticoats,” peoplesaid, and indeed she resembled him greatly in face and disposition. But hereyes were brown, like her dead father’s, and a gypsy splendour of blackhair crowned her head. She was a year younger than Will, wholly wrapped up inhim and one other.

A familiarity, shy on Martin’s side and patronising in John,obtained between the brothers and their pretty attendant, for she knew allabout them and the very cottage in which their parents had dwelt and died.The girl came and went, answered John Grimbal’s jests readily, andministered to them as one not inferior to those she served. The elderman’s blue eyes were full of earthy admiration. He picked his teethbetween the courses and admired aloud, while Chris was from the room.

“’Tis wonderful how pretty all the women look, coming back tothem after ten years of nigger girls. Roses and cream isn’t in it withtheir skins, though this one’s dark as a clear night—Spanishfashion.”

“Miss Blanchard seems very beautiful to me certainly,”admitted Martin.

“I’ve seen only two maids—since setting foot inChagford,” continued his brother, “and it would puzzle the devilto say which was best to look at.”

“Your heart will soon be lost, I’ll wager—to a Chagfordgirl, I hope. I know you talked about flying high, but you might be happierto take a mate from—well, you understand.”

“It’s all very well to build theories on board ship aboutbettering myself socially and all that, but it’s rot; I’ll beknocked over by one of the country witches, I know I shall,—I feel it.I love the sound of the Devon on their lips, and the clear eyes of them, andthe bright skin. ’Tis all I can do to keep from hugging the women, andthat’s a fact. But you, you cold-blooded beggar, your heart’sstill for the grey granite and the old ghostly stones, and creepy, lonelyplaces on the Moor! We’re that different, you and me.”

Martin nodded thoughtfully, and, the meal being now ended, both menstrolled out of doors, then wandered down to smoke a pipe on Rushford Bridgeand listen to the nightly murmur of the river. Darkness moved on the face ofland and water; twilight had sucked all the colour away from the valley; andthrough the deepening monochrome of the murk there passed white mists withshadowy hands, and peeped blind pale eyes along the winding water, where itssurface reflected the faded west. Nocturnal magic conjured the least meadowinto an unmeasured sea of vapour; awoke naiads in the waters and dryads inthe woods; transformed the solemn organ music of great beetles into songs ofa roaming spirit; set unseen shapes stirring in the starlight; whispered ofinvisible, enchanted things, happy and unhappy, behind the silence.

A man moved from the bridge as the brothers reached it. Then WillBlanchard, knocking out his pipe and taking a big inspiration, set his facesteadily toward Monks Barton and that vital interview with Miller Lyddon nowstanding in the pathway of his life.

He rapped at the farm door and a step came slowly down the stone-pavedpassage. Then Billy Blee, the miller’s right-hand man, opened to him.Bent he was from the small of the back, with a highly coloured, much wrinkledvisage, and ginger hair, bleached by time to a paler shade. His poll was baldand shining, and thick yellow whiskers met beneath a clean-shorn chin.Billy’s shaggy eyebrows, little bright eyes, and long upper lip, takenwith the tawny fringe under his chops, gave him the look of an ancient andgigantic lion-monkey; and indeed there was not lacking in him an ape-liketwist, as shall appear.

“Hullo! boy Blanchard! An’ what might you want?” heasked.

“To see Miller.”

“Come in then; we’m all alone in kitchen, him and me, awverour grog and game. What’s the matter now?”

“A private word for Miller’s ear,” said Willcautiously.

“Come you in then. Us’ll do what we may for ’e. Auldheads be the best stepping-stones young folks can have, understood right;awnly the likes of you mostly chooses to splash through life on your awn damnsilly roads.”

Mr. Blee, whose friendship and familiarity with his master was of theclosest, led on, and Will soon stood before Mr. Lyddon.

The man who owned Monks Barton, and who there prosperously combined thecallings of farmer and miller, had long enjoyed the esteem of theneighbourhood in which he dwelt, as had his ancestors before him, throughmany generations. He had won reputation for a sort of silent wisdom. He neveradvised any man ill, never hesitated to do a kindly action, and himselfcontrived to prosper year in, year out, no matter what period of depressionmight be passing over Chagford. Vincent Lyddon was a widower ofsixty-five—a grey, thin, tall man, slow of speech and sleepy of eye. Aweak mouth, and a high, round forehead, far smoother than his age hadpromised, were distinguishing physical features of him. His wife had beendead eighteen years, and of his two children one only survived. The elder, aboy toddling in early childhood at the water’s edge, was unmissed untiltoo late, and found drowned next day after a terrible night of agony for bothparents. Indeed, Mrs. Lyddon never recovered from the shock, and Phoebe wasbut a year old when her mother died. Further, it need only be mentioned thatthe miller had heard of Will’s courting more than once, but absolutelyrefused to allow the matter serious consideration. The romance was no morethan philandering of children in his eyes.

“Will—eh? Well, my son, and how can I serve you?” askedthe master of Monks Barton, kindly enough. He recrossed his legs, settled inhis leather chair, and continued the smoking of a long clay pipe.

“Just this, Mr. Lyddon,” began Will abruptly. “You callsme your ‘son’ as a manner o’ speech, but I wants to be noless in fact.”

“You ban’t here on that fool’s errand, bwoy, surely? Ithought I’d made my mind clear enough to Phoebe six monthsago.”

“Look you here now. I be earnin’ eighteen shillings a weekan’ a bit awver; an’ I be sure of Morgan’s berth ashead-keeper presently; an’ I’m a man as thinks.”

“That’s brave talk, but what have ’e saved, lad?”inquired Mr. Blee.

The lover looked round at him sharply.

“I thought you was out the room,” he said. “I be come totalk to Miller, not you.”

“Nay, nay, Billy can stay and see I’m not tu hard ’pon’e,” declared Mr. Lyddon. “He axed a proper question.What’s put by to goody in the savings’ bank, Will?”

“Well—five pounds; and ’t will be rose to ten byChristmas, I assure ’e.”

“Fi’ puns! an’ how far ’s that gwaine?”

“So far as us can make it, in coourse.”

“Doan’t you see, sonny, this ban’t a fair bargain?I’m not a hard man—”

“By gor! not hard enough by a powerful deal,” said Billy.

“Not hard on youth; but this match, so to call it, looks like meremoonshine. Theer ’s nought to it I can see—both childer,and neither with as much sense as might sink a floatin’straw.”

“We love each other wi’ all our hearts and have done more’n half a year. Ban’t that nothing?”

“I married when I was forty-two,” remarked the miller,reflectively, looking down at his fox-head slippers, the work ofPhoebe’s fingers.

“An’ a purty marryin’ time tu!” declared Mr. Blee.“Look at me,” he continued, “parlous near seventy, and abacherlor-man yet.”

“Not but Widow Comstock will have ’e if you ax her a bitoftener. Us all knows that,” said the young lover, with greatstratagem.

Billy chuckled, and rubbed his wrinkles.

“Time enough, time enough,” he answered, “butyou—scarce out o’ clouts—why, ’t is playin’ ata holy thing, that’s what ’t is—same as Miss Phoebe, whenshe was a li’l wee cheel, played at bein’ parson in hernight-gownd, and got welted for it, tu, by her gude faither.”

“We ’m both in earnest anyway—me and Phoebe.”

“So am I,” replied the miller, sitting up and putting down hispipe; “so am I in earnest, and wan word ’s gude as a hunderd in apass like this. You must hear the truth, an’ that never broke no bones.You ’m no more fitted to have a wife than that tobacco-jar—ahot-headed, wild-fire of a bwoy—”

“A right Jack-o’-Lantern, as everybody knaws,” suggestedMr. Blee.

“Ess fay, ’tis truth. Shifting and oncertain as the marshgallopers on the moor bogs of a summer night. Awnly a youth’s faults,you mind; but still faults. No, no, my lad, you’ve got to fight yourlife’s battle and win it, ’fore you’m a mate for any gal;an’ you’ve got to begin by fightin’ yourself, an’breaking an’ taming yourself, an’ getting yourself well in hand.That’s a matter of more than months for the best of us.”

“And then?” said Will, “after ’tis done? thoughI’m not allowin’ I’m anything but a ripe man as I standhere afore you now.”

“Then I’d say, ‘I’m glad to see you grawed into acredit to us all, Will Blanchard, and worth your place in the order o’things; but you doan’t marry Phoebe Lyddon—never, never, never,not while I’m above ground.’”

His slow eyes looked calmly and kindly at Will, and he smiled into thehot, young, furious face.

“That’s your last word then?”

“It is, my lad.”

“And you won’t give a reason?”

“The reason is, ‘what’s bred in the bone comes out inthe flesh.’ I knawed your faither. You’m as volatile as himwi’out his better paarts.”

“Leave him wheer he lies—underground. If he’d lived’stead of bein’ cut off from life, you’d ’a’bin proud to knaw him.”

“A gypsy-man and no better, Will,” said Mr. Blee. “Notbut what he made a gude end, I allow.”

“Then I’ll be up and away. I’ve spoke ’e fair,Miller—fair an’ straight—an’ so you to me. Youwon’t allow this match. Then we’ll wed wi’out yourblessin’, an’ sorry I shall be.”

“If that’s your tune, my young rascal, I’ll speak again!Phoebe’s under age, remember that, and so sure as you dare take her ayard from her awn door you’ll suffer for it. ’Tis a clink job,you mind—a prison business; and what’s more, you ’m pleasedto speak so plain that I will tu, and tell ’e this. If you dare to liftup your eyes to my child again, or stop her in the way, or have speech withher, I’ll set p’liceman ’pon ’e! For a year and moreshe ’m not her awn mistress; and, at the end of that time, if shedoan’t get better sense than to tinker arter a harum-scarum youngjackanapes like you, she ban’t a true Lyddon. Now be off with ’ean’ doan’t dare to look same way Phoebe ’s walkin’,no more, else theer’ll be trouble for ’e.”

“Wonnerful language, an’ in a nutshell,” commentedBilly, as, blowing rather hard, the miller made an end of his warning.

“Us’ll leave it theer, then, Mr. Lyddon; and you’ll liveto be sorry ever you said them words to me. Ess fay, you’ll live tosing different; for when two ’s set ’pon a matter o’marryin’, ban’t fathers nor mothers, nor yet angels, be gwaine topart ’em. Phoebe an’ me will be man an’ wife some day, sure’s the sun ’s brighter ’n the mune. So now you knaw. Gudenight to ’e.”

He took up his hat and departed; Billy held up his hands in muteamazement; but the miller showed no emotion and relighted his pipe.

“The rising generation do take my breath away twenty times aday,” said Mr. Blee. “To think o’ that bwoy, in li’lfrocks awnly yesterday, standin’ theer frontin’ two aged menwi’ such bouldacious language!”

“What would you do, Billy, if the gal was yourn?”

“Same as you, to a hair. Bid her drop the chap for gude ’nall. But theer ’s devil’s pepper in that Blanchard. Heain’t done with yet.”

“Well, well, he won’t shorten my sleep, I promise you. Neartwo years is a long time to the young. Lord knaws wheer a light thing likehim will be blawed to, come two years. Time ’s on my side for certain.And Phoebe ’s like to change also.”

“Why, a woman’s mind ’s no more ’n a feather in agale of wind at her time o’ life; though to tell her so ’s thesure way to make her steadfast.”

A moment later Phoebe herself entered. She had heard Will depart and now,in a fever of impatience, crept with bright, questioning eyes to herfather’s chair. Whereupon Mr. Blee withdrew in a violent hurry. No oneaudibly desired him to do so, but a side-look from the girl was enough.

CHAPTER III
EXIT WILL

Phoebe’s conversation with her father occupied a space of timeextending over just two minutes. He met her eager eyes with a smile, pattedher head, pinched her ear, and by his manner awakened a delicious flutter ofhope in the girl before he spoke. When, therefore, Phoebe learned that Willwas sent about his business for ever, and must henceforth be wholly dismissedfrom her mind, the shock and disappointment of such intelligence came as acruel blow. She stood silent and thunderstruck before Miller Lyddon, a worldof reproaches in her frightened eyes; then mutely the corners of her littlemouth sank as she turned away and departed with her first great sorrow.

Phoebe’s earliest frantic thought had been to fly to Will, but sheknew such a thing was impossible. There would surely be a letter from him onthe following morning hidden within their secret pillar-box between twobricks of the mill wall. For that she must wait, and even in her misery shewas glad that with Will, not herself, lay decision as to future action. Shehad expected some delay; she had believed that her father would impose sternrestrictions of time and make a variety of conditions with her sweetheart;she had even hoped that Miller Lyddon might command lengthened patience forthe sake of her headstrong, erratic Will’s temper and character; butthat he was to be banished in this crushing and summary fashion overwhelmedPhoebe, and that utterly. Her nature, however, was not one nourished from anyvery deep wells of character. She belonged to a class who suffer bitterlyenough under sorrow, but the storm of it while tearing like a tropicaltornado over heart and soul, leaves no traces that lapse of time cannotwholly and speedily obliterate. On them it may be said that fortune’ssharpest strokes inflict no lasting scars; their dispositions are happilypowerless to harbour the sustained agony that burrows and gnaws, poisonsman’s estimate of all human affairs, wrecks the stores of hisexperience, and stamps the cicatrix of a live, burning grief on brow andbrain for ever. They find their own misery sufficiently exalted; but theirtemperament is unable to sustain a lifelong tribulation or elevate sorrowinto tragedy. And their state is the more blessed. So Phoebe watered hercouch with tears, prayed to God to hear her solemn promises of eternalfidelity, then slept and passed into a brief dreamland beyond sorrow’sreach.

Meantime young Blanchard took his stormy heart into a night of stars. Themoon had risen; the sky was clear; the silvery silence remained unbroken savefor the sound of the river, where it flowed under the shadows of great treesand beneath aerial bridges and banners of the meadow mists. Will strodethrough this scene, past his mother’s cottage, and up a hill behind it,into the village. His mind presented in turn a dozen courses of action, andeach was built upon the abiding foundation of Phoebe’s surefaithfulness. That she would cling to him for ever the young man knew rightwell; no thought of a rival, therefore, entered into his calculations. Thesole problem was how quickest to make Mr. Lyddon change his mind; how best toorder his future that the miller should regard him as a responsible person,and one of weight in affairs. Not that Will held himself a slight man by anymeans; but he felt that he must straightway assert his individuality andconvince the world in general and Miller Lyddon in particular of faultyjudgment. He was very angry still as he retraced the recent conversation.Then, among those various fancies and projects in his mind, the wildest andmost foolish stood out before him as both expedient and to be desired. Hispurpose in Chagford was to get advice from another man; but before he reachedthe village his own mind was established.

Slated and thatched roofs glimmered under moonlight, and already thehamlet slept. A few cats crept like shadows through the deserted streets,from darkness into light, from light back to darkness; and one cottagewindow, before which Will Blanchard stood, still showed a candle behind awhite blind. Most quaint and ancient was this habitation—of picturesquebuild, with tiny granite porch, small entrance, and venerable thatches thathung low above the upper windows. A few tall balsams quite served to fill thegarden; indeed so small was it that from the roadway young Blanchard, bybending over the wooden fence, could easily reach the cottage window. This hedid, tapped lightly, and then waited for the door to be opened.

A man presently appeared and showed some surprise at the sight of his latevisitor.

“Let me in, Clem,” said Will. “I knawed you’d beup, sitting readin’ and dreamin’. ’T is no dreamin’time for me though, by God! I be corned straight from seeing Miller’bout Phoebe.”

“Then I can very well guess what was last in your ears.”

Clement Hicks spoke in an educated voice. He was smaller than Will butevidently older. Somewhat narrow of build and thin, he looked delicate,though in reality wiry and sound. He was dark of complexion, wore his hairlong for a cottager, and kept both moustache and beard, though the latter wasvery scant and showed the outline of his small chin through it. A foreheadremarkably lofty but not broad, mounted almost perpendicularly above theman’s eyes; and these were large and dark and full of fire, thoughmarred by a discontented expression. His mouth was full-lipped, his otherfeatures huddled rather meanly together under the high brow: but his face,while admittedly plain even to ugliness, was not commonplace; for its eyeswere remarkable, and the cast of thought ennobled it as a whole.

Will entered the cottage kitchen and began instantly to unfold hisexperiences.

“You knaw me—a man with a level head, as leaps after looking,not afore. I put nothing but plain reason to him and he flouted me like youmight a cheel. An’ I be gwaine to make him eat his words—suchhard words as they was tu! Think of it! Me an’ Phoebe never to meet nomore! The folly of sayin’ such a thing! Wouldn’t ’e reckonthat grey hairs knawed better than to fancy words can keep loversapart?”

“Grey hairs cover old brains; and old brains forget what it feelslike to have a body full o’ young blood. The best memory can’tkeep the feeling of youth fresh in a man.”

“Well, I ban’t the hot-headed twoad Miller Lyddon thinks, orpretends he thinks, anyway. I’ll shaw un! I can wait, an’ Phoebecan wait, an’ now she’ll have to. I’m gwaineaway.”

“Going away. Why?”

“To shaw what ’s in me. I ban’t sorry for this for somethings. Now no man shall say that I’m a home-stayin’ gaby,tramping up an’ down Teign Vale for a living. I’ll step out intothe wide world, same as them Grimbals done. They ’m back again made ofmoney, the pair of ’em.”

“It took them fifteen years and more, and they were marvellouslylucky.”

“What then? I’m as like to fare well as they. I’veworked out a far-reaching plan, but the first step I’ve thought on’s terrible coorious, an’ I reckon nobody but you’d see howit led to better things. But you ’m book-larned and wise in your way,though I wish your wisdom had done more for yourself than it has. Anyway, you’m tokened to Chris and will be one of the family some day perhaps whenMother Coomstock dies, so I’ll leave my secret with you. But not a soulelse—not mother even. So you must swear you’ll never tell to manor woman or cheel what I’ve done and wheer I be gone.”

“I’ll swear if you like.”

“By the livin’ God.”

“By any God you believe is alive.”

“Say it, then.”

“By the living God, I, Clement Hicks, bee-master of Chagford, Devon,swear to keep the secret of my friend and neighbour, William Blanchard,whatever it is.”

“And may He tear the life out of you if you so much as think totell.”

Hicks laughed and shook his hair from his forehead.

“You’re suspicious of the best friend you’ve got in theworld.”

“Not a spark. But I want you to see what an awful solemn thing Ireckon it.”

“Then may God rot me, and plague me, and let me roast in hell-firewith the rogues for ever and a day, if I so much as whisper your news to manor mouse! There, will that do?”

“No call to drag in hell fire, ’cause I knaw you doan’tset no count on it. More doan’t I. Hell’s cold ashes now if allwhat you ve said is true. But you’ve sworn all right and now I’lltell ’e.”

He bent forward and whispered in the other’s ear, whereon Hicksstarted in evident amazement and showed himself much concerned.

“Good Heavens! Man alive, are you mad?”

“You doan’t ’zactly look on ahead enough, Clem,”said Will loftily. “Ban’t the thing itself’s gwaine to makea fortune, but what comes of it. ’Tis a tidy stepping-stonelead-in’ to gert matters very often, as your books tell, I daresay.”

“It can’t lead to anything whatever in your case but wastedyears.”

“I’m best judge of that. I’ve planned the road, and if Iban’t home again inside ten year as good a man as Grimbal or any otherI’ll say I was wrong.”

“You’re a bigger fool than even I thought,Blanchard.”

Will’s eye flashed.

“You ’m a tidy judge of a fule, I grant,” he saidangrily, “or should be. But you ’m awnly wan more against me.You’ll see you ’m wrong like the rest. Anyway, you’ve gotto mind what you’ve sweared. An’ when mother an’ Chris ax’e wheer I be, I’ll thank you to say I’m out in the worlddoin’ braave, an’ no more.”

“As you like. It ’s idle, I know, trying to make you changeyour mind.”

A thin voice from an upper chamber of the cottage here interrupted theircolloquy, and the mother of the bee-keeper reminded him that he was due earlyon the following day at Okehampton with honey, and that he ought long sinceto be asleep.

“If that’s Will Blanchard,” she concluded, “tellun to be off home to bed. What ’s the wisdom o’ turning nighthours into day like this here?”

“All right, mother,” shouted Will. “Gude-night to’e. I be off this moment.”

Then bidding his friend farewell, he departed.

“Doan’t think twice o’ what I said a minute since. I washot ’cause you couldn’t see no wisdom in my plan. Butthat’s the way of folks. They belittle a chap’s best thoughts andacts till the time comes for luck to turn an’ bring the fruit; thenthem as scoffed be the first to turn round smilin’ an’handshaking and sayin’, ’What did us say? Didn’t us tell’e so from the very beginning?’”

Away went the youthful water-keeper, inspired with the prospect of hiscontemplated flight. He strode home at a rapid pace, to find all lights outand the household in bed. Then he drank half a pint of cider, ate some breadand cheese, and set about a letter to Phoebe.

A little desk on a side-table, the common property of himself, his mother,and sister, was soon opened, and materials found. Then, in his own uncialcharacters, that always tended hopefully upward, and thus left a triangle ofuntouched paper at the bottom of every sheet, Will wrote a letter of twofolios, or eight complete pages. In this he repeated the points of hisconversation with Phoebe’s father, told her to be patient, andannounced that, satisfied of her unfailing love and steadfastness throughall, he was about to pass into the wider world, and carve his way toprosperity and fortune. He hid particulars from her, but mentioned thatClement Hicks would forward any communications. Finally he bid her keep astout heart and live contented in the certainty of ultimate happiness. Healso advised Phoebe to forgive her father. “I have already done it,honor bright,” he wrote; “’t is a wise man’s part tobear no malice, especially against an old grey body whose judgment’pears to be gone bad for some reason.” He also assured Phoebethat he was hers until death should separate them; in a postscript he desiredher to break his departure softly to his mother if opportunity to do sooccurred; and, finally, he was not ashamed to fill the empty triangles oneach page with kisses, represented by triangles closely packed. Bearing thisimportant communication, Will walked out again into the night, and soon hisletter awaited Phoebe in the usual receptacle. He felt therein himself, halfsuspecting a note might await him, but there was nothing. He hesitated for amoment, then climbed the gate into Monks Barton farmyard, went softly andstood in the dark shadow of the mill-house. The moon shone full upon the faceof the dwelling, and its three fruit-trees looked as though painted inprofound black against the pale whitewash; while Phoebe’s dormer-windowframed the splendour of the reflected sky, and shone very brightly. The blindwas down, and the maiden behind it had been asleep an hour or two; but Willpictured her as sobbing her heart out still. Perhaps he would never see heragain. The path he had chosen to follow might take him over seas and throughvast perils; indeed, it must do so if the success he desired was to be won.He felt something almost like a catch in his throat as he turned away andcrossed the sleeping river. He glanced down through dreaming glades and sawone motionless silver spot on the dark waters beneath the alders. Sentimentwas at its flood just then, and he spoke a few words under his breath.“’Tis thicky auld Muscovy duck, roostin’ on his li’lisland; poor lone devil wi’ never a mate to fight for nor friend toswim along with. Worse case than mine, come to think on it!” Then anemotion, rare enough with him, vanished, and he sniffed the night air andfelt his heart beat high at thoughts of what lay ahead.

Will returned home, made fast the outer door, took off his boots, and wentsoftly up a creaking stair. Loud and steady music came from the room whereJohn Grimbal lay, and Blanchard smiled when he heard it. “’Tisthe snore of a happy man with money in his purse,” he thought. Then hestood by his mother’s door, which she always kept ajar at night, andpeeped in upon her. Damaris Blanchard slumbered with one arm on the coverlet,the other behind her head. She was a handsome woman still, and looked youngerthan her eight-and-forty years in the soft ambient light. “Muneshine domake dear mother so purty as a queen,” said Will to himself. And hewould never wish her “good-by,” perhaps never see her again. Hehastened with light, impulsive step into the room, thinking just to kiss thehand on the bed, but his mother stirred instantly and cried,“Who’s theer?” with sleepy voice. Then she sat up andlistened—a fair, grey-eyed woman in an old-fashioned night-cap. Her sonhad vanished before her eyes were opened, and now she turned and yawned andslept again.

Will entered his own chamber near at hand, doffed for ever the velveteenuniform of water-keeper, and brought from a drawer an old suit of corduroy.Next he counted his slight store of money, set his ‘alarum’ forfour o’clock, and, fifteen minutes later, was in bed and asleep, thetime then being a little after midnight.

CHAPTER IV
BY THE RIVER

Clement Hicks paid an early visit to Will’s home upon the followingmorning. He had already set out to Okehampton with ten pounds of honey in thecomb, and at Mrs. Blanchard’s cottage he stopped the little publicvehicle which ran on market-days to the distant town. That the son of thehouse was up and away at dawn told his family nothing, for his movements wereat all times erratic, and part of his duty consisted in appearing on theriver at uncertain times and in unexpected localities. Clement Hicks oftencalled for a moment upon his way to market, and Chris, who now greeted herlover, felt puzzled at the unusual gravity of his face. She turned pale whenshe heard his tremendous news; but the mother was of more Spartan temperamentand received intelligence of Will’s achievement without changing colouror ceasing from her occupation.

Between Damaris Blanchard and her boy had always existed a perfect harmonyof understanding, rare even in their beautiful relationship. The thoughts ofson and mother chimed; not seldom they anticipated each other’s words.The woman saw much of her dead husband reflected in Will and felt a moralconviction that through the storms of youth, high temper, and inexperience,he would surely pass to good things, by reason of the strenuous honesty andsingleness of purpose that actuated him; he, on his side, admired the greatcalmness and self-possession of his mother. She was so steadfast, so strong,and wiser than any woman he had ever seen. With a fierce, volcanic affectionWill Blanchard loved her. She and Phoebe alike shared his whole heart.

“It is a manly way of life he has chosen, and that is all I may say.He is ambitious and strong, and I should be the last to think he has not donewell to go into the world for a while,” said Clement.

“When is he coming back again?” asked Chris.

“He spoke of ten years or so.”

“Then ’twill be more or less,” declared Mrs. Blanchard,calmly. “Maybe a month, maybe five years, or fifteen, not ten, if hesaid ten. He’ll shaw the gude gold he’s made of, whether or no.I’m happy in this and not surprised. ’Twas very like to comearter last night, if things went crooked.”

“’Tis much as faither might have done,” said Chris.

“’Tis much what he did do. Thank you for calling, Clem Hicks.Now best be away, else they’ll drive off to Okehampton without’e.”

Clement departed, Chris wept as the full extent of her loss was impressedupon her, and Mrs. Blanchard went up to her son’s room. There shediscovered the velveteen suit with a card upon them: “Hand over to Mr.Morgan, Head Water-keeper, Sandypark.” She looked through his things,and found that he had taken nothing but his money, one suit of workingclothes, and a red tie—her present to him on his birthday during theprevious month. All his other possessions remained in their usual places.With none to see, the woman’s eye moistened; then she sat down onWill’s bed and her heart grew weak for one brief moment as she picturedhim fighting the battle. It hurt her a little that he had told Clement Hickshis intention and hid it from his mother. Yet as a son, at least, he hadnever failed. However, all affairs of life were a matter of waiting, more orless, she told herself; and patience was easier to Damaris Blanchard than tomost people. Under her highest uneasiness, maternal pride throbbed at thoughtof the manly independence indicated by her son’s action. She returnedto the duties of the day, but found herself restless, while continuallyadmonishing Chris not to be so. Her thoughts drifted to Monks Barton andWill’s meeting with his sweetheart’s father. Presently, when herdaughter went up to the village, Mrs. Blanchard put off her apron, donned thecotton sunbonnet that she always wore from choice, and walked over to see Mr.Lyddon. They were old friends, and presently Damaris listened sedately to themiller without taking offence at his directness of speech. He told the storyof his decision and Will’s final reply, while she nodded and evensmiled once or twice in the course of the narrative.

“You was both right, I reckon,” she said placidly, lookinginto Mr. Lyddon’s face. “You was wise to mistrust, notknawin’ what’s at the root of him; and he, being as he is, was inthe right to tell ’e the race goes to the young. Wheer two hearts isbent on joining, ’tis join they will—if both keeps of a mind longenough.”

“That’s it, Damaris Blanchard; who’s gwaine tob’lieve that a bwoy an’ gal, like Will an’ Phoebe, do knawtheer minds? Mark me, they’ll both chaange sweethearts a score of timesyet ’fore they come to mate.”

“Caan’t speak for your darter, Lyddon; but I knaw my son. Amasterful bwoy, like his faither before him, wild sometimes an’ waywardtu, but not with women-folk. His faither loved in wan plaace awnly.He’ll be true to your cheel whatever betides, or I’m afule.”

“What’s the use of that if he ban’t true to himself? No,no, I caan’t see a happy ending to the tale however you look at it.Wish I could. I fear’t was a ugly star twinkled awver his birthplace,ma’am.”

“’Twas all the stars of heaven, Miller,” said themother, frankly, “for he was born in my husband’s caravan in theauld days. We was camped up on the Moor, drawn into one of themroundy-poundies o’ grey granite stones set up by Phoenicians at thebeginning of the world. Ess fay, a braave shiny night, wi’ theli’l windows thrawed open to give me air. An’ ’ponWill’s come-of-age birthday, last month, if us didn’t all driveup theer an’ light a fire an’ drink a dish of tea in theidentical spot! ’Tis out Newtake’ way.”

“Like a story-book.”

“’Twas Clem Hicks, his thought, being a fanciful man. ButI’ll bid you gude-marnin’ now. Awnly mind this, as betweenfriends and without a spark of malice: Will Blanchard means to marry yourmaid, sure as you’m born, if awnly she keeps strong for him. It restswith her, Miller, not you.”

“Much what your son said in sharper words. Well, you’m outo’ reckoning for once, wise though you be most times; for if amaiden’s happiness doan’t rest with her faither, blamed if I seewheer it should. And to think such a man as me doan’t knaw wiser’n two childern who caan’t number forty year between ’em isflat fulishness, surely?”

“I knaw Will,” said Mrs. Blanchard, slowly and emphatically;“I knaw un to the core, and that’s to say more than you oranybody else can. A mother may read her son like print, but no faither cansee to the bottom of a wife-old daughter—not if he was Solomon’sself. So us’ll wait an’ watch wi’out being worsefriends.”

She went home again the happier for her conversation; but any thought thatMr. Lyddon might have been disposed to devote to her prophecy was for thetime banished by the advent of John Grimbal and his brother.

Like boys home from school, they dwelt in the present delight of theirreturn, and postponed the varied duties awaiting them, to revel again in theold sights, sounds, and scents. To-day they were about an angling excursion,and the fishers’ road to Fingle lying through Monks Barton, bothbrothers stopped a while and waited upon their old friend of the mill,according to John’s promise of the previous afternoon. Martin carriedthe creel and the ample luncheon it contained; John smoked a strong cigar andwas only encumbered with his light fly-rod; the younger designed to accompanyhis brother through Fingle Valley; then leave him there, about his sport, andproceed alone to various places of natural and antiquarian interest. But Johnmeant fishing and nothing else. To him great woods were no more than coverfor fur and feathers; rivers and streams meant a vehicle for the display of afly to trout, and only attracted him or the reverse, according to the fishthey harboured. When the moorland waters spouted and churned, cherry red fromtheir springs in the peat, he deemed them a noble spectacle; when, as atpresent, Teign herself had shrunk to a mere silver thread, and the fingerlingtrout splashed and wriggled half out of water in the shallows, he freelycriticised its scanty volume and meagre depths.

Miller Lyddon welcomed the men very heartily. He had been amongst thosewho dismissed them with hope to their battle against the world, and now hereminded them of his sanguine predictions. Will Blanchard’sdisappearance amused John Grimbal and he laughed when Billy Blee appearedred-hot with the news. Mr. Lyddon made no secret of his personal opinion ofBlanchard, and all debated the probable design of the wanderer.

“Maybe he’s ’listed,” said John, “an’a good thing too if he has. It makes a man of a young fellow. I’m forconscription myself—always have been.”

“I be minded to think he’ve joined the riders,” declaredBilly. “Theer comed a circus here last month, with braave doin’sin the way of horsemanship and Merry Andrews, and such like devilries. Us allgoes to see it from miles round every year; an’ Will was theer. Circusfolk do see the world in a way denied to most, and theer manner of life takes’em even as far as Russia and the Indies I’ve heard.”

“Then there’s the gypsy blood in him—” declaredMr. Lyddon, “that might send him roaming oversea, if nothing elsedid.”

“Or my great doings are like to have fired him,” said John.“How’s Phoebe?” he continued, dismissing Will. “I sawher yesterday—a bowerly maiden she’s grown—a prize for abetter man that this wild youngster, now bolted God knaws where.”

“So I think,” agreed the miller, “an’ I hopeshe’ll soon forget the searching grey eyes of un and his high-handedway o’ speech. Gals like such things. Dear, dear! though he made me sodarned angry last night, I could have laughed in his faace more ’nwance.”

“Missy’s under the weather this marnin’,” declaredBilly. “Who tawld her I ban’t able to say, but she knawedhe’d gone just arter feedin’ the fowls, and she went down valleyalone, so slow, wi’ her purty head that bent it looked as if hersunbonnet might be hiding an auld gran’mother’s poll.”

“She’ll come round,” said Martin; “she’sonly a young girl yet.”

“And there ’s fish as good in the sea as ever came out, andbetter,” declared his brother. “She must wait for a man who is aman,—somebody of good sense and good standing, with property to hisname.”

Miller Lyddon noted with surprise and satisfaction John Grimbal’swarmth of manner upon this question; he observed also the stout, hearty bodyof him, and the handsome face that crowned it. Then the brothers proceededdown-stream, and the master of Monks Barton looked after them and caughthimself hoping that they might meet Phoebe.

At a point where the river runs between a giant shoulder of heather-cladhill on one side and the ragged expanses of Whiddon Park upon the other, Johnclambered down to the streamside and began to fish, while Martin dawdled athand and watched the sport. A pearly clearness, caught from the clouds,characterised earth as well as air, and proved that every world-picturedepends for atmosphere and colour upon the sky-picture extended above it.Again there was movement and some music, for the magic of the wind in alandscape’s nearer planes is responsible for both. The wooded valleylay under a grey and breezy forenoon; swaying alders marked each intermittentgust with a silver ripple of upturned foliage, and still reaches of the riversimilarly answered the wind with hurrying flickers and furrows of dimpledlight. Through its transparent flood, where the waters ran in shadow andescaped reflections, the river revealed a bed of ruddy brown and rich amber.This harmonious colouring proceeded from the pebbly bottom, where a medley ofwarm agate tones spread and shimmered, like some far-reaching mosaic beneaththe crystal. Above Teign’s shrunken current extended oak and ash, whileher banks bore splendid concourse of the wild water-loving dwellers in thathappy valley. Meadowsweet nodded creamy crests; hemlock and fool’sparsley and seeding willow-herb crowded together beneath far-scatteredfiligree of honeysuckles and brambles with berries, some ripe, some red;while the scarlet corals of briar and white bryony gemmed every riotoustrailing thicket, dene, and dingle along the river’s brink; and in thegrassy spaces between rose little chrysoprase steeples of wood sage all setin shining fern. Upon the boulders in midstream subaqueous mosses, nowrevealed and starved by the drought, died hard, and the seeds of grasses,figworts, and persicarias thrust up flower and foliage, flourishing inunwonted spots from which the next freshet would rudely tear them. Insectlife did not abundantly manifest itself, for the day was sunless; but now andagain, with crisp rattle of his gauze wings, a dragon-fly flashed along theriver. Through these scenes the Teign rolled drowsily and with feeble pulses.Upon one bank rose the confines of Whiddon; on the other, abrupt andinterspersed with gulleys of shattered shale, ascended huge slopes whereon awhole summer of sunshine had scorched the heather to dry death. But fadingpurple still gleamed here and there in points and splashes, and the lesserfurze, mingling therewith, scattered gold upon the tremendous acclivitieseven to the crown of fir-trees that towered remote and very blue upon theuplifted sky-line. Swallows, with white breasts flashing, circled over theriver, and while their elevation above the water appeared at timestremendous, the abrupt steepness of the gorge was such that the birds almostbrushed the hillside with their wings. A sledge, laden with the timber ofbarked sapling oaks, creaked and jingled over the rough road beside thestream; a man called to his horses and a dog barked beside him; then theydisappeared and the spacious scene was again empty, save for its manifoldwild life and music.

John Grimbal fished, failed, and cursed the poor water and the lush wealthof the riverside that caught his fly at every critical moment. A few smalltrout he captured and returned; then, flinging down rod and net, he called tohis brother for the luncheon-basket. Together they sat in the fern beside theriver and ate heartily of the fare that Mrs. Blanchard had provided; then, asJohn was about to light a pipe, his brother, with a smile, produced a littlewicker globe and handed it to him. This unexpected sight awoke sudden andkeen appetite on the elder’s face. He smacked his lips, swore a heartyoath of rejoicing, and held out an eager hand for the thing.

“My God! to think I’ll suck the smoke of that again,—thebest baccy in the wide world!”

The little receptacle contained a rough sort of sun-dried Kaffir tobacco,such as John and Martin had both smoked for the past fifteen years.

“I thought it would be a treat. I brought home a few pounds,”said the younger, smiling again at his brother’s hungry delight. Johncut into the case, loaded his pipe, and lighted it with a contented sign.Then he handed the rest back to its owner.

“No, no,” said Martin. “I’ll just have one fill,that’s all. I brought this for you. ’T will atone for the poorsport. The creel I shall leave with you now, for I’m away to FingleBridge and Prestonbury. We’ll meet at nightfall.”

Thereupon he set off down the valley, his mind full of early Britishencampments, while John sat and smoked and pondered upon his future. He builtno castles in the air, but a solid country house of red brick, destined tostand in its own grounds near Chagford, and to have a snug game-cover or twoabout it, with a few good acres of arable land bordering on forest. Rootsmeant cover for partridges in John Grimbal’s mind; beech and oak inautumn represented desirable food for pheasants; and corn, once garnered andout of the way, left stubble for all manner of game.

Meantime, whilst he reviewed his future with his eyes on a blue cloud oftobacco smoke, Martin passed Phoebe Lyddon farther down the valley. Him sherecognised as a stranger; but he, with his eyes engaged in no more thanunconscious guarding of his footsteps, his mind buried in the fascinatingproblems of early British castramentation, did not look at her or mark asorrowful young face still stained with tears.

Into the gorge Phoebe had wandered after reading her sweetheart’sletter. There, to the secret ear of the great Mother, instinct had drawn herand her grief; and now the earliest shock was over; a dull, numb pain of mindfollowed the first sorrow; unwonted exercise had made her weary; and physicalhunger, not to be stayed by mental suffering, forced her to turn homewards.Red-eyed and unhappy she passed beside the river, a very picture of a wofullover.

The sound of Phoebe’s steps fell on John Grimbal’s ear as helay upon his back with crossed knees and his hands behind his head. He partlyrose therefore, thrust his face above the fern, saw the wayfarer, and thensprang to his feet. The cause of her tearful expression and listlessdemeanour was known to him, but he ignored them and greeted her cheerily.

“Can’t catch anything big enough to keep, andsha’n’t until the rain comes,” he said; “soI’ll walk along with you, if you’re going home.”

He offered his hand; then, after Phoebe had shaken it, moved beside herand put up his rod as he went.

“Saw your father this morning, and mighty glad I was to find him soblooming. To my eye he looks younger than my memory picture of him. Butthat’s because I’ve grown from boy to man, as you have from childto woman.”

“So I have, and ’t is a pity my faither doan’t knawit,” answered Phoebe, smarting under her wrongs, and willing tochronicle them in a friendly ear. “If I ban’t full woman, who is?Yet I’m treated like a baaby, as if I’d got no ’pinionsan’ feelings, and wasn’t—wasn’t auld enough to knawwhat love meant.”

Grimbal’s eyes glowed at the picture of the girl’sindignation, and he longed to put his arms round her and comfort her.

“You must be wise and dutiful, Phoebe,” he said. “WillBlauchard’s a plucky fellow to go off and face the world. And perhapshe’ll be one of the lucky ones, like I was.”

“He will be, for certain, and so you’d say if you knawed himsame as I do. But the cruel waitin’—years and years andyears—’t is enough to break a body’s heart.”

Her voice fluttered like bells in a wild wind; she trembled on the brinkof tears; and he saw by little convulsive movements and the lump in her roundthroat that she could not yet regard her lot with patience. She brought outher pocket-handkerchief again, and the man noticed it was all wet and rolledinto a ball.

“Life’s a blank thing at lovers’ parting,” hesaid; “but time rubs the rough edges off matters that fret our mindsthe worst. Days and nights, and plenty of ’em, are the best cure forall ills.”

“An’ the best cure for life tu! The awnly cure. Think of yearsan’ years without him. Yesterday us met up in Pixies’ Parlouryonder, an’ I was peart an’ proud as need be; to-day he’sgone, and I feel auld and wisht and all full of weary wonder how I’mgwaine to fare and if I’llever see him again. ’T iscruel—bitter cruel for me.”

That she could thus pity herself so soon argued a mind incapable ofharbouring great sorrow for many years; and the man at her side, withoutappreciating this fact, yet, by a sort of intuition, suspected thatPhoebe’s grief, perhaps even her steadfastness of purpose, would sufferdiminution before very great lapse of time. Without knowing why, he hoped itmight be so. Her voice fell melodiously upon an ear long tuned to the whineof native women. It came from the lungs, was full and sweet, with a shysuddenness about it, like the cooing of wood doves. She half slipped at astile, and he put out his hand and touched her waist and felt his heartthrob. But Phoebe’s eyes rarely met her new friend’s. The girllooked with troubled brows ahead into the future, while she walked besidehim; and he, upon her left hand, saw only the soft cheek, the pouting lips,and the dimples that came and went. Sometimes she looked up, however, andGrimbal noted how the flutter of past tears shook her round young breast,marked the spring of her step, the freedom of her gait, and the trim turn ofher feet and ankles. After the flat-footed Kaffir girls, Phoebe’sinstep had a right noble arch in his estimation.

“To think that I, as never wronged faither in thought or deed,should be treated so hard! I’ve been all the world to him since motherdied, for he’s said as much to many; yet he’s risen up an’done this, contrary to justice and right and Scripture, tu.”

“You must be patient, Phoebe, and respect his age, and let thematter rest till the time grows ripe. I can’t advise you better thanthat.”

“’Patient!’ My life’s empty, I tell’e—empty, hollow, tasteless wi’out my Will.”

“Well, well, we’ll see. I’m going to build a bigred-brick house presently, and buy land, and make a bit of a stir in my smallway. You’ve a pretty fancy in such things, I’ll bet a dollar. Youshall give me a helping hand—eh? You must tell me best way of settingup house. And you might help me as to furniture and suchlike if you had timefor it. Will you, for an old friend?”

Phoebe was slightly interested. She promised to do anything in her powerthat might cause Mr. Grimbal satisfaction; and he, very wisely, assured herthat there was no salve for sorrow like unselfish labours on behalf of otherpeople. He left her at the farm-gate, and tramped back to the Blanchardcottage with his mind busy enough. Presently he changed his clothes, and seta diamond in his necktie. Then he strolled away into the village, to see thewell-remembered names above the little shop windows; to note curiously howChagford market-place had shrunk and the houses dwindled since last he sawthem; to call with hearty voice and rough greeting at this habitation andthat; to introduce himself again among men and women who had known him ofyore, and who, for the most part, quite failed to recognise in their bluffand burly visitor the lad who set forth from his father’s cottage bythe church so many years before.

CHAPTER V
THE INCIDENT OF MR. JOEL FORD

Of Blanchard family history a little more must be said. Timothy Blanchard,the husband of Damaris and father of Will and Chris, was in truth of thenomads, though not a right gypsy. As a lad, and at a time when the Romanyfolk enjoyed somewhat more importance and prosperity than of late years, hejoined them, and by sheer force of character and mother wit succeeded inrising to power amongst the wanderers. The community with which he wasconnected for the most part confined its peregrinations to the West; and timesaw Timothy Blanchard achieve success in his native country, acquire twocaravans, develop trade on a regular “circuit,” and steadily savemoney in a small way; while his camp of some five-and-twenty souls—men,women, and numerous children—shared in their leader’s prosperity.These earlier stages of the man’s career embraced some strangecircumstances, chief amongst them being his marriage. Damaris Ford was thedaughter of a Moor farmer. Her girlhood had been spent in the dreary littlehomestead of “Newtake,” above Chagford, within the fringe of thegreat primeval wastes; and here, on his repeated journeys across the Moor,Tim Blanchard came to know her and love her well.

Farmer Ford swore round oaths, and sent Blanchard and his caravans packingwhen the man approached him for his daughter’s hand; but the girlherself was already won, and week after her lover’s repulse Damarisvanished. She journeyed with her future husband to Exeter, wedded him, andbecame mistress of his house on wheels; then, for the space of four years,she lived the gypsy life, brought a son and daughter into the world, andtried without avail to obtain her father’s forgiveness. That, however,she never had, though her mother communicated with her in fear and trembling;and when, by strange chance, on Will’s advent, Damaris Blanchard wasbrought to bed near her old home, and became a mother in one of the venerablehut circles which plentifully scatter that lonely region, Mrs. Ford, apprisedof the fact in secret, actually stole to her daughter’s side by nightand wept over her grandchild. Now the farmer and his wife were dead; Newtakeat present stood without a tenant; and Mrs. Blanchard possessed no nearrelations save her children and one elder brother, Joel, to whom had passedtheir parent’s small savings.

Timothy Blanchard continued a wandering existence for the space of fiveyears after his marriage; then he sold his caravans, settled in Chagford,bought the cottage by the river, rented some market-garden land, and pursuedhis busy and industrious way. Thus he prospered through ten more years,saving money, developing a variety of schemes, letting out on hire a steamthresher, and in various other ways adding to his store. The man was on thehigh road to genuine prosperity when death overtook him and put a period tohis ambitions. He was snatched from mundane affairs leaving numerous schemeshalf developed and most of his money embarked in various enterprises.Unhappily Will was too young to continue his father’s work, and thoughMrs. Blanchard’s brother, Joel Ford, administered the little estate tothe best of his power, much had to be sacrificed. In the sequel Damaris foundherself with a cottage, a garden, and an annual income of about fifty poundsa year. Her son was then twelve years of age, her daughter eighteen monthsyounger. So she lived quietly and not without happiness, after the firstsorrow of her husband’s loss was in a measure softened by time.

Of Mr. Joel Ford it now becomes necessary to speak. Combining the dutiesof attorney, house-agent, registrar of deaths, births, and marriages, andreceiver of taxes and debts, the man lived a dingy life at Newton Abbot.Acid, cynical, and bald he was, very dry of mind and body, and but ten yearsolder than Mrs. Blanchard, though he looked nearer seventy than sixty. To theNewton mind Mr. Ford was associated only with Quarter Day—that black,recurrent cloud on the horizon of every poor man’s life. He dwelt withan elderly housekeeper—a widow of genial disposition; and indeed theattorney himself was not lacking in some urbanity of character, though fewguessed it, for he kept all that was best in himself hidden under an unlovelycrust. His better instincts took the shape of family affection. DamarisBlanchard and he were the last branches of one of the innumerable families ofFord to be found in Devon, and he had no small regard for his only livingsister. His annual holiday from business—a period of a fortnight,sometimes extended to three weeks if the weather was more than commonlyfair—he spent habitually at Chagford; and Will on these occasionsdevoted his leisure to his uncle, drove him on the Moor, and made himwelcome. Will, indeed, was a favourite with Mr. Ford, and the lad’shigh spirits, real ignorance of the world, and eternal grave assumption ofwisdom even tickled the man of business into a sort of dry cricket laughterupon occasions. When, therefore, a fortnight after young Blanchard’smysterious disappearance, Joel Ford arrived at his sister’s cottage forthe annual visit, he was as much concerned as his nature had power to makehim at the news.

For three weeks he stayed, missing the company of his nephew not a little;and his residence in Chagford had needed no special comment save for animportant incident resulting therefrom.

Phoebe Lyddon it was who in all innocence and ignorance set rolling apebble that finally fell in thundering avalanches; and her chance word wasuttered at her father’s table on an occasion when John and MartinGrimbal were supping at Monks Barton.

The returned natives, and more especially the elder, had been much at themill since their reappearance. John, indeed, upon one pretext or another,scarcely spent a day without calling. His rough kindness appealed to Phoebe,who at first suspected no danger from it, while Mr. Lyddon encouraged the manand made him and his brother welcome at all times.

John Grimbal, upon the morning that preceded the present supper party, hadat last found a property to his taste. It might, indeed, have been designedfor him. Near Whiddon it lay, in the valley of the Moreton Road, andconsisted of a farm and the ruin of a Tudor mansion. The latter had beentenanted until the dawn of this century, but was since then fallen intodecay. The farm lands stretched beneath the crown of Cranbrook, hard by thehistoric “Bloody Meadow,” a spot assigned to that skirmishbetween Royalist and Parliamentary forces during 1642 which cost brilliantyoung Sidney Godolphin his life. Here, or near at hand, the young manprobably fell, with a musket-bullet in his leg, and subsequently expired atChagford.1 leaving the “misfortune of his death upona place which could never otherwise have had a mention to the world,”according to caustic Chancellor Clarendon.

Upon the aforesaid ruins, fashioned after the form of a great E, out ofcompliment to the sovereign who occupied the throne at the period of thedecayed fabric’s erection, John Grimbal proposed to build hishabitation of red brick and tile. The pertaining farm already had a tenant,and represented four hundred acres of arable land, with possibilities ofdevelopment; snug woods wound along the boundaries of the estate and mingledtheir branches with others not more stately though sprung from the noblerdomain of Whiddon; and Chagford was distant but a mile, or fiveminutes’ ride.

Tongues wagged that evening concerning the Red House, as the ruin wascalled, and a question arose as to whom John Grimbal must apply forinformation respecting the property.

“I noted on the board two names—one in London, one handy atNewton Abbot—a Mr. Joel Ford, of Wolborough Street.”

Phoebe blushed where she sat and very nearly said, “My Will’suncle!” but thought better of it and kept silent. Meanwhile her fatheranswered.

“Ford’s an attorney, Mrs. Blanchard’s brother, a makerof agreements between man and man, and a dusty, dry sort of chip, from allI’ve heard tell. His father and mine were friends forty years and moreagone. Old Ford had Newtake Farm on the Moor, and wore his fingers to thebone that his son might have good schooling and a learnedprofession.”

“He’s in Chagford this very minute,” said Phoebe.

Then Mr. Blee spoke. On the occasion of any entertainment at Monks Bartonhe waited at table instead of eating with the family as usual. Now headdressed the company from his station behind Mr. Lyddon’s chair.

“Joel Ford’s biding with his sister. A wonderful deep man, tomy certain knowledge, an’ wears a merchant-like coat an’ shinyhat working days an’ Sabbaths alike. A snug man, I’ll wager, if’t is awnly by the token of broadcloth on week-days.”

“He looks for all the world like a yellow, shrivelled parchmenthimself. Regular gimlet eyes, too, and a very fitch for sharpness, thoughyounger than his appearance might make you fancy,” said the miller.

“Then I’ll pay him a visit and see how things stand,”declared John. “Not that I’d employ any but my own London lawyer,of course,” he added, “but this old chap can give me theinformation I require; no doubt.”

“Ess fay! an’ draw you a dockyment in all the cautiousness ofthe law’s language,” promised Billy Blee. “’T is afact makes me mazed every time I think of it,” he continued,“that mere fleeting ink on the skin tored off a calf can be so set outto last to the trump of doom. Theer be parchments that laugh at theQueen’s awn Privy Council and make the Court of Parliament look a merefule afore ’em. But it doan’t do to be ’feared o’far-reachin’ oaths when you ’m signing such a matter, for’t is in the essence of ’em that the parties should sweardeep.”

“I’ll mind what you say, Billy,” promised Grimbal;“I’ll pump old Ford as dry as I can, then be off to London andget such a good, binding deed of purchase as you suggest.”

And it was this determination that presently led to a violent breachbetween the young man and his elder.

John waited upon Mr. Ford, at Mrs. Blanchard’s cottage, where he hadfirst lodged with his brother on their return from abroad, and found thelawyer exceedingly pleasant when he learned the object of Grimbal’svisit. Together they drove over to the Red House, and its intending tenantsoon heard all there was to tell respecting price and the provisions underwhich the estate was to be disposed of. For this information he expressedproper gratitude, but gave no hint of his future actions.

Mr. Ford heard nothing more for a fortnight. Then he ascertained that JohnGrimbal was in the metropolis, that the sale of the Red House and its landshad been conducted by the London agent, and that no penny of the handsomecommission involved would accrue to him. This position of affairs greatly(and to some extent reasonably) angered the local man, and he did not forgivewhat he considered a very flagrant slight. Extreme acerbity was bred in him,and his mind, vindictive by nature, cherished from that hour a heartydetestation of John Grimbal. The old man, his annual holiday ruined by thecircumstance, went home to Newton, vowing vague vengeance and little dreaminghow soon opportunity would offer to deal his enemy a return blow; while thepurchaser of the Red House laughed at Ford’s angry letters, told him tohis face that he was a greedy old rascal, and went on his way well pleasedwith himself and fully occupied with his affairs.

Necessary preliminaries were hastened; an architect visited the crumblingfabric of the old Red House and set about his plans. Soon, upon the ancientfoundations, a new dwelling began to rise. The ancient name was retained atMartin’s entreaty and the surrounding property developed. A stir andhum crept through the domain. Here was planting of young birch and larch;here clearing of land; here mounds of manure steamed on neglected fallows.John Grimbal took up temporary quarters in the home farm that he might beupon the spot at all hours; and what with these great personal interests,good news of his property in Africa, and the growing distraction of onesoft-voiced, grey-eyed girl, the man found his life a full and splendidthing.

That he should admit Phoebe into his thoughts and ambitions was notunreasonable for two reasons: he knew himself to be heartily in love with herby this time, and he had heard from her father a definite statement upon thesubject of Will Blanchard. Indeed, the miller, from motives of worldlywisdom, took an opportunity to let John Grimbal know the situation.

“No shadow of any engagement at all,” he said. “I madeit plain as a pikestaff to them both. It mustn’t be thought Icountenanced their crack-brained troth-plighting. ’T was by reason ofmy final ’Nay’ that Will went off. He ’s gone out of herlife, and she ’m free as the air. I tell you this because you may haveheard different, and you mix with the countryside and can contradict any manwho gives out otherwise. And, mind you, I say it from no ill-will to thebwoy, but out of justice to my cheel.”

Thus, to gain private ends, Mr. Lyddon spoke, and his information greatlyheartened the listener. John had more than once sounded Phoebe on the subjectof Will during the past few months, and was bound to confess that any chancehe might possess appeared small; but he was deeply in love and a manaccustomed to have his own way. Increasing portions of his time and thoughtwere devoted to this ambition, and when Phoebe’s father spoke asrecorded, Grimbal jumped at the announcement and pushed for his own hand.

“If a man that was a man, with a bit of land and a bit of stuffbehind him, came along and asked to court her, ’t would be different, Isuppose?” he inquired.

“I’d wish just such a man might come, for her sake.”

“Supposing I asked if I might try to win Phoebe?”

“I’d desire your gude speed, my son. Nothing could please, mebetter.”

“Then I’ve got you on my side?”

“You really mean it? Well, well! Gert news to be sure, an’ Ibe pleased as Punch to hear ’e. But take my word, for I’m richerthan you by many years in knawledge of the world, though I haven’t seenso much of it. Go slow. Wait a while till that brown bwoy graws a bit dim inPhoebe’s eyes. Your life ’s afore you, and the gal ’sscarce marriageable, to my thinking. Build your house and bide yourtime.”

“So be it; and if I don’t win her presently, Isha’n’t deserve to.”

“Ess, but taake time, lad. She ’m a dutiful, gude maiden, andI’d be sore to think my awn words won’t carry their weight whenthe right moment comes for speaking ’em. Blanchard’s businesspulled down the corners of her purty mouth a bit; but young heartscaan’t keep mournful for ever.”

Billy Blee then took his turn on the argument. Thus far he had listened,and now, according to his custom, argued on the popular side and bent hissail to the prevalent wind of opinion.

“You say right, Miller. ’T is out of nature that a maid shouldfret her innards to fiddlestrings ’bout a green bwoy when theer’sripe men waitin’ for her.”

“Never heard better sense,” declared John Grimbal, in highgood-humour; and from the red-letter hour of that conversation he let hislove grow into a giant. A man of old-fashioned convictions, he honestlybelieved the parent wise who exercised all possible control over a child; andin this case personal interest prompted him the more strongly to thatopinion. Common sense the world over was on his side, and no man with thefacts before him had been likely to criticise Miller Lyddon on the course ofaction he thought proper to pursue for his daughter’s ultimatehappiness. That he reckoned without his host naturally escaped thefather’s thought at this juncture. Will Blanchard had dwindled in hismind to the mere memory of a headstrong youngster, now far removed from thescene of his stupidity and without further power to trouble. That he couldadvise John to wait a while until Will’s shadow grew less inPhoebe’s thought, argued kindness and delicacy of mind in Mr. Lyddon.Will he only saw and gauged as the rest of the world. He did not fathom allof him, as Mrs. Blanchard had said; while concerning Phoebe’s innerheart and the possibilities of her character, at a pinch, he could speak withstill less certainty. She was a virgin page, unturned, unscanned. No man knewher strength or weakness; she did not know it herself.

Time progressed; the leaf fell and the long drought was followed by a mildautumn of heavy rains. John Grimbal’s days were spent between the RedHouse and Monks Barton. His rod was put up; but he had already made friendsand now shot many partridges. He spent long evenings in the society of Phoebeand her father at the farm; and the miller not seldom contrived to be calledaway on these occasions. Billy proved ever ready to assist, and thus the twoold men did the best in their power to aid Grimbal’s suit. In thegreat, comfortable kitchen, generally at some distance from each other,Phoebe and the squire of the new Red House would sit. She, now suspecting,was shy and uneasy; he, his wits quickened by love, displayed a tact anddeftness of words not to have been anticipated from him. At first Phoebe tookfire when Grimbal criticised Will in anything but a spirit of utmostfriendliness; but it was vital to his own hopes that he should cloud thepicture painted on her heart if he could; so, by degrees and with all thecleverness at his command, he dropped gall into poor Phoebe’s cup inminute doses. He mourned the extreme improbability of Blanchard’ssuccess, grounding his doubt on Will’s uneven character; he picturedBlanchard’s fight with the world and showed how probable it was that hewould make it a losing battle by his own peculiarities of temper. He declaredthe remoteness of happiness for Miss Lyddon in that direction to be extreme;he deplored the unstable nature of a young man’s affection all theworld over; and he made solid capital out of the fact that not once since hisdeparture had her lover communicated with Phoebe. She argued against thisthat her father had forbidden it; but Mr. Grimbal overrode the objection, andasked what man in love would allow himself to be bound by such a command. Asa matter of fact, Will had sent two messages at different times to hissweetheart. These came through Clement Hicks, and only conveyed theintelligence that the wanderer was well.

So Phoebe suffered persistent courting and her soft mould of mind sank alittle under the storm. Now, weary and weak, she hesitated; now a wave ofstrength fortified her spirit. That John Grimbal should be dogged andimportunate she took as mere masculine characteristics, and the fact did notanger her against him; but what roused her secret indignation almost as oftenas they met was his half-hidden air of sanguine confidence. He was humble ina way, always the patient lover, but in his manner she detected anindefinable, irritating self-confidence—the demeanour of one whoalready knows himself a conqueror before the battle is fought.

Thus the position gradually developed. As yet her father had not spoken toPhoebe or pretended to any knowledge of what was doing; but there came anight, at the end of November, when John Grimbal, the miller, and Billy satand smoked at Monks Barton after Phoebe’s departure to bed. Mr. Blee,very well knowing what matter moved the minds of his companions, spokefirst.

“Missy have put on a temperate way of late days it do seem. I mostbegin to think that cat-a-mountain of a bwoy ’s less in her thoughtsthan he was. She ’m larnin’ wisdom, as well she may wi’sich a faither.”

“I doan’t knaw what to think,” answered Mr. Lyddon,somewhat gloomily. “I ban’t so much in her confidence as of aulddays. Damaris Blanchard’s right, like enough. A maid ’s tu deepeven for the faither that got her, most times. A sweet, dear gal as ever was,for all that. How fares it, John? She never names ’e to me, though I doto her.”

“I’m biding my time, neighbour. I reckon ’t will beright one day. It only makes me feel a bit mean now and again to have to sayhard things about young Blanchard. Still, while she ’s wrapped upthere, I may whistle for her.”

“You ’m in the right,” declared Billy. “’Tis an auld sayin’ that all manner of dealings be fair in love,an’ true no doubt, though I’m a bachelor myself an’ noprophet in such matters.”

“All’s fair for certain,” admitted John, as though hehad not before considered the position from this standpoint.

“Ay, an’ a darter’s welfare lies in her faither’shand. Thank God, I’m not a parent to my knowledge; but ’tis adifficult calling in life, an’ a young maiden gal, purty as a picksher,be a heavy load to a honest mind.”

“So I find it,” said the miller.

“You’ve forbid Will—lock, stock, andbarrel—therefore, of coourse, she ’s no right to think more ofhim, to begin with,” continued the old man. It was a new idea.

“Come to think of it, she hasn’t—eh?” askedJohn.

“No, that’s true enough,” admitted Mr. Lyddon.

“I speak, though of low position, but well thought of an’ atMiller’s right hand, so to say,” continued Mr. Blee; “sotheer ’t is: Missy’s in a dangerous pass. Eve’s flesh beEve’s flesh, whether hid under flannel or silk, or shawed mother-nakedto the sun after the manner of furrin cannibals. A gal ’s a gal;an’ if I was faither of such as your darter, I’d count it mysolemn duty to see her out of the dangers of life an’ tidily mated to agude man. I’d say to myself, ’Her’ll graw to bless me forwhat I’ve done, come a few years.’”

So Billy Blee, according to his golden rule, advised men upon the roadthey already desired to follow, and thus increased his reputation for soundsense and far-reaching wisdom.

“It’s true, every word he says,” declared JohnGrimbal.

“I believe it,” answered the miller; “though God forbidany word or act of mine should bring wan tear to Phoebe’s cheek. Yet,somehow, I doan’t knaw but you ’m right.”

“I am, believe me. It’s the truth. You want Phoebe’sreal happiness considered, and that now depends on—well, I’ll sayit out—on me. We have reached the point now when you must speak, as youpromised to speak, and throw the weight of your influence on my side. Then,after you’ve had your say, I’ll have mine and put the greatquestion.”

Mr. Lyddon nodded his head and relapsed into taciturnity.

CHAPTER VI
AN UNHAPPY POET

That a man of many nerves, uncertain in temper and with no physical ortemporal qualifications, should have won for himself the handsomest girl inChagford caused the unreflective to marvel whenever they considered thepoint. But a better knowledge of Chris Blauchard had served in some measureto explain the wonder. Of all women, she was the least likely to do the thingpredicted by experience. She had tremendous force of character for one scarcetwenty years of age; indeed, she lived a superlative life, and the man,woman, child, or dog that came within radius of her existence presentlyformed a definite part of it, and was loved or detested according tocircumstances. Neutrality she could not understand. If her interests werewide, her prejudices were strong. A certain unconscious high-handedness ofmanner made the circle of her friends small, but those who did love her wereenthusiastic. Upon the whole, the number of those who liked her increasedwith years, and avowed enemies had no very definite reasons for aversion. Ofher physical perfections none pretended two opinions; but the boys had alwaysgone rather in fear of Chris, and the few men who had courted her during thepast few years were all considerably her seniors. No real romance enteredinto this young woman’s practical and bustling life until the advent ofClement Hicks, though she herself was the flame of hearts not a few beforehis coming.

Neurotic, sensual, as was Chris herself in a healthy fashion, a man ofvarying moods, and perhaps the richer for faint glimmerings of the real fire,Hicks yet found himself no better than an aimless, helpless child before thedemands of reality. Since boyhood he had lived out of touch with hisenvironment. As bee-keeper and sign-writer he made a naked living for himselfand his mother, and achieved success sufficient to keep a cottage roof overtheir heads, but that was all. Books were his only friends; the old stones ofthe Moor, the lonely wastes, the plaintive music of a solitary bird were thecompanions of his happiest days. He had wit enough to torture half his wakinghours with self-analysis, and to grit his teeth at his own impotence. Butthere was no strength, no virile grip to take his fate in his own hands andmould it like a man. He only mourned his disadvantages, and sometimes blameddestiny, sometimes a congenital infirmity of purpose, for the dreary courseof his life. Nature alone could charm his sullen moods, and that not always.Now and again she spread over the face of his existence a transitorycontentment and a larger hope; but the first contact with facts swept it awayagain. His higher aspirations were neither deep nor enduring, and yet theman’s love of nature was lofty and just, and represented all thereligion he had. No moral principles guided him, conscience never pricked.Nevertheless, thus far he had been a clean liver and an honest man. Vice,because it affronted his sense of the beautiful and usually led towardsdeath, did not attract him. He lived too deep in the lap of Nature to bedeceived by the pseudo-realism then making its appearance in literature, andhe laughed without mirth at these pictures from city-bred pens at that timeparaded as the whole truth of the countryman’s life. The later schoolwas not then above the horizon; the brief and filthy spectacle of those whodragged their necrosis, marasmus, and gangrene of body and mind across thestage of art and literature, and shrieked Decay, had not as yet appeared tomake men sicken; the plague-spot, now near healed, had scarce showed thefaintest angry symptom of coming ill. Hicks might under no circumstances havebeen drawn in that direction, for his morbidity was of a differentdescription. Art to this man appeared only in what was wholesome; it evenembraced a guide to conduct, for it led him directly to Nature, and Natureemphatically taught him the value of obedience, the punishment of weakness,the reward for excess and every form of self-indulgence. But a softness inhim shrank from these aspects of the Mother. He tried vainly and feebly todig some rule of life from her smiles alone, to read a sermon into her happyhours of high summer sunshine. Beauty was his dream; he possessed naturaltaste, and had cultivated the same without judgment. His intricatedisposition and extreme sensitiveness frightened him away from much effort atself-expression; yet not a few trifling scraps and shreds of lyric poetry hadfallen from his pen in high moments. These, when the mood changed, he readagain, and found dead, and usually destroyed. He was more easily discouragedthan a child who sets out to tell its parent a story, and is all silence andshamefaced blushes at the first whisper of laughter or semblance of a smile.The works of poets dazed him, disheartened him, and secret ambitions towardperformance grew dimmer with every book he laid his hands on. Ambition tocreate began to die; the dream scenery of his ill-controlled mental life moreand more seldom took shape of words on paper; and there came a time whenthought grew wholly wordless for him; a mere personal pleasure, selfish,useless, unsubstantial as the glimmer of mirage over desert sands.

Into this futile life came Chris, like a breath of sweet air from off thedeep sea. She lifted him clean out of his subjective existence, awoke ahealthy, natural love, built on the ordinary emotions of humanity, galvanisedself-respect and ambition into some activity, and presently inspired a pluckstrong enough to propose marriage. That was two years ago; and the girl stillloved this weakly soul with all her heart, found his language unlike that ofany other man she had seen or heard, and even took some slight softening edgeof culture into herself from him. Her common sense was absolutely powerlessto probe even the crust of Clement’s nature; but she was satisfied thathis poetry must be a thing as marketable as that in printed books. Indeed, inan elated moment he had assured her that it was so. During the earlier stagesof their attachment, she pestered him to write and sell his verses and makemoney, that their happiness might be hastened; while he, on the first buddingof his love, and with the splendid assurance of its return, had promised allmanner of things, and indeed undertaken to make poems that should be sent bypost to the far-away place where they printed unknown poets, and paid them.Chris believed in Clement as a matter of course. His honey must at least beworth more to the world than that of his bees. Over her future husband shebegan at once to exercise the control of mistress and mother; and she lovedhim more dearly after they had been engaged a year than at the beginning ofthe contract. By that time she knew his disposition, and instead ofdisplaying frantic impatience at it, as might have been predicted, hertolerance was extreme. She bore with Clem because she loved him with the fulllove proper to such a nature as her own; and, though she presently foundherself powerless to modify his character in any practical degree, his gloomyand uneven mind never lessened the sturdy optimism of Chris herself, or hersure confidence that the future would unite them. Through her protractedengagement Mrs. Blanchard’s daughter maintained a lively and sanguinecheerfulness. But seldom was it that she lost patience with the dreamer. Thenher rare, indignant outbursts of commonplace and common sense, like athunderstorm, sweetened the stagnant air of Clement’s thoughts andawoke new, wholesome currents in his mind.

As a rule, on the occasion of their frequent country walks, Clem and Chrisfound personal problems and private interests sufficient for allconversation, but it happened that upon a Sunday in mid-December, as theypassed through the valley of the Teign, where the two main streams of thatriver mingle at the foothills of the Moor, the subject of Will and Phoebe fora time at least filled their thoughts. The hour was clear and bright, yetsomewhat cheerless. The sun had already set, from the standpoint of all lifein the valley, and darkness, hastening out of the east, merged the traceriesof a million naked boughs into a thickening network of misty grey. The riverbeneath these woods churned in winter flood, while clear against its ravingone robin sang little tinkling litanies from the branch of an alder.

Chris stood upon Lee Bridge at the waters’ meeting and threw scrapsof wood into the river; Clem sat upon the parapet, smoked his pipe, and notedwith a lingering delight the play of his sweetheart’s lips as herfingers strained to snap a tough twig. Then the girl spoke, continuing aconversation already entered upon.

“Phoebe Lyddon’s that weak in will. How far’s such asher gwaine in life without some person else to lean upon?”

“If the ivy cannot find a tree it creeps along the ground,Chrissy.”

“Ess, it do; or else falls headlong awver the first bank it comesto. Phoebe’s so helpless a maiden as ever made a picksher. I mind herat school in the days when we was childer together. Purty as them chinafigures you might buy off Cheap Jack, an’ just so tender. She’dcome up to dinky gals no bigger ’n herself an’ pull out herli’l handkercher an’ ax ’em to be so kind as to blaw hernose for her! Now Will’s gone, Lard knaws wheer she’ll driftto.”

“To John Grimbal. Any man could see that. Her father’s set onit.”

“Why don’t Will write to her and keep her heart up and giveher a little news? ’Twould be meat an’ drink to her. Doan’tmatter ’bout mother an’ me. We’ll take your word for itthat Will wants to keep his ways secret. But a sweetheart—’tis sodiffer’nt. I wouldn’t stand it!”

“I know right well you wouldn’t. Will has his own way. Wewon’t criticise him. But there’s a masterful man in therunning—a prosperous, loud-voiced, bull-necked bully of a man, and onenot accustomed to take ’no’ for his answer. I’m afraid ofJohn Grimbal in this matter. I’ve gone so far as to warn Will, but hewrites back that he knows Phoebe.”

“Jan Grimbal’s a very differ’nt fashion of man to hisbrother; that I saw in a moment when they bided with us for a week, till the’Three Crowns’ could take ’em in. I hate Jan—hate himcruel; but I like Martin. He puts me in mind o’ you, Clem, wi’his nice way of speech and tender quickness for women. But it’s Phoebewe’m speaking of. I think you should write stern to Will an’frighten him. It ban’t fair fightin’, that poor, dear Phoebe’gainst the will o’ two strong men.”

“Well, she’s had paltry food for a lover since he went away.He’s got certain ideas, and she’ll hear direct when—butthere, I must shut my mouth, for I swore by fantastic oaths to saynothing.”

“He ought to write, whether or no. You tell Will that Jan Grimbal beabout building a braave plaace up under Whiddon, and is looking for a wife atMonks Barton morning, noon, an’ evening. That’s like to wakenhim. An’ tell him the miller’s on t’other side, andclacking Jan Grimbal into Phoebe’s ear steadier than the noise of hisawn water-wheel.”

“And she will grow weak, mark me. She sees that red-brick placerising out of the bare boughs, higher and higher, and knows that from floorto attics all may be hers if she likes to say the word. She hears great talkof drawing-rooms, and pictures, and pianos, and greenhouses full of rareflowers, and all the rest—why, just think of it!”

“Ban’t many gals as could stand ’gainst a piano, Idaresay.”

“I only know one—mine.”

Chris looked at him curiously.

“You ’m right. An’ that, for some queer reason, puts mein mind of the other wan, Martin Grimbal. He was very pleasant tome.”

“He’s too late, thank God!”

“Ess, fay! An’ if he’d comed afore ’e, Clem,he’d been tu early. Theer’s awnly wan man in the gert world forme.”

“My gypsy!”

“But I didn’t mean that. He wouldn’t look at me, noteven if I was a free woman. ’T was of you I thought when I talked toMr. Grimbal. He’m well-to-do, and be seekin’ a house in thehigher quarter under Middledown. You an’ him have the same fancy forthe auld stones. So you might grow into friends—eh, Clem?Couldn’t it so fall out? He might serve to help—eh? You ’mtwo-and-thirty year auld next February, an’ it do look as though theysilly bees ban’t gwaine to put money enough in the bank to spell aweddin’ for us this thirty year to come. Theer’s awnly your aunt,Widow Coomstock, as you can look to for a penny, and that tu doubtful tocount on.”

“Don’t name her, Chris. Good Lord! poor drunken old thing,with that crowd of hungry relations waiting like vultures round a dyingcamel! Never think of her. Money she has, but I sha’n’t see thecolour of it, and I don’t want to.”

“Well, let that bide. Martin Grimbal’s the man in mythought.”

“What can I do there?”

“Doan’t knaw, ’zactly; but things might fall out if hegot to like you, being a bookish sort of man. Anyway, he’s very willingto be friends, for that he told me. Doan’t bear yourself like Luciferafore him; but take the first chance to let him knaw your fortune’s inneed of mendin’.”

“You say that! D’ you think self-respect is dead in me?”he asked, half angry.

There was no visible life about them, so she put her arms round him.

“I ax for love of ’e, dearie, an’ for want of ’e.Do ’e think waitin’ ’s sweeter for me than foryou?”

Then he calmed down again, sighed, returned the caress, touched her, andstroked her breast and shoulder with sudden earthly light in his greateyes.

“It ’s hard to wait.”

“That’s why I say doan’t lose chances that may mean aweddin’ for us, Clem. Theer ’s so much hid in ’e, if awnlythe way to bring it out could be found.”

“A mine that won’t pay working,” he said bitterly, thepassion fading out of eyes and voice. “I know there ’s somethinghidden; I feel there ’s a twist of brain that ought to rise abovekeeping bees and take me higher than honey-combs. Yet look at hard truth. Theclods round me get enough by their sweat to keep wives and feed children.I’m only a penniless, backboneless, hand-to-mouth wretch, living on thework of laborious insects.”

“If it ban’t your awn fault, then whose be it,Clem?”

“The fault of Chance—to pack my build of brains into the skullof a pauper. This poor, unfinished abortion of a head-piece of mine onlydreams dreams that it cannot even set on paper for others to see.”

“You’ve given up trying whether it can or not,seemin’ly. I never hear tell of no verses now.”

“What ’s the good? But only last night, so it happens, I had asort of a wild feeling to get something out of myself, and I scribbled forhours and hours and found a little morsel of a rhyme.”

“Will ’e read it to me?”

He showed reluctance, but presently dragged a scrap of paper out of his,pocket. Not a small source of trouble was his sweetheart’s criticism ofhis verses.

“It was the common sight of a pair of lovers walking tongue-tied,you know. I call it ‘A Devon Courting.’”

He read the trifle slowly, with that grand, rolling sea-beat of an accentthat Elizabeth once loved to hear on the lips of Raleigh and Drake.

“But I wonder you write the common words, Clem—youwho be so much tu clever to use ’em.”

“The words are well enough. They were not common once.”

“Well, you knaw best. Could ’e sell such a li’l auldfunny thing as that for money?”

He shook his head.

“No; it was only the toil of making it seemed good. It isworthless.”

“An’ to think how long it took ’e! If you’d awnlyput the time into big-fashioned verses full of the high words you’vegot. But you knaw best. Did ’e hear anything of them rhymes ’boutthe auld days you sent to Lunnon?”

“They sent them back again. I told you ’t was wasting threestamps. It ’s not for me, I know it. The world is full of dumb singers.Maybe I haven’t got even a pinch of the fire that must breakthrough and show its flame, no matter what mountains the earth tumbles on it.God knows I burn hot enough sometimes with great thoughts and wild longingsfor love and for sweeter life and for you; but my fires—whether theyare soul-fires or body-fires—only burn my heart out.”

She sighed and squeezed his hand, understanding little enough of what hesaid.

“We must be patient. ’T is a solid thing, patience. I’mputtin’ by pence; but it ’s so plaguy little a gal can earn, besto’ times and with the best will.”

“If I could only write the things I think! But they vanish beforepen and paper and the need of words, as the mists of the night vanish beforethe hard, searching sun. I am ignorant of how to use words; and those in theworld who might help me will never know of me. As for those around about,they reckon me three parts fool, with just a little gift of re-writing namesover their dirty shop-fronts.”

“Yet it ’s money. What did ’e get for that butivul foxwi’ the goose in his mouth you painted ’pon Mr. Lamacraft’ssign to Sticklepath?”

“Ten shillings.”

“That’s solid money.”

“It isn’t now. I bought a book with it—a book oflies.”

Chris was going to speak, but changed her mind and sighed instead.

“Well, as our affairs be speeding so poorly, we’d best to dosome gude deed an’ look after this other coil. You must let Will knawwhat ’s doin’ by letter this very night. ’T is awnly fair,you being set in trust for him.”

“Strange, these Grimbal brothers,” mused Clement, as thelovers proceeded in the direction of Chagford. “They come home witheverything on God’s earth that men might desire to win happiness, and,by the look of it, each marks his home-coming by falling in love with one hecan’t have.”

“Shaws the fairness of things, Clem; how the poor may chance to havewhat the rich caan’t buy; so all look to stand equal.”

“Fairness, you call it? The damned, cynical irony of this wholepassion-driven puppet-show—that’s what it shows! The man who isloved cannot marry the woman he loves lest they both starve; the man who cangive a woman half the world is loathed for his pains. Not that he ’s tobe pitied like the pauper, for if you can’t buy love you can buy women,and the wise ones know how to manufacture a very lasting substitute for thereal thing.”

“You talk that black and bitter as though you was deep-read in allthe wickedness of the world,” said Chris; “yet I knaw no man cansay sweeter things than you sometimes.”

“Talk! It ’s all talk with me—all snarling and railingand whining at hard facts, like a viper wasting its venom on steel. I’msick of myself—weary of the old, stale round of my thoughts. Where canI wash and be clean? Chrissy, for God’s sake, tell me.”

“Put your hope in the Spring,” she said, “an’ bebusy for Will.” In reality, with the approach of Christmas, affairsbetween Phoebe and the elder Grimbal had reached a point far in advance ofthat which Clement and Chris were concerned with. For more than three months,and under a steadily increasing weight of opposition, Miller Lyddon’sdaughter fought without shadow of yielding. Then came a time when the calmbut determined iteration of her father’s desires and the sledge-hammerlove-making of John Grimbal began to leave an impression. Even then her lovefor Will was bright and strong, but her sense of helplessness fretted hernerves and temper, and her sweetheart’s laconic messages, through themedium of another man, were sorry comfort in this hour of tribulation. Withsome reason she felt slighted. Neither considering Will’speculiarities, nor suspecting that his silence was only, the result of a whimor project, she began to resent it. Then John Grimbal caught her in adangerous mood. Once she wavered, and he had the wisdom to leave her at themoment of victory. But on the next occasion of their meeting, he took goodcare to keep the advantage he had gained. Conscious of his own honest andgenerous intentions, Grimbal went on his way. The subtler manifestations ofPhoebe’s real attitude towards him escaped his observation; herreluctance he set down as resulting from the dying shadow of affection forWill Blanchard. That she would be very happy and proud and prosperous in theposition of his wife, the lover was absolutely assured. He pursued her withthe greater determination, in that he believed he was saving her fromherself. What were some few months of vague uncertainty and girlish tearscompared with a lifetime of prosperity and solid happiness? John Grimbal madePhoebe handsome presents of pretty and costly things after the first greatvictory. He pushed his advantage with tremendous vigour. His great faceseemed reflected in Phoebe’s eyes when she slept as when she woke; hisvoice was never out of her ears. Weary, hopeless, worn out, she prayedsometimes for strength of purpose. But it was a trait denied to her characterand not to be bestowed at a breath. Her stability of defence, even as itstood, was remarkable and beyond expectation. Then the sure climax rolled inupon poor Phoebe. Twice she sought Clement Hicks with purpose to send anurgent message; on each occasion accident prevented a meeting; her father wasalways smiling and droning his desires into her ear; John Grimbal hauntedher. His good-nature and kindness were hard to bear; his patience made herfrantic. So the investment drew to its conclusion and the barriers crumbled,for the forces besieged were too weak and worn to restore them; while a lastcircumstance brought victory to the stronger and proclaimed the finaloverthrow.

This culmination resulted from a visit to the spiritual head ofPhoebe’s dwelling-place. The Rev. James Shorto-Champernowne, Vicar ofChagford, made an appointment to discuss the position with Mr. Lyddon and hisdaughter. A sportsman of the old type, and a cleric of rare reputation forgood sense and fairness to high and low, was Mr. Shorto-Champernowne, but ithappened that his more tender emotions had been buried with a young wifethese forty years, and children he had none. Nevertheless, taking thestandpoint of parental discipline, he held Phoebe’s alleged engagementa vain thing, not to be considered seriously. Moreover, he knew ofWill’s lapses in the past; and that was fatal.

“My child, have little doubt that both religion and duty point inone direction and with no faltering hands,” he said, in his statelyway. “Communicate with the young man, inform him that conversation withmyself has taken place; then he can hardly maintain an attitude of doubt,either to the exalted convictions that have led to your decision, or to thepropriety of it. And, further, do not omit an opportunity of well-doing, butconclude your letter with a word of counsel. Pray him to seek a Guide to hisfuture life, the only Guide able to lead him aright. I mean his MotherChurch. No man who turns his back upon her can be either virtuous or happy. Imourned his defection from our choir some years ago. You see I forget nobody.My eyes are everywhere, as they ought to be. Would that he could be whippedback to the House of God—with scorpions, if necessary! There is acowardice, a lack of sportsmanlike feeling, if I may so express it, in thesefallings away from the Church of our fathers. It denotes a failing ofintellect amid the centres of human activity. There is a blight of unbeliefabroad—a nebulous, pestilential rationalism. Acquaint him with thesefacts; they may serve to re-establish one whose temperament must be regardedas abnormal in the light of his great eccentricity of action. Now farewell,and God be with you.”

The rotund, grey-whiskered clergyman waved his hand; Miller Lyddon and hisdaughter left the vicarage; while both heard, as it seemed, his studiedphrases and sonorous voice rolling after them all the way home. But poorPhoebe felt that the main issues as to conscience were now only too clear;her last anchor was wrenched from its hold, and that night, through a mist ofunhappy tears, she succumbed, promised to marry John Grimbal and be queen ofthe red castle now rising under Cranbrook’s distant heights.

That we have dealt too scantily with her tragic experiences may besuspected; but the sequel will serve to show how these circumstances demandno greater elaboration than has been accorded to them.

CHAPTER VII
LIBATION TO POMONA

A WINTER moon threw black shadows from stock and stone, tree and cot inthe valley of the Teign. Heavy snow had fallen, and moor-men, coming downfrom the highlands, declared it to lie three feet deep in the drifts. Nowfine, sharp weather had succeeded the storm, and hard frost held both hilland vale.

On Old Christmas Eve a party numbering some five-and-twenty personsassembled in the farmyard of Monks Barton, and Billy Blee, as master of thepending ceremonies, made them welcome. Some among them were aged, othersyouthful; indeed the company consisted mostly of old men and boys, acircumstance very easily understood when the nature of their enterprise isconsidered. The ancients were about to celebrate a venerable rite andsacrifice to a superstition, active in their boyhood, moribund at the datewith which we are concerned, and to-day probably dead altogether. The sweetpoet2 of Dean Prior mentions this quaint, old-timecustom of “christening” or “wassailing” thefruit-trees among Christmas-Eve ceremonies; and doubtless when he dwelt inDevon the use was gloriously maintained; but an adult generation in the yearsof this narrative had certainly refused it much support. It was left to theirgrandfathers and their sons; and thus senility and youth preponderated in thepresent company. For the boys, this midnight fun with lantern andfowling-piece was good Christmas sport, and they came readily enough; to theold men their ceremonial possessed solid value, and from the musty storehouseof his memory every venerable soul amongst them could cite instances of thesovereign virtue hid in such a procedure.

“A brave rally o’ neighbours, sure ’nough,” criedMr. Blee as he appeared amongst them. “Be Gaffer Lezzardcome?”

“Here, Billy.”

“Hast thy fire-arm, Lezzard?”

“Ess, ’t is here. My gran’son’s carrying of it;but I holds the powder-flask an’ caps, so no ruin be threatened tonone.”

Mr. Lezzard wore a black smock-frock, across the breast of which extendeddelicate and skilful needlework. His head was hidden under an old chimney-pothat with a pea-cock’s feather in it, and, against the cold, he had tieda tremendous woollen muffler round his neck and about his ears. The ends ofit hung down over his coat, and the general effect of smock, comforter,gaitered shanks, boots tied up in straw, long nose, and shining spectacles,was that of some huge and ungainly bird, hopped from out a fairy-tale or anightmare.

“Be Maister Chappie here likewise?” inquired Billy.

“I’m waitin’; an’ I’ve got a fowling-piece,tu.”

“That’s gude then. I be gwaine to carry the auld blunderbusswhat’s been in Miller Lyddon’s family since the years of hisancestors, and belonged to a coach-guard in the King’s days. ’Tis well suited to apple-christenin’. The cider’s here, in threeo’ the biggest earth pitchers us’a’ got, an’ the ladsis ready to bring it along. The Maister Grimbals, as will be related to thefamily presently, be comin’ to see the custom, an’ Miller wantsevery man to step back-along arterwards an’ have a drop o’ thebest, ’cordin’ to his usual gracious gudeness. Now, Lezzard, mean’ you’ll lead the way.”

Mr. Blee then shouldered his ancient weapon, the other veteran marchedbeside him, and the rest of the company followed in the direction of ChagfordBridge. They proceeded across the fields; and along the procession bobbed alantern or two, while a few boys carried flaring torches. The light fromthese killed the moonbeams within a narrow radius, shot black tongues ofsmoke into the clear air, and set the meadows glimmering redly wherecontending radiance of moon and fire powdered the virgin snow with diamondand ruby. Snake-like the party wound along beside the river. Dogs barked;voices rang clear on the crystal night; now and again, with laughter andshout, the lads raced hither and thither from their stolid elders, and hereand there jackets carried the mark of a snowball. Behind the procession atrampled grey line stretched out under the moonlight. Then all passed likesome dim, magic pageant of a dream; the distant dark blot of naked woodlandsswallowed them up, and the voices grew faint and ceased. Only the endlesssong of the river sounded, with a new note struck into it by the world ofsnow.

For a few moments the valley was left empty, so empty that a fox, who hadbeen prowling unsuccessfully about Monks Barton since dusk, took theopportunity to leave his hiding-place above the ducks’ pool, cross themeadows, and get him home to his earth two miles distant. He slunk withpattering foot across the snow, marking his way by little regular paw-pitsand one straight line where his brush roughened the surface. Steam puffed injets from his muzzle, and his empty belly made him angry with the world. Atthe edge of the woods he lifted his head, and the moonlight touched his greeneyes. Then he recorded a protest against Providence in one eerie bark, and sovanished, before the weird sound had died.

Phoebe Lyddon and her lover, having given the others some vantage ofground, followed them to their destination—Mr. Lyddon’s famousorchard in Teign valley. The girl’s dreary task of late had been totell herself that she would surely love John Grimbal presently—love himas such a good man deserved to be loved. Only under the silence and in theloneliness of long nights, only in the small hours of day, when sleep wouldnot come and pulses were weak, did Phoebe confess that contact with him hurther, that his kisses made her giddy to sickness, that all his gifts puttogether were less to her than one treasure she was too weak todestroy—the last letter Will had written. Once or twice, not to herfuture husband, but to the miller, Phoebe had ventured faintly to questionstill the promise of this great step; but Mr. Lyddon quickly overruled alldoubts, and assisted John Grimbal in his efforts to hasten the ceremony. Uponthis day, Old Christmas Eve, the wedding-day lay not a month distant and,afterwards the husband designed to take his wife abroad for a trip to SouthAfrica. Thus he would combine business and pleasure, and return in the springto witness the completion of his house. Chagford highly approved the match,congratulated Phoebe on her fortune, and felt secretly gratified that apersonage grown so important as John Grimbal should have chosen hislife’s partner from among the maidens of his native village.

Now the pair walked over the snow; and silent and stealthy as the vanishedfox, a grey figure followed after them. Dim as some moon-spirit against thebrightness, this shape stole forward under the rough hedge that formed a bankand threw a shadow between meadow and stream. In repose the grey man, for aman it was, looked far less substantial than the stationary outlines offences and trees; and when he moved it had needed a keen eye to see him atall. He mingled with the moonlight and snow, and became a part of a strangeinversion of ordinary conditions; for in this white, hushed world the shadowsalone seemed solid and material in their black nakedness, in their keensharpness of line and limit, while things concrete and ponderable shone out asilvery medley of snow-capped, misty traceries, vague of outline, uncertainof shape, magically changed as to their relations by the unfamiliar carpetnow spread between them.

The grey figure kept Phoebe in sight, but followed a path of his ownchoosing. When she entered the woods he drew a little nearer, and thusfollowed, passing from shadow to shadow, scarce fifty yards behind.

Meanwhile the main procession approached the scene of its labours. MartinGrimbal, attracted by the prospect of reading this page from an old Devoniansuperstition, was of the company. He walked with Billy Blee and GafferLezzard; and these high priests, well pleased at their junior’sattitude towards the ceremony, opened their hearts to him upon it.

“’T is an ancient rite, auld as cider—maybe auld asScripture, to, for anything I’ve heard to the contrary,” said Mr.Lezzard.

“Ay, so ’t is,” declared Billy Blee, “an’ acustom to little observed nowadays. But us might have better blooth inspringtime an’ braaver apples come autumn if the trees was christenedmore regular. You doan’t see no gert stock of sizable apples besto’ years now—li’l scrubbly auld things mosttimes.”

“An’ the cider from ’em—poor roapy muck, awnly fitto make ’e thirst for better drink,” criticised GafferLezzard.

“’Tis this way: theer’s gert virtue in cider put toapple-tree roots on this particular night, accordin’ to the planets andsuch hidden things. Why so, I can’t tell ’e, any more ’nanybody could tell ’e why the moon sails higher up the sky in winterthan her do in summer; but so ’t is. An’ facts be facts. Why,theer’s the auld ‘Sam’s Crab’ tree in this veryorchard we’m walkin’ to. I knawed that tree three year ago togive a hogshead an’ a half as near as damn it. That wan tree, mind,with no more than a few baskets of ‘Redstreaks’ added.”

“An’ a shy bearer most times, tu,” added Mr.Lezzard.

“Just so; then come next year, by some mischance, me being indoors,if they didn’t forget to christen un! An’, burnish it all! theerwasn’t fruit enough on the tree to fill your pockets!”

“Whether ’t is the firing into the branches, or the cider tothe roots does gude, be a matter of doubt,” continued Mr. Lezzard; butthe other authority would not admit this.

“They ’m like the halves of a flail, depend on it: wan no usewi’out t’other. Then theer’s the singing of the auld song:who’s gwaine to say that’s the least part of it?”

“’T is the three pious acts thrawn together in wan gudedeed,” summed up Mr. Lezzard; “an’ if they’d awnlylet apples get ripe ’fore they break ’em, an’ go back tothe straw for straining, ’stead of these tom-fule, new-fangledhair-cloths, us might get tidy cider still.”

By this time the gate of the orchard was reached; Gaffer Lezzard, Billy,and the other patriarch, Mr. Chapple,—a very fat old man,—loadedtheir weapons, and the perspiring cider-carriers set down their loads.

“Now, you bwoys, give awver runnin’ ’bout likerabbits,” cried out Mr. Chapple. “You ’m here to sing whileus pours cider an’ shoots in the trees; an’ not a dropyou’ll have if you doan’t give tongue proper, so I tell’e.”

At this rebuke the boys assembled, and there followed a hasty gabbling, tofreshen the words in young and uncertain memories. Then a small vessel wasdipped under floating toast, that covered the cider in the great pitchers,and the ceremony of christening the orchard began. Only the largest and mostfamous apple-bearers were thus saluted, for neither cider nor gunpowdersufficient to honour more than a fraction of the whole multitude existed inall Chagford. The orchard, viewed from the east, stretched in long lines,like the legions of some arboreal army; the moon set sparks and streaks oflight on every snowy fork and bough; and at the northwestern foot of eachtree a network of spidery shadow-patterns, sharp and black, extended upon thesnow.

Mr. Blee himself made the first libation, led the first chorus, and firedthe first shot. Steaming cider poured from his mug, vanished, sucked in atthe tree-foot, and left a black patch upon the snow at the hole of the trunk;then he stuck a fragment of sodden toast on a twig; after which thechristening song rang out upon the night—ragged at first, but settlinginto resolute swing and improved time as its music proceeded. The lustytreble of the youngsters soon drowned the notes of their grandfathers; forthe boys took their measure at a pace beyond the power of Gaffer Lezzard andhis generation, and sang with heart and voice to keep themselves warm. Thesong has variants, but this was their version—

“Here ’s to thee, auld apple-tree,
Be sure you bud, be sure you blaw,
And bring forth apples good enough—
Hats full, caps full, three-bushel bags full,
Pockets full and all—
Hurrah! Hurrah! Hurrah!
Hats full, caps full, three-bushel bags full,
Hurrah! Hurrah! Hurrah!”

Then Billy fired his blunderbuss, and a flame leapt from its bell mouthinto the branches of the apple-tree, while surrounding high lands echoed itsreport with a reverberating bellow that rose and fell, and was flung fromhill to hill, until it gradually faded upon the ear. The boys cheered again,everybody drank a drop of the cider, and from under a cloud of blue smoke,that hung flat as a pancake above them in the still air, all moved onward.Presently the party separated into three groups, each having a gunner to leadit, half a dozen boys to sing, and a dwindling jar of cider for the purposesof the ceremony. The divided choirs clashed their music, heard from adistance; the guns fired at intervals, each sending forth its own particulardetonation and winning back a distinctive echo; then the companies separatedwidely and decreased to mere twinkling, torchlit points in the distance.Accumulated smoke from the scattered discharges hung in a sluggish hazebetween earth and moon, and a sharp smell of burnt powder tainted thesweetness of the frosty night.

Upon this scene arrived John Grirnbal and his sweetheart. They stood for awhile at the open orchard gate, gazed at the remote illumination, and heardthe distant song. Then they returned to discussion of their own affairs;while at hand, unseen, the grey watcher moved impatiently and anxiously. Thething he desired did not come about, and he blew on his cold hands and sworeunder his breath. Only an orchard hedge now separated them, and he might havelistened to Phoebe’s soft speech had he crept ten yards nearer, whileJohn Grimbal’s voice he could not help hearing from time to time. Thebig man was just asking a question not easy to answer, when an unexpectedinterruption saved Phoebe from the difficulty of any reply.

“Sometimes I half reckon a memory of that blessed boy still makesyou glum, my dear. Is it so? Haven’t you forgot him yet?”

As he spoke an explosion, differing much in sound from those whichcontinued to startle the night, rang suddenly out of the distance. It arosefrom a spot on the confines of the orchard, and was sharp in tone—sharpalmost as the human cries which followed it. Then the distant lights hastenedtowards the theatre of the catastrophe. “What has happened?”cried Phoebe, thankful enough to snatch conversation away from herself andher affairs.

“Easy to guess. That broken report means a burst gun. One of thoseold fools has got excited, put too much powder into his blunderbuss and blownhis head off, likely as not. No loss either!”

“Please, please go and see! Oh, if ’tis Billy Blee come togrief, faither will be lost. Do ’e run, Mr. Grimbal—Jan, I mean.If any grave matter’s failed out, send them bwoys off red-hot fordoctor.”

“Stop here, then. If any ugly thing has happened, there need be nooccasion for you to see it.”

He departed hastily to where a distant galaxy of fiery eyes twinkled andtangled and moved this way and that, like the dying sparks on a piece ofburnt paper.

Then the patient grey shadow, rewarded by chance at last, found hisopportunity, slipped into the hedge just above Grimbal’s sweetheart,and spoke to her.

“Phoebe, Phoebe Lyddon!”

The voice, dropping out of empty air as it seemed, made Phoebe jump, andalmost fall; but there was an arm gripped round her, and a pair of hot lipson hers before she had time to open her mouth or cry a word.

“Will!”

“Ess, so I be, alive an’ kicking. No time for anything butbusiness now. I’ve followed ’e for this chance. Awnly heard fourday ago ’bout the fix you’d been drove to. An’ Clem’smade it clear ’t was all my damn silly silence to blame. I had a gertthought in me and wasn’t gwaine to write till—but that’sawver an’ done, an’ a purty kettle of feesh, tu. We must faacethis coil first.”

“Thank God, you can forgive me. I’d never have had courage toax ’e.”

“You was drove into it. I knaw there’s awnly wan man in theworld for ’e. Ban’t nothin’ to forgive. I never ought tohave left ’e—a far-seein’ man, same as me. Blast him!I’d like to tear thicky damned fur off you, for I lay it comed fromhim.”

“They were killing me, Will; and never a word from you.”

“I knaw, I knaw. What’s wan girl against a parish full,an’ a blustering chap made o’ diamonds?”

“The things doan’t warm me; they make me shiver. Butnow—you can forgive me—that’s all I care for. What shall Ido? How can I escape it? Oh, Will, say I can!”

“In coourse you can. Awnly wan way, though; an’ that’swhy I’m here. Us must be married right on end. Then he’s got nomore power over ’e than a drowned worm, nor Miller, nor any.”

“To think you can forgive me enough to marry me after all mywickedness! I never dreamed theer was such a big heart in the world asyourn.”

“Why, we promised, didn’t us? We’m built for each other.I knawed I’d only got to come. An’ I have, at cost, tu, I promise’e. Now we’ll be upsides wi’ this tramp from furrin paarts,if awnly you do ezacally what I be gwaine to tell you. I’d meant towrite it, but I can speak it better as the chance has come.”

Phoebe’s heart glowed at this tremendous change in the position. Sheforgot everything before sight and sound of Will. The nature of her promisesweakened to gossamer. Her first love was the only love for her, and his voicefortified her spirit and braced her nerves. A chance for happiness yetremained and she, who had endured enough, was strong in determination to winit yet at any cost if a woman could.

“If you awnly knawed the half I’ve suffered before they forcedme, you’d forgive,” she said. His frank pardon she could hardlyrealise. It seemed altogether beyond the desert of her weakness.

“Let that bide. It’s the future now. Clem’s told meeverything. Awnly you and him an’ Chris knaw I’m here. Chris willserve ’e. Us must play a hidden game, an’ fight this Grimbal chapas he fought me—behind back. Listen; to-day fortnight you an’ me’m gwaine to be married afore the registrar to Newton Abbot. He’m my awn Uncle Ford, as luck has it, an’ quite o’ my wayo’ thinkin’ when I told him how ’t was, an’ that JanGrimbal was gwaine to marry you against your will. He advised me, andI’m biding in Newton for next two weeks, so as the thing comes outright by law. But you’ve got to keep it still as death.”

“If I could awnly fly this instant moment with ’e!”

“You caan’t. ’T would spoil all. You must stop home,an’ hear your banns put up with Grimbal, an’ all the rest of it.Wish I could! Meat an’ drink ’t would be, by God! But he’llget his pay all right. An’ afore the day comes, you nip off to Newton,an’ I’ll meet ’e, an’ us’ll be married in awink, an’ you’ll be back home again to Monks Barton ’foreyou knaw it.”

“Is that the awnly way? Oh, Will, how terrible!”

“God knaws I’ve done worse ’n that. But no man’sgwaine to steal the maid of my choosin’ from me while I’ve gotbrains and body to prevent it.”

“Let me look at you, lovey—just the same, just the same!’Tis glorious to hear your voice again. But this thin coat, so butivulin shaape, tu! You ’m a gentleman by the look of it; but ’t issummer wear, not winter.”

“Ess, ’tis cold enough; an’ I’ve got to get backto Newton to-night. An’ never breathe that man’s name no more.I’ll shaw ’e wat ’s a man an’ what ban’t. Stealmy true love, would ’e?—God forgive un, I shaan’t—nottill we ’m man an’ wife, anyway. Then I might. Give ’e up!Be I a chap as chaanges? Never—never yet.”

Phoebe wept at these words and pressed Will to her heart.

“’Tis strength, an’ fire, an’ racing blood in meto hear ’e, dear, braave heart. I was that weak without ’e. Nowthe world ’s a new plaace, an’ I doan’t doubt fust thoughtwas right, for all they said. I’ll meet ’e as you bid me,an’ nothin’ shall ever keep me from ’enow—nothing!”

“’T is well said, Phoebe; an’ doan’t let thatanointed scamp kiss ’e more ’n he must. Be braave an’cunnin’, an’ keep Miller from smelling a rat. I’d like tosmash that man myself now wheer he stands,—Grimbal I mean,—but usmust be wise for the present. Wipe your shiny eyes an’ keep a happyfaace to ’em, an’ never let wan of the lot dream what’s hidin ’e. Cock your li’l nose high, an’ be peart an’gay. An’ let un buy you what he will,—’t is no odds; we cansend his rubbish back again arter, when he knaws you’m anotherman’s wife. Gude-bye, Phoebe dearie; I’ve done what ’pearedto me a gert deed for love of ’e; but the sight of ’e brings itdown into no mighty matter.”

“You’ve saved my life, Will—saved all my days; an’while I’ve got a heart beating ’t will be yourn, an’I’ll work for ’e, an’ slave for ’e, an’ thinkfor ’e, an’ love ’e so long as I live—an’ prayfor ’e, tu, Will, my awn!”

He parted from her as she spoke, and she, by an inspiration, hurriedtowards the approaching crowd that the trampled marks of the snow where shehad been standing might not be noted under the gleam of torches andlanterns.

John Grimbal’s prophecy was happily not fulfilled in its gloomycompleteness: nobody had blown his head off; but Billy Blee’sprodigality of ammunition proved at last too much for the blunderbuss of thebygone coach-guard, and in its sudden annihilation a fragment had cut thegunner across the face, and a second inflicted a pretty deep flesh-wound onhis arm. Neither injury was very serious, and the general escape, as JohnGrimbal pointed out, might be considered marvellous, for not a soul saveBilly himself had been so much as scratched.

With Martin Grimbal on one side and Mr. Chapple upon the other, thewounded veteran walked slowly and solemnly along. The dramatic moments of thehour were dear to him, and while tolerably confident at the bottom of hismind that no vital hurt had been done, he openly declared himself stricken todeath, and revelled in a display of Christian fortitude and resignation thatdeceived everybody but John Grimbal. Billy gasped and gurgled, bid them seeto the bandages, and reviewed his past life with ingenuous satisfaction.

“Ah, sawls all! dead as a hammer in an hour. ’T is awver. Ifeel the life swelling out of me.”

“Don’t say that, Billy,” cried Martin, in real concern.“The blood’s stopped flowing entirely now.”

“For why? Theer’s no more to come. My heart be pumping wind,lifeless wind; my lung-play’s gone, tu, an’ my sight’s comeawver that coorious. Be Gaffer Lezzard nigh?”

“Here, alongside ’e, Bill.”

“Gimme your hand then, an’ let auld scores be wiped off inthis shattering calamity. Us have differed wheer us could these twoscoreyears; but theer mustn’t be no more ill-will wi’ metremblin’ on the lip o’ the graave.”

“None at all; if ’t wasn’t for Widow Coomstock,”said Gaffer Lezzard. “You ’m tu pushing theer, an’ I say iteven now, for truth’s truth, though it be the last thing a man’sear holds.”

“Break it to her gentle,” said Billy, ignoring theother’s criticism; “she’m on in years, and have cast akindly eye awver me since the early sixties. My propositions never was morethan agreeable conversation to her, but it might have come. Tell hertheer’s a world beyond marriage customs, an’ us’ll meettheer.”

Old Lezzard showed a good deal of anger at this speech, but being in aminority fell back and held his peace.

“Would ’e like to see passon, dear sawl?” asked Mr.Chapple, who walked on Billy’s left with his gun reversed, as though ata funeral.

“Me an’ him be out, along o’ rheumatics keeping me fromthe House of God this month,” said the sufferer, “but at a solemndeath-bed hour like this here, I’d soon see un as not. Ban’t nogert odds, for I forgive all mankind, and doan’t feel no more malicethan a bird in a tree.”

“You’re a silly old ass,” burst out Grimbal roughly.“There’s nothing worth naming the matter with you, and you knowit better than we do. The Devil looks after his own, seemingly. Any other manwould have been killed ten times over.”

Billy whined and even wept at this harsh reproof. “Ban’t avery fair way to speak to an auld gunpowder-blawn piece, like what I benow,” he said; “gormed if ’t is.”

“Very onhandsome of ’e, Mr. Grimbal,” declared the stoutChappie; “an’ you so young an’ in the prime of life,tu!”

Here Phoebe met them, and Mr. Blee, observing the signs of tears upon herface, supposed that anxiety for him had wet her cheeks, and comforted hismaster’s child.

“Doan’t ’e give way, missy. ’T is all wan,an’ I ban’t ’feared of the tomb, as I’ve tawld’em. Us must rot, every bone of us, in our season, an’ ’tis awnly the thought of it, not the fear of it, turns the stomach. Butwhat’s a wamblyness of the innards, so long as a body’s sawl beripe for God?”

“A walkin’ sermon!” said Mr. Chappie.

Doctor Parsons was waiting for Billy at Monks Barton, and if John Grimbalhad been brusque, the practitioner proved scarcely less so. He pronounced Mr.Blee but little hurt, bandaged his arm, plastered his head, and assured himthat a pipe and a glass of spirits was all he needed to fortify his sinkingspirit. The party ate and drank, raised a cheer for Miller Lyddon and thenwent homewards. Only Mr. Chappie and Gaffer Lezzard entered the house and hada wineglass or two of some special sloe gin. Mr. Lezzard thawed and grewamiable over this beverage, and Mr. Chappie repeated Billy’s loftysentiments at the approach of death for the benefit of Miller Lyddon.

“’T is awnly my fearless disposition,” declared thewounded man with great humility; “no partic’lar credit to me. Idoan’t care wan iotum for the thought of churchyard mould—not waniotum. I knaw the value of gude rich soil tu well; an’ a man as grudgesthe rames3 of hisself to the airth that’s kept unthreescore years an’ ten’s a carmudgeonly cuss,surely.”

“An’ so say I; theer’s true wisdom in it,”declared Mr. Chapple, while the miller nodded.

“Theer be,” concluded Gaffer Lezzard. “I allus sez, inmy clenching way, that I doan’t care a farden damn what happens to mybones, if my everlasting future be well thought on by passon. So long as Icatch the eye of un an’ see um beam ’pon me to church nowan’ again, I’m content with things as they are.”

“As a saved sawl you ’m in so braave a way as the best; but,to say it without rudeness, as food for the land a man of your build benought, Gaffer,” argued Mr. Chapple, who viewed the veteran’swithered anatomy from his own happy vantage ground of fifteen stone.

But Gaffer Lezzard would by no means allow this.

“Ban’t quantity awnly tells, my son. ’T is the aluminiumin a man’s bones that fats land—roots or grass or corn. Anybodyof larnin’, ’ll tell ’e that. Strip the belly off ’e,an’, bone for bone, a lean man like me shaws as fair as you. No offenceoffered or taken, but a gross habit’s mere clay and does more harm thangude underground.”

Mr. Chapple in his turn resented this contemptuous dismissal of tissue asmatter of no agricultural significance. The old men went wrangling home;Miller Lyddon and Billy retired to their beds; the moon departed behind thedistant moors; and all the darkened valley slept in snow and starlight.

CHAPTER VIII
A BROTHERS’ QUARREL

Though Phoebe was surprised at Will Blanchard’s mild attitude towardher weakness, she had been less so with more knowledge. Chris Blanchard andher lover were in some degree responsible for Will’s lenity, andClement’s politic letter to the wanderer, when Phoebe’sengagement was announced, had been framed in words best calculated to shieldthe Miller’s sore-driven daughter. Hicks had thrown the blame on JohnGrimbal, on Mr. Lyddon, on everybody but Phoebe herself. Foremost indeed hehad censured Will, and pointed out that his own sustained silence, howeverhigh-minded the reason of it, was a main factor in his sweetheart’ssufferings and ultimate submission.

In answer to this communication Blanchard magically reappeared, announcedhis determination to marry Phoebe by subterfuge, and, the deed accomplished,take his punishment, whatever it might be, with light heart. Given time toachieve a legal marriage, and Phoebe would at least be safe from the clutchesof millionaires in general.

Much had already been done by Will before he crept after theapple-christeners and accomplished his meeting with Phoebe. A week was passedsince Clement wrote the final crushing news, and during that interval Willhad been stopping with his uncle, Joel Ford, at Newton Abbot. Fate, hard tillnow, played him passing fair at last. The old Superintendent Registrar stillhad a soft corner in his heart for Will, and when he learnt the boy’strouble, though of cynic mind in all matters pertaining to matrimony, hechose to play the virtuous and enraged philosopher, much to hisnephew’s joy. Mr. Ford promised Will he should most certainly have thelaw’s aid to checkmate his dishonourable adversary; he took a mostserious view of the case and declared that all thinking men must sympathisewith young Blanchard under such circumstances. But in private the oldgentleman rubbed his hands, for here was the very opportunity he desired asmuch as a man well might—the chance to strike at one who had shamefullywronged him. His only trouble was how best to let John Grimbal know whom hehad to thank for this tremendous reverse; for that deed he held necessary tocomplete his revenge.

As to where Will had come from, or whither he was returning, after hismarriage Joel Ford cared not. The youngster once wedded would be satisfied;and his uncle would be satisfied too. The procedure of marriage by licenserequires that one of the parties shall have resided within theSuperintendent’s district for a space of fifteen days preceding thegiving of notice; then application in prescribed form is made to theRegistrar; and his certificate and license are usually received one clear daylater. Thus a resident in a district can be married at any time withineight-and-forty hours of his decision. Will Blanchard had to stop with hisuncle nine or ten days more to complete the necessary fortnight, and as JohnGrimbal’s marriage morning was as yet above three weeks distant,Phoebe’s fate in no way depended upon him.

Mr. Ford explained the position to Will, and the lover accepted itcheerfully.

“As to the marriage, that’ll be hard and fast as a bench ofbishops can make it; but wedding a woman under age, against the wish of herlegal guardian, is an offence against the law. Nobody can undo the deeditself, but Miller Lyddon will have something to say afterwards. Andthere’s that blustering blackguard, John Grimbal, to reckon with.Unscrupulous scoundrel! Just the sort to be lawless and vindictive if whatyou tell me concerning him is true.”

“And so he be; let un! Who cares a brass button for him? ’T isawnly Miller I thinks of. What’s worst he can do?”

“Send you to prison, Will.”

“For how long?”

“That I can’t tell you exactly. Not for marrying his daughterof course, but for abduction—that’s what he’ll bringagainst you.”

“An’ so he shall, uncle, an’ I’ll save him all thetrouble I can. That’s no gert hardship—weeks, or months even.I’ll go like a lark, knawin’ Phoebe’s safe.”

So the matter stood and the days passed. Will’s personal affairs,and the secret of the position from which he had come was known only toClement Hicks. The lover talked of returning again thither after hismarriage, but he remained vague on that point, and, indeed, modified hisplans after the above recorded conversation with his uncle. Twice he wrote toPhoebe in the period of waiting, and the letter had been forwarded on bothoccasions through Clement. Two others knew what was afoot, and during thattime of trial Phoebe found Chris her salvation. The stronger girl supportedher sinking spirit and fortified her courage. Chris mightily enjoyed thewhole romance, and among those circumstances that combined to make JohnGrimbal uneasy during the days of waiting was her constant presence at MonksBarton. There she came as Phoebe’s friend, and the clear, bright eyesshe often turned on him made him angry, he knew not why. As for Mrs.Blanchard, she had secretly learnt more than anybody suspected, for whileWill first determined to tell her nothing until afterwards, a second thoughtrebuked him for hiding such a tremendous circumstance from his mother, and hewrote to her at full length from Newton, saying nothing indeed of the pastbut setting out the future in detail. Upon the subject Mrs. Blanchard kepther own counsel.

Preparations for Phoebe’s wedding moved apace, and she lived in adim, heart-breaking dream. John Grimbal, despite her entreaties, continued tospend money upon her; yet each new gift brought nothing but tears. Growndesperate in his determination to win a little affection and regard beforemarriage, and bitterly conscious that he could command neither, the man pliedher with what money would buy, and busied himself to bring her happiness inspite of herself. Troubled he was, nevertheless, and constantly sought themiller that he might listen to comforting assurances that he need be under noconcern.

“’T is natural in wan who’s gwaine to say gude-bye tomaidenhood so soon,” declared Mr. Lyddon. “I’ve thought’bout her tears a deal. God knaws they hurt me more ’n they doher, or you either; but such sad whims and cloudy hours is proper to thetime. Love for me’s got a share in her sorrow, tu. ’T will all bewell enough when she turns her back on the church-door an’ hears theweddin’-bells a-clashing for her future joy. Doan’t you come nighher much during the next few weeks.”

“Two,” corrected Mr. Grimbal, moodily.

“Eh! Awnly two! Well, ’t is gert darkness for me, I promiseyou—gert darkness comin’ for Monks Barton wi’out thebutivul sound an’ sight of her no more. But bide away, theer’s agude man; bide away these coming few days. Her last maiden hoursmustn’t be all tears. But my gifts do awnly make her cry, tu, ifthat’s consolation to ’e. It’s the tenderness of herli’l heart as brims awver at kindness.”

In reality, Phoebe’s misery was of a complexion wholly different.The necessity for living thus had not appeared so tremendous until she foundherself launched into this sea of terrible deception. In operation suchsustained falsity came like to drive her mad. She could not count the lieseach day brought forth; she was frightened to pray for forgiveness, knowingevery morning must see a renewal of the tragedy. Hell seemed yawning for her,and the possibility of any ultimate happiness, reached over this awful roadof mendacity and deceit, was more than her imagination could picture. Withloss of self-respect, self-control likewise threatened to depart. She becamephysically weak, mentally hysterical. The strain told terribly on her nature;and Chris mourned to note a darkness like storm-cloud under her grey eyes,and unwonted pallor upon her cheek. Dr. Parsons saw Phoebe at this juncture,prescribed soothing draughts, and ordered rest and repose; but to Chris theinvalid clung, and Mr. Lyddon was not a little puzzled that the sister ofPhoebe’s bygone sweetheart should now possess such power to ease hermind and soothe her troubled nerves.

John Grimbal obeyed the injunction laid upon him and absented himself fromMonks Barton. All was prepared for the ceremony. He had left his Red Housefarm and taken rooms for the present at “The Three Crowns.”Hither came his brother to see him four nights before the weddingday. Martinhad promised to be best man, yet a shadow lay between the brothers, and John,his mind unnaturally jealous and suspicious from the nature of affairs withPhoebe, sulked of late in a conviction that Martin had watched his great stepwith unfraternal indifference and denied him the enthusiasm andcongratulation proper to such an event.

The younger man found his brother scanning a new black broadcloth coatwhen he entered. He praised it promptly, whereupon John flung it from him andshowed no more interest in the garment. Martin, not to be offended, lightedhis pipe, took an armchair beside the fire, and asked for some whiskey. Thismollified the other a little; he produced spirits, loaded his own pipe, andasked the object of the visit.

“A not over-pleasant business, John,” returned his brother,frankly; “but ’Least said, soonest mended.’ Only rememberthis, nothing must ever lessen our common regard. What I am going to say isinspired by my—”

“Yes, yes—cut that. Spit it out and have done with it. I knowthere’s been trouble in you for days. You can’t hide yourthoughts. You’ve been grim as a death’s-head for amonth—ever since I was engaged, come to think of it. Now open your jawsand have done.”

John’s aggressive and hectoring manner spoke volubly of his own lackof ease. Martin nerved himself to begin, holding it his duty, but secretlyfearing the issue in the light of his brother’s hard, set face.

“You’ve something bothering you too, old man. I’m sureof it. God is aware I don’t know much about women myself,but—”

“Oh, dry up that rot! Don’t think I’m blind, if you are.Don’t deceive yourself. There’s a woman-hunger in you, too,though perhaps you haven’t found it out yet. What about that Blanchardgirl?”

Martin flushed like a schoolboy; his hand went up over his mouth and chinas though to hide part of his guilt, and he looked alarmed and uneasy.

John laughed without mirth at the other’s ludicrous trepidation.

“Good heavens! I’ve done nothing surely tosuggest—?”

“Nothing at all—except look as if you were going to have a fitevery time you get within a mile of her. Lovers know the signs, I suppose.Don’t pretend you’re made of different stuff to the rest of us,that’s all.”

Martin removed his hand and gasped before the spectacle of what he hadrevealed to other eyes. Then, after a silence of fifteen seconds, he shut hismouth again, wiped his forehead with his hand, and spoke.

“I’ve been a silly fool. Only she’s so wonderfullybeautiful—don’t you think so?”

“A gypsy all over—if you call that beautiful.”

The other flushed up again, but made no retort.

“Never mind me or anybody else. I want to speak to you about Phoebe,if I may, John. Who have I got to care about but you? I’m only thinkingof your happiness, for that’s dearer to me than my own; and you know inyour heart that I’m speaking the truth when I say so.”

“Stick to your gate-posts and old walls and cow-comforts and deadstones. We all know you can look farther into Dartmoor granite than most men,if that’s anything; but human beings are beyond you and always were.You’d have come home a pauper but for me.”

“D’ you think I’m not grateful? No man ever had a betterbrother than you, and you’ve stood between me and trouble a thousandtimes. Now I want to stand between you and trouble.”

“What the deuce d’ you mean by naming Phoebe, then?”

“That is the trouble. Listen and don’t shout me down.She’s breaking her heart—blind or not blind, I seethat—breaking her heart, not for you, but Will Blanchard. Nobody elsehas found it out; but I have, and I know it’s my duty to tell you; andI’ve done it.”

An ugly twist came into John Grimbal’s face. “You’vedone it; yes. Go on.”

“That’s all, brother, and from your manner I don’tbelieve it’s entirely news to you.”

“Then get you gone, damned snake in the grass! Get gone, ’foreI lay a hand on you! You to turn and bite me! Me, that’s madeyou! I see it all—your blasted sheep’s eyes at Chris Blanchard,and her always at Monks Barton! Don’t lie about it,” he roared,as Martin raised his hand to speak; “not a word more will I hear fromyour traitor’s lips. Get out of my sight, you sneaking hypocrite, andnever call me ‘brother’ no more, for I’ll not own toit!”

“You’ll be sorry for this, John.”

“And you too. You’ll smart all your life long when you thinkof this dirty trick played against a brother who never did you no hurt. Youto come between me and the girl that’s promised to marry me! And foryour own ends. A manly, brotherly plot, by God!”

“I swear, on my sacred honour, there’s no plot against you.I’ve never spoken to a soul about this thing, nor has a soul spoken ofit to me; that’s the truth.”

“Rot you, and your sacred honour too! Go, and take your lies withyou, and keep your own friends henceforth, and never cross my thresholdmore—you or your sacred, stinking honour either.”

Martin rose from his chair dazed and bewildered. He had seen hisbrother’s passion wither up many a rascal in the past; but he himselfhad never suffered until now, and the savagery of this language hurledagainst his own pure motives staggered him. He, of course, knew nothing aboutWill Blanchard’s enterprise, and his blundering and ill-judged effortto restrain his brother from marrying Phoebe was absolutely disinterested. Ithad been a tremendous task to him to speak on this delicate theme, and regardfor John alone actuated him; now he departed without another word and wentblankly to the little new stone house he had taken and furnished on theoutskirts of Chagford under Middledown. He walked along the straight streetof whitewashed cots that led him to his home, and reflected with dismay onthis catastrophe. The conversation with his brother had scarcely occupiedfive minutes; its results promised to endure a lifetime.

Meanwhile, and at the identical hour of this tremendous rupture, ChrisBlanchard, well knowing that the morrow would witness Phoebe’s secretmarriage to her brother, walked down to see her. It happened that a smallparty filled the kitchen of Monks Barton, and the maid who answered hersummons led Chris through the passage and upstairs to Phoebe’s owndoor. There the girls spoke in murmurs together, while various sounds, alllouder than their voices, proceeded from the kitchen below. There wereassembled the miller, Billy Blee, Mr. Chapple, and one Abraham Chown, thepolice inspector of Chagford, a thin, black-bearded man, oppressed with thecares of his office.

“They be arranging the programme of festive delights,”explained Phoebe. “My heart sinks in me every way I turn now. All theworld seems thinking about what’s to come; an’ I knaw it neverwill.”

“’T is a wonnerful straange thing to fall out. Never no suchhappened before, I reckon. But you ’m doin’ right by the man youlove, an’ that’s a thought for ’e more comfortin’than gospel in a pass like this. A promise is a promise, and you’ve gotto think of all your life stretching out afore you. Will’s jonic, takehim the right way, and that you knaw how to do—a straight, true chap asshould make any wife happy. Theer’ll be waitin’ afterwardsan’ gude need for all the patience you’ve got; but wance the wifeof un, allus the wife of un; that’s a butivul thing to bear inmind.”

“’T is so; ’t is everything. An’ wance we’mwed, I’ll never tell a lie again, an’ atone for all I have told,an’ do right towards everybody.”

“You caan’t say no fairer. Be any matter I can help ’ewith?”

“Nothing. It’s all easy. The train starts for Moreton athalf-past nine. Sam Bonus be gwaine to drive me in, and bide theer for metill I come back from Newton. Faither’s awnly too pleased to let me go.I said ’t was shopping.”

“An’ when you come home you’ll tell him—Mr.Lyddon—straight?”

“Everything, an’ thank God for a clean breastagain.”

“An’ Will?”

“Caan’t say what he’ll do after. Theer’ll be noreal marryin’ for us yet a while. Faither can have the law of Willpresently,—that’s all I knaw.”

“Trust Will to do the right thing; and mind, come what may to him,theer’s allus Clem Hicks and me for friends.”

“Ban’t likely to be many others left, come to-morrow night.But I’ve run away from my own thoughts to think of you and him often oflate days. He’ll get money and marry you, won’t he, when hisaunt, Mrs. Coomstock, dies?”

“No; I thought so tu, an’ hoped it wance; but Clem says whatshe’ve got won’t come his way. She’s like as not to marry,tu—there ’m a lot of auld men tinkering after her, Billy Bleeamong ’em.”

Sounds arose from beneath. They began with harsh and grating notes,interrupted by a violent hawking and spitting. Then followed renewal of theformer unlovely noises. Presently, at a point in the song, for such it was,half a dozen other voices drowned the soloist in a chorus.

“’T is Billy rehearsin’ moosic,” explained Phoebe,with a sickly smile. “He haven’t singed for a score of years; butthey’ve awver-persuaded him and he’s promised to give ’eman auld ballet on my wedding-day.”

“My stars! ’t is a gashly auld noise sure enough,”criticised Phoebe’s friend frankly; “for all the world like astuck pig screechin’, or the hum of the threshin’ machine poorfaither used to have, heard long ways off.”

Quavering and quivering, with sudden painful flights into a crackedtreble, Billy’s effort came to the listeners.

“’Twas on a Monday marnin’
Afore the break of day,
That I tuked up my turmit-hoe
An’ trudged dree mile away!”

Then a rollicking chorus, with rough music in it, surged totheir ears—

“An’ the fly, gee hoppee!
The fly, gee whoppee!
The fly be on the turmits,
For ’t is all my eye for me to try
An’ keep min off the turmits!”

Mr. Blee lashed his memory and slowly proceeded, while Chris, moved by asort of sudden mother-instinct towards pale and tearful Phoebe, strained herto her bosom, hugged her very close, kissed her, and bid her be hopeful andhappy.

“Taake gude heart, for you ’m to mate the best man in all theairth but wan!” she said; “an’, if ’t is awnly tokeep Billy from singing in public, ’t is a mercy you ban’t gwaineto take Jan Grimbal. Doan’t ’e fear for him. There’ll be athunder-storm for sartain; then he’ll calm down, as better ’n himhave had to ’fore now, an’ find some other gal.”

With this comfort Chris caressed Phoebe once more, heartily pitying herhelplessness, and wishing it in her power to undertake the approaching ordealon the young bride’s behalf. Then she departed, her eyes almost as dimas Phoebe’s. For a moment she forgot her own helpless matrimonialprojects in sorrow for her brother and his future wife. Marriage at theregistry office represented to her, as to most women, an unlovely,uncomfortable, and unfinished ceremony. She had as easily pictured a funeralwithout the assistance of the Church as a wedding without it.

CHAPTER IX
OUTSIDE EXETER GAOL

Within less than twelve hours of the time when she bid Chris farewellPhoebe Lyddon was Phoebe Lyddon no more. Will met her at Newton; theyimmediately proceeded to his uncle’s office; and the Registrar had madethem man and wife in space of time so brief that the girl could hardlyrealise the terrific event was accomplished, and that henceforth she belongedto Will alone. Mr. Ford had his little joke afterwards in the shape of awedding-breakfast and champagne. He was gratified at the event and rejoicedto be so handsomely and tremendously revenged on his unfortunate enemy. Theyoung couple partook of the good things provided for them; but appetite waslacking to right enjoyment of the banquet, and Will and his wife much desiredto escape and be alone.

Presently they returned to the station and arrived there beforePhoebe’s train departed. Her husband then briefly explained theremarkable course of action he designed to pursue.

“You must be a braave gal and think none the worse of me.But’t is this way: I’ve broke law, and a month or two, or six,maybe, in gaol have got to be done. Your faither will see to that.”

“Prison! O, Will! For marryin’ me?”

“No, but for marryin’ you wi’out axin’ leave.Miller Lyddon told me the upshot of taking you, if I done it; an’ Ihave; an’ he’ll keep his word. So that’s it. I doan’twant to make no more trouble; an’ bein’ a man of resourceI’m gwaine up to Exeter by first train, so soon as you’vestarted. Then all bother in the matter will be saved Miller.”

“O Will! Must you?”

“Ess fay, ’t is my duty. I’ve thought it out throughmany hours. The time’ll soon slip off; an’ then I’ll comeback an’ stand to work. Here’s a empty carriage. Jump in. I cansit along with ’e for a few minutes.”

“How ever shall I begin? How shall I break it to them,dearie?”

“Hold up your li’l hand,” said Will with a laugh.“Shaw ’em the gawld theer. That’ll speak for ’e.’S truth!” he continued, with a gesture of supreme irritation,“but it’s a hard thing to be snatched apart like this—manan’ wife. If I was takin’ ’e home to some lew cot, all ourvery awn, how differ’nt ’t would be!”

“You will some day.”

“So I will then. I’ve got ’e for all time, an’ JanGrimbal’s missed ’e for all time. Damned if I ban’ta’most sorry for un!”

“So am I,—in a way,—as you are. My heart hurts me tothink of him. He’ll never forgive me.”

“Me, you mean. Well, ’t is man to man, an’ I ban’tfeared of nothing on two legs. You just tell ’em that ’t was tobe, that you never gived up lovin’ me, but was forced into lyin’and such-like by the cruel way they pushed ’e. Shaw ’em the copyof the paper if they doan’t b’lieve the ring. An’ whenMiller lifts up his voice to cuss me, tell un quiet that I knawed what mustcome of it, and be gone straight to Exeter Gaol to save un all furthertrouble. He’ll see then I’m a thinking, calculating man, thoughyoung in years.”

Phoebe was now reduced to sighs and dry sobs. Will sat by her a littlelonger, patted her hands and spoke cheerfully. Then the train departed and hejumped from it as it moved and ran along the platform with a last earnestinjunction.

“See mother first moment you can an’ explain how ’t is.Mother’ll understand, for faither did similar identical, though hewasn’t put in clink for it.”

He waved his hand and Phoebe passed homewards. Then the fire died out ofhis eyes and he sighed and turned. But no shadow of weakness manifesteditself in his manner. His jaw hardened, he smote his leg with his stick, and,ascertaining the time of the next train to Exeter, went back to bid Mr. Fordfarewell before setting about his business.

Will told his uncle nothing concerning the contemplated action; and suchsilence was unfortunate, for had he spoken the old man’s knowledge musthave modified his fantastic design. Knowing that Will came mysteriously fromregular employment which he declined to discuss, and assuming that he nowdesigned returning to it, Mr. Ford troubled no more about him. So his nephewthanked the Registrar right heartily for all the goodness he had displayed inhelping two people through the great crisis of their lives, and went on hisway. His worldly possessions were represented by a new suit of blue sergewhich he wore, and a few trifles in a small carpet-bag.

It was the past rather than the present or future which troubled Will onhis journey to Exeter; and the secret of the last six months, whatever thatmight be, lay heavier on his mind than the ordeal immediately ahead of him.In this coming achievement he saw no shame; it was merely part payment for anaction lawless but necessary. He prided himself always on a great spirit ofjustice, and justice demanded that henceforth he must consider the familyinto which he had thus unceremoniously introduced himself. To no man in thewide world did he feel more kindly disposed than to Miller Lyddon; and hispurpose was now to save his father-in-law all the annoyance possible.

Arrived at Exeter, Will walked cheerfully away to the County Gaol, a hugered-brick pile that scarce strikes so coldly upon the eye of the spectator asordinary houses of detention. Grey and black echo the significance of aprison, but warm red brick strikes through the eye to the brain, and thecolour inspires a genial train of ideas beyond reason’s power instantlyto banish. But the walls, if ruddy, were high, and the rows of small, remotewindows, black as the eye-socket of a skull, stretched away in drearyiron-bound perspective where the sides of the main fabric rose upward to itschastened architectural adornments. Young Blanchard grunted to himself,gripped his stick, from one end of which was suspended his carpet-bag, andwalked to the wicket at the side of the prison’s main entrance. He ranga bell that jangled with tremendous echoes among the naked walls within; thenthere followed the rattle of locks as the sidegate opened, and a warderlooked out to ask Will his business. The man was burly and of stout build,while his fat, bearded face, red as the gaol walls themselves, attractedBlanchard by its pleasant expression. Will’s eyes brightened at theaspect of this janitor; he touched his hat very civilly, wished the man“good afternoon,” and was about to step in when the other stoppedhim.

“Doan’t be in such a hurry, my son. What’s brought’e, an’ who do ’e want?”

“My business is private, mister; I wants to see the headman.”

“The Governor? Won’t nobody less do? You can’t see himwithout proper appointment. But maybe a smaller man might serve yourturn?”

Will reflected, then laughed at the warder with that sudden magic of facethat even softened hard hearts towards him.

“To be plain, mate, I’m here to stop. You’ll be sure toknaw ’bout it sooner or late, so I’ll tell ’e now.I’ve done a thing I must pay for, and ’t is a clink job, soI’ve comed right along.”

The warder grew rather sterner, and his eye instinctively roamed for aconstable.

“Best say no more, then. Awnly you’ve comed to the wrongplace. Police station’s what you want, I reckon.”

“Why for? This be County Gaol, ban’t it?”

“Ess, that’s so; but we doan’t take in folks for theaxin’. Tu many queer caraters about.”

Will saw the man’s eyes twinkle, yet he was puzzled at thisunexpected problem.

“Look here,” he said, “I like you, and I’ll dealfair by you an’ tell you the rights of it. Step out here an’listen.”

“Mind, what you sez will be used against you, then.”

“Theer ban’t no secret in it, for that matter.”

The husband thereupon related his recent achievement, and concludedthus:

“So, having kicked up a mort o’ trouble, I doan’t wantto make no more—see? An’ I stepped here quiet to keep it out ofthe papers, an’ just take what punishment’s right an’ vittyfor marryin’ a maid wi’out so much as by your leave. Now, then,caan’t ’e do the rest?”

He regarded the warder gravely and inquiringly, but as the red-faced manslowly sucked up the humour of the situation, his mouth expanded and his eyesalmost disappeared. Then he spoke through outbursts and shakings of deeplaughter.

“Oh Lard! Wheerever was you born to?”

Will flushed deeply, frowned, and clenched his fists at this question.

“Shut your gert mouth!” he said angrily. “Doan’tbellow like that, or I’ll hit ’e awver the jaw! Do’e thinkI want the whole of Exeter City to knaw my errand? What’s theer to gapean’ snigger at? Caan’t ’e treat a man civil?”

This reproof set the official off again, and only a furious demand fromBlanchard to go about his business and tell the Governor he wanted aninterview partially steadied him.

“By Gor! you’ll be the death of me. Caan’t helpit—honour bright—doan’t mean no rudeness to you. Bless youryoung heart, an’ the gal’s, whoever she be. Didn’t ’eknaw? But theer! course you didn’t, else you wouldn’t be here.Why, ’t is purty near as hard to get in prison as out again.You’ll have to be locked up, an’ tried by judge an’ jury,and plead guilty, and be sentenced, an’ the Lard He knaws what beside’fore you come here. How do the lawyers an’ p’licemen gettheir living?”

“That’s news. I hoped to save Miller Lyddon all suchtrouble.”

“Why not try another way, an’ see if you can get the auldgentleman to forgive ’e?”

“Not him. He’ll have the law in due time.”

“Well, I’m ’mazin’ sorry I caan’t oblige’e, for I’m sure we’d be gude friends, an’you’d cheer us all up butivul.”

“But you ’m certain it caan’t be managed?”

“Positive.”

“Then I’ve done all a man can. You’ll bear witness Iwanted to come, won’t ’e?”

“Oh yes, I’ll take my oath o’ that. Ishaan’t forget ’e.”

“All right. And if I’m sent here again, bimebye, I’lllook out for you, and I hopes you’ll be as pleasant inside asnow.”

“I’ll promise that. Shall be awnly tu pleased to make you athome. I like you; though, to be frank, I reckon you’m tu gnat-brained achap to make a wife happy.”

“Then you reckon a damned impedent thing! What d’ you knaw’bout it?”

“A tidy deal. I’ve been married more years than you havehours, I lay.”

“Age ban’t everything; ’t is the fashion brains in aman’s head counts most.”

“That’s right enough. ’T is something to knaw that.Gude-bye to ’e, bwoy, an’ thank you for makin’ me laughheartier than I have this month of Sundays.”

“More fule you!” declared Will; but he was too elated at theturn of affairs to be anything but amiable just now. Before the otherdisappeared, he stopped him.

“Shake hands, will ’e? I thank you for lightenin’ mymind—bein’ a man of law, in a manner of speakin’. Ess,I’m obliged to ’e. Of coourse I doan’t want to cometo prison ’zackly. That’s common sense.”

“Most feel same as you. No doubt you’re in the wrong, thoughthe law caan’t drop on honest, straightforrard matrimony to myknowledge. Maybe circumstances is for ’e.”

“Ess, they be—every jack wan of ’em!” declaredWill. “An’ if I doan’t come here to stop, I’ll callin some day and tell ’e the upshot of this coil in a friendlyway.”

“Do so, an’ bring your missis. Shall be delighted to see thepair of ’e any time. Ax for Thomas Bates.”

Will nodded and marched off, while the warder returned to his post, andwhen he had again made fast the door behind him, permitted the full splendorof his recent experience to tumble over his soul in a laughter perhaps louderthan any heard before or since within the confines of one of HerMajesty’s prisons.

CHAPTER X
THE BRINGING OF THE NEWS

Phoebe meantime returned to Chagford, withdrew herself into her chamber,and feverishly busied brains and hands with a task commended that morning byWill when she had mentioned it to him. The various trinkets and objects ofvalue lavished of late upon her by John Grimbal she made into a neat packet,and tied up a sealskin jacket and other furs in a second and more bulkyparcel. With these and a letter she presently despatched a maid to Mr.Grimbal’s temporary address. Phoebe’s note explained how, weakand friendless until the sudden return of Will into her life, she had beenthrown upon wickedness, falsehood, and deceit to win her own salvation in theface of all about her. She told him of the deed done that day, begged him tobe patient and forget her, and implored him to forgive her husband, who hadfought with the only weapons at his command. It was a feeble communication,and Phoebe thought that her love for Will might have inspired words moreforcible; but relief annihilated any other emotion; she felt thankful thatthe lying, evasion, and prevarication of the last horrible ten days were atan end. From the nightmare of that time her poor, bruised conscience emergedsorely stricken; yet she felt that the battle now before her was a healthything by comparison, and might serve to brace her moral senses rather thannot.

At the tea-table she first met her father, and there were present alsoBilly Blee and Mr. Chapple. The latter had come to Monks Barton about atriumphal arch, already in course of erection at Chagford market-place, andhis presence it was that precipitated her confession, and broughtPhoebe’s news like a thunderbolt upon the company.

Mr. Chapple, looking up suddenly from the saucer that rested upon hisoutspread fingers and thumb, made a discovery, and spoke with someconcern.

“Faith, Missy, that’s ill luck—a wisht thing to doindeed! Put un off, like a gude maid, for theer ’s many a wisesayin’ ’gainst it.”

“What’s her done?” asked Billy anxiously.

“Luke ’pon her weddin’ finger. ’Tis poor speed toput un on ’fore her lard an’ master do it, at the proper momentordained by Scripture.”

“If she hasn’t! Take un off, Miss Phoebe, do!” beggedMr. Blee, in real trepidation; and the miller likewise commanded his daughterto remove her wedding-ring.

“An auld wife’s tale, but, all the same, shouldn’t betheer till you ’m a married woman,” he said.

Thus challenged, the way was made smooth as possible for the young wife.She went over to her father, walked close to him, and put her plump littlehand with its shining addition upon his shoulder.

“Faither dear, I be a married woman. I had to tell lies and playfalse, but’t was to you an’ Mr. Grimbal I’ve been double,not to my husband that is. I was weak, and I’ve been punished sore,but—”

“Why, gal alive! what rigmarole ’s this? Married—ay,an’ so you shall be, in gude time. You ’m light-headed, lass, Ido b’lieve. But doan’t fret, I’ll haveDoctor—”

“Hear me,” she said, almost roughly. “I kept myword—my first sacred word—to Will. I loved him, an’ noneelse but him; an’ ’tis done—I’ve married him thismarnin’, for it had to be, an’ theer’s the sign an’token of it I’ve brought along with me.”

She drew the copy of the register from her pocket, opened it withtrembling fingers, set it before Mr. Lyddon, and waited for him to speak. Butit was some time before he found words or wind to do so. Literally the facthad taken his breath. A curious expression, more grin than frown—anexpression beyond his control in moments of high emotion—wrinkled hiseyelids, stretched his lips, and revealed the perfect double row of his falseteeth. His hand went forward to the blue paper now lying before him, then thefingers stopped half way and shook in the air. Twice he opened his mouth, butonly a sharp expiration, between a sigh and a bark, escaped.

“My God, you’ve shook the sawl of un!” cried Billy,starting forward, but the miller with an effort recovered hisself-possession, scanned the paper, dropped it, and lifted up his voice inlamentation.

“True—past altering—’t is a thing done! May Godforgive you for this wicked deed, Phoebe Lyddon—I’d never haveb’lieved it of ’e—never—not if an angel had tawld me.My awn that was, and my awnly one! My darter, my soft-eyed gal, the crown ofmy grey hairs, the last light of my life!”

“I pray you’ll come to forgive me in time, dear faither. Idoan’t ax ’e to yet a while. I had to do it—a faithfulpromise. ’T was for pure love, faither; I lied for him—lied evento you; an’ my heart ’s been near to breakin’ for ’ethese many days; but you’d never have listened if I’d told’e.”

“Go,” he said very quietly. “I caan’t abear thesight of’e just now. An’ that poor fule, as thrawed his money ingolden showers for ’e! Oh, my gude God, why for did ’E leave meany childern at all? Why didn’t ’E take this cross-hearted wanwhen t’ other was snatched away? Why didn’t ’E fill the cupof my sorrer to the brim at a filling an’ not drop by drop, to let unrun awver now I be auld?”

Phoebe turned to him in bitter tears, but the man’s head was down onhis hands beside his plate and cup, and he, too, wept, with a pitifulchildish squeak between his sobs. Weakness so overwhelming and sounexpected—a father’s sorrow manifested in this helpless femininefashion—tore the girl’s very heartstrings. She knelt beside himand put her arms about him; but he pushed her away and with some return ofself-control and sternness again bid her depart from him. This Phoebe did,and there was silence, while Mr. Lyddon snuffled, steadied himself, wiped hisface with a cotton handkerchief, and felt feebly for a pair of spectacles inhis pocket. Mr. Chapple, meantime, had made bold to scan the paper with roundeyes, and Billy, now seeing the miller in some part recovered, essayed tocomfort him.

“Theer, theer, maister, doan’t let this blackcome-along-o’t quench ’e quite. That’s better! You such aman o’ sense, tu! ’T was awver-ordained by Providence, though aartful thing in a young gal; but women be such itemy twoads best o’times—stage-players by sex, they sez; an’ when love for a man behid in ’em, gormed if they caan’t fox the God as made’em!”

“Her to do it! The unthankfulness, the cold cruelty of it! An’me that was mother an’ father both to her—that did rock hercradle with these hands an’ wash the li’l year-auld body of her.To forget all—all she owed! It cuts me that deep!”

“Deep as a wire into cheese, I lay. An’ well it may; buthan’t no new thing; you stablish yourself with that. The ways o’women ’s like—’t was a sayin’ of Solomon Icaan’t call home just this minute; but he knawed, you mind, nonebetter. He had his awn petticoat trouble, same as any other Christian mangiven to women. What do ’e say, neighbour?”

Billy, of opinion that Mr. Chapple should assist him in this painful duty,put the last question to his rotund friend, but the other, for answer, roseand prepared to depart.

“I say,” he answered, “that I’d best go up-alongand stop they chaps buildin’ the triumphant arch. ’Pearswon’t be called for now. An’ theer’s a tidy deal else to dolikewise. Folks was comin’ in from the Moor half a score o’ milesfor this merry-makin’.”

“’T is a practical thought,” said Billy. “Them ascome from far be like to seem fules if nothin’ ’s done. You go upthe village an’ I’ll follow ’e so quick as Ican.”

Mr. Chapple thereupon withdrew and Billy turned to the miller. Mr. Lyddonhad wandered once and again up and down the kitchen, then fallen into hiscustomary chair; and there he now sat, his elbows on his knees, his handsover his face. He was overwhelmed; his tears hurt him physically and his headthrobbed. Twenty years seemed to have piled themselves upon his brow in asmany minutes.

“Sure I could shed water myself to see you like this here,”said Mr. Blee, sympathetically; “but ’t is wan of them eternalcircumstances we ’m faaced with that all the rain falled of a wetwinter won’t wash away. Theer ’s the lines. They ’m a fact,same as the sun in heaven ’s a fact. God A’mighty’s Selfcouldn’t undo it wi’out some violent invention; an’ forthat matter I doan’t see tu clear how even Him be gwaine to magic amarried woman into a spinster again; any more than He could turn a spinsterinto a married woman, onless some ordinary human man came forrard. You mustfaace it braave an’ strong. But that imp o’ Satan—that damnBlanchard bwoy! Theer! I caan’t say what I think ’bout him. Arterall that’s been done: the guests invited, the banns axed out, thevictuals bought, and me retracin’ my ballet night arter night, for tendays, to get un to concert pitch—well, ’t is a matter tu deep formere speech.”

“The—the young devil! I shall have no pity—not a spark.I wish to God he could hang for it!”

“As to that, might act worse than leave it to Jan Grimbal.He’ll do summat ’fore you’ve done talkin’, if I knawun. An’ a son-in-law ’s a son-in-law, though he’ve broughtit to pass by a brigand deed same as this. ’T is a kicklish questionwhat a man should do to the person of his darter’s husband. You bidequiet an’ see what chances. Grimbal’s like to take law into hisawn hands, as any man of noble nature might in this quandary.”

The disappointed lover’s probable actions offered dreary food forthought, and the two old men were still conversing when a maid entered to laythe cloth for supper. Then Billy proceeded to the village and Mr. Lyddon,unnerved and restless, rambled aimlessly into the open air, addressed any manor woman who passed from the adjacent cottages, and querulously announced, tothe astonishment of chance listeners, that his daughter’s match wasbroken off.

An hour later Phoebe reappeared in the kitchen and occupied her usualplace at the supper-table. No one spoke a word, but the course of the mealwas suddenly interrupted, for there came a knock at the farmhouse door, andwithout waiting to be answered, somebody lifted the latch, tramped down thestone passage, and entered the room.

Now Phoebe, in the privacy of her little chamber beneath the thatch, hadreflected miserably on the spectacle of her husband far away in a prisoncell, with his curls cropped off and his shapely limbs clad convict-fashion.When, therefore, Will, and not John Grimbal, as she expected, stood beforeher, his wife was perhaps more astonished than any other body present. YoungBlanchard appeared, however. He looked weary and hungry, for he had been onhis legs during the greater part of the day and had forgotten to eat sincehis pretence of wedding-breakfast ten hours earlier. Now, newly returned fromExeter, he came straight to Monks Barton before going to his home.

Billy Blee was the first to find his voice before this sudden apparition.His fork, amply laden, hung in the air as though his arm was turned to stone;with a mighty gulp he emptied his mouth and spoke.

“Gormed if you ban’t the most ’mazin’ piece evercomed out o’ Chagford!”

“Miller Lyddon,” said Will, not heeding Mr. Blee, “I behere to say wan word ’fore I goes out o’ your sight. You saidyou’d have law of me if I took Phoebe; an’ that I done,’cause we was of a mind. Now we ’m man an’ wife, an’I’m just back from prison, wheer I went straight to save you trouble.But theer ’s preambles an’ writs an’ what not. I shall beto mother’s, an’ you can send Inspector Chown when you like. Ithad to come ’cause we was of a mind.”

He looked proudly at Phoebe, but departed without speaking to her, andsilence followed his going. Mr. Lyddon stared blankly at the door throughwhich Will departed, then his rage broke forth.

“Curse the wretch! Curse him to his dying day! An’ I’lldo more—more than that. What he can suffer he shall, and if I’vegot to pay my last shilling to get him punishment I’ll do it—mylast shilling I’ll pay.”

He had not regarded his daughter or spoken to her since his words at theirfirst meeting; and now, still ignoring Phoebe’s presence, he beganeagerly debating with Billy Blee as to what law might have power to do. Thegirl, wisely enough, kept silence, ate a little food, and then went quietlyaway to her bed. She was secretly overjoyed at Will’s return and nearpresence; but another visitor might be expected at any moment, and Phoebeknew that to be in bed before the arrival of John Grimbal would save her fromthe necessity of a meeting she much feared. She entered upon herwedding-night, therefore, while the voices below droned on, now rising, nowfalling; then, while she was saying her prayers with half her mind on them,the other half feverishly intent on a certain sound, it came. She heard theclink, clink of the gate, thrown wide open and now swinging backwards andforwards, striking the hasp each time; then a heavy step followed it, feetstrode clanging down the passage, and the bull roar of a man’s voicefell on her ear. Upon this she huddled under the clothes, but listened for asecond at long intervals to hear when he departed. The thing that hadhappened, however, since her husband’s departure and JohnGrimbal’s arrival, remained happily hidden from Phoebe until nextmorning, by which time a climax in affairs was past and the outcome of tragiccircumstances fully known.

When Blanchard left the farm, he turned his steps very slowly homewards,and delayed some minutes on Rushford Bridge before appearing to his mother.For her voice he certainly yearned, and for her strong sense to throw lightupon his future actions; but she did not know everything there was to beknown and he felt that with himself, when all was said, lay decision as tohis next step. While he reflected a new notion took shape and grew definedand seemed good to him.

“Why not?” he said to himself, aloud. “Why not go back?Seeing the provocation—they might surely—?” He pursued theidea silently and came to a determination. Yet the contemplated action wasnever destined to be performed, for now an accident so trifling as the chanceglimmer of a lucifer match contributed to remodel the scheme of his life andwholly shatter immediate resolutions. Craving a whiff of tobacco, withoutwhich he had been since morning, Will lighted his pipe, and the twinkle offlame as he did so showed his face to a man passing across the bridge at thatmoment. He stopped in his stride, and a great bellow of wrath escaped him,half savage, half joyful.

“By God! I didn’t think to meet so soon!”

Here was a red-hot raving Nemesis indeed; and Will, while prepared for aspeedy meeting with his enemy, neither expected nor desired an encounter justthen. But it had come, and he knew what was before him. Grimbal, justreturned from a long day’s sport, rode back to his hotel in a goodtemper. He drank a brandy-and-soda at the bar, then went up to his rooms andfound Phoebe’s letter; whereupon, as he was in muddy pink, he set offstraight for Monks Barton; and now he stood face to face with the man onearth he most desired to meet. By the light of his match Will saw a red coat,white teeth under a great yellow moustache, and a pair of mad, flaming eyes,hungry for something. He knew what was coming, moved quickly from the parapetof the bridge, and flung away his pipe to free his hands. As he did so theother was on him. Will warded one tremendous stroke from a hunting-crop; thenthey came to close quarters, and Grimbal, dropping his whip, got in a heavyhalf-arm blow on his enemy’s face before they gripped in holds. Theyounger man, in no trim for battle, reeled and tried to break away; but theother had him fast, picked him clean off the ground, and, getting in hisweight, used a Yankee throw, with intent to drop Will against the granite ofthe bridge. But though Blanchard went down like a child before the attack, hedisappeared rather than fell; and in the pitchy night it seemed as thoughsome amiable deity had caught up the vanquished into air. A sudden pressureof the low parapet against his own legs as he staggered forward, told JohnGrimbal what was done and, at the same moment, a tremendous splash in thewater below indicated his enemy’s dismal position. Teign, though not inflood at the time, ran high, and just below the bridge a deep pool openedout. Around it were rocks upon which rose the pillars of the bridge. No soundor cry followed Will Blanchard’s fall; no further splash of a swimmer,or rustle on the river’s bank, indicated any effort from him.Grimbal’s first instincts were those of regret that revenge had provedso brief. His desire was past before he had tasted it. Then for a moment hehesitated, and the first raving lust to kill Phoebe’s husband waned atrifle before the sudden conviction that he had done so. He crept down to theriver, ploughed about to find the man, questioning what he should do if hedid find him. His wrath waxed as he made search, and he told himself that heshould only trample Blanchard deeper into water if he came upon him. Hekicked here and there with his heavy boots; then abandoned the search andproceeded to Monks Barton.

Into the presence of the miller he thundered, and for a time said nothingof the conflict from which he had come. The scene needs no special narration.Vain words and wishes, oaths and curses, filled John Grimbal’s mouth.He stamped on the floor, finding it impossible to remain motionless, roaredthe others down, loaded the miller with bitter reproaches for his blindness,silenced Mr. Blee on every occasion when he attempted to join the discussion.The man, in fine, exhibited that furious, brute passion and rage to beexpected from such a nature suddenly faced with complete dislocation ofcherished hopes. His life had been a long record of success, and thistremendous reverse, on his first knowledge of it, came near to unhinge JohnGrimbal’s mind. Storm succeeded storm, explosion followed uponexplosion, and the thought of the vanity of such a display only rendered himmore frantic. Then chance reminded the raging maniac of that thing he haddone, and now, removed from the deed by a little time, he gloried in it.

“Blast the devil—short shrift he got—given straight intomy hand! I swore to kill him when I heard it; an’ I have—pitchedhim over the bridge and broken his blasted neck. I’d burn inragin’ hell through ten lifetimes to do it again. But that’s doneonce for all. And you can tell your whore of a daughter she’s a widow,not a wife!”

“God be gude to us!” cried Billy, while Mr. Lyddon started indismay. “Is this true you’m tellin’? Blue murder? An’so, like’s not, his awn mother’ll find un when she goes to drawwater in the marnin’!”

“Let her, and his sister, too; and my God-damned brother! All init—every cursed one of ’em. I’d like—I’dlike—Christ—”

He broke off, was silent for a moment, then strode out of the room towardsthe staircase. Mr. Lyddon heard him and rushed after him with Billy. Theyscrambled past and stood at the stair-foot while Grimbal glanced up in thedirection of Phoebe’s room, and then glared at the two old men.

“Why not, you doddering fools? Can you still stand by her, cursedjade of lies? My work’s only half done! No man’s ever betrayed mebut he’s suffered hell for it; and no woman shall.”

He raged, and the two with beating hearts waited for him.

Then suddenly laughing aloud, the man turned his back, and passed into thenight without more words.

“Mad, so mad as any zany!” gasped Mr. Blee. “Thank Godthe whim’s took un to go. My innards was curdlin’ aforehim!”

The extravagance of Grimbal’s rage had affected Mr. Lyddon also.With white and terrified face he crept after Grimbal, and watched thattornado of a man depart.

“My stars! He do breathe forth threatenings and slaughters worse’n in any Bible carater ever I read of,” said the miller,“and if what he sez be true—”

“I’ll wager ’t is. Theer ’s method in him. Yourson-in-law, if I may say it, be drownded, sure ’s death. What aworld!”

“Get the lanterns and call Sam Bonus. He must stand to this dooran’ let no man in while we ’m away. God send the chap ban’tdead. I don’t like for a long-cripple to suffer torture.”

“That’s your high religion. An’ I’ll carry thebrandy, for ’t is a liquor, when all ’s said, what ’s savedmore bodies in this world than it ’s damned sawls in the next,an’ a thing pleasant, tu, used with sense—specially if a man cansleep ’fore ’t is dead in un.”

“Hurry, hurry! Every minute may mean life or death. I’ll callBonus; you get the lanterns.”

Ten minutes later a huge labourer stood guard over Monks Barton, and themiller, with his man, entered upon their long and fruitless search. The thawhad come, but glimmering ridges of snow still outlined the bases ofnorthern-facing hedges along the river. With infinite labour and somedifficulty they explored the stream, then, wet and weary, returned by thesouthern bank to their starting-point at Rushford Bridge. Here Billy found acloth cap by the water’s edge, and that was the only evidence ofWill’s downfall. As they clambered up from the river Mr. Lyddon notedbright eyes shining across the night, and found that the windows of Mrs.Blanchard’s cottage were illuminated.

“They ’m waitin’ for him by the looks of it,” hesaid. “What ought us to do, I wonder?”

Billy never objected to be the bearer of news, good or ill, so that it wassensational; but a thought struck him at seeing the lighted windows.

“Why, it may be he’s theer! If so, then us might find Grimbaldidn’t slay un arter all. ’T was such a miz-maze o’ crookedwords he let fly ’pon us, that perhaps us misread un.”

“I wish I thought so. Come. Us can ax that much.”

A few minutes later they stood at Mrs. Blanchard’s door and knocked.The widow herself appeared, fully dressed, wide awake, and perfectlycollected. Her manner told Mr. Lyddon nothing.

“What might you want, Miller?”

“’T is Will. There’s bin blows struck and violence done,I hear.”

“I can tell ’e the rest. The bwoy’s paid his scorean’ got full measure. He wanted to be even with you, tu, but theywouldn’t let un.”

“If he ban’t dead, I’ll make him smart yet for his evilact.”

“I warned ’e. He was cheated behind his back, an’ playedwith the same cards what you did, and played better.”

“Wheer is he now? That’s what I want to knaw.”

“Up in the house. They met on the bridge an’ Grimbal bestedhim, Will bein’ weary an’ empty-bellied. When the man flinged himin the stream, he got under the arch behind the rocks afore he lost his headfor a time and went senseless. When he comed to he crawled up the croft and Ilet un in.”

“Thank God he’s not dead; but punishment he shall have iftheer’s justice in the land.”

“Bide your time. He won’t shirk it. But he’s hurtedproper; you might let Jan Grimbal knaw, ’t will ease hismind.”

“Not it,” declared Billy; “he thought he’d killedun; cracked the neck of un.”

“The blow ’pon his faace scatted abroad his left nostril; thefall brawked his arm, not his neck; an’ the spurs t’ other waswearin’ tored his leg to the bone. Doctor’s seen un; so tellGrimbal. Theer’s pleasure in such payment.”

She spoke without emotion, and showed no passion against the master of theRed House. When Will had come to her, being once satisfied in her immediatemotherly agony that his life was not endangered, she allowed her mind a sortof secret, fierce delight at his performance and its success in the mainissue. She was proud of him at the bottom of her heart; but before other eyesbore herself with outward imperturbability.

“You’ll keep the gal, I reckon?” she said quietly;“if you can hold hand off Will till he’m on his legs again,I’d thank you.”

“I shall do what I please, when I please; an’ my poor fule ofa daughter stops with me as long as I’ve got power to makeher.”

“Hope you’ll live to see things might have beenworse.”

“That’s impossible. No worse evil could have fallen upon me.My grey hairs a laughing-stock, and your awn brother’s hand in it. Heknawed well enough the crime he was committing.”

“You’ve a short memory, Miller. I lay Jan Grimbal knaws thereason if you doan’t. The worm that can sting does, if you tread on it.Gude-night to ’e.”

“An’ how do you find yourself now?” Billy inquired, ashis master and he returned to Monks Barton.

“Weary an’ sick, an’ filled with gall. Was it wrong tomake the match, do ’e think, seein’ ’t was all for love ofmy cheel? Was I out to push so strong for it? I seem I done right, despitethis awful mischance.”

“An’ so you did; an’ my feelin’s be the same asyours to a split hair, though I’ve got no language for em at thisunnatural hour of marnin’,” said Billy.

Then in silence, to the bobbing illumination of their lanterns, Mr. Lyddonand his familiar dragged their weary bodies home.

CHAPTER XI
LOVE AND GREY GRANITE

The lofty central area of Devon has ever presented a subject offascination to geologists; and those evidences of early man which adornDartmoor to-day have similarly attracted antiquarian minds for manygenerations past. But the first-named student, although his researches plungehim into periods of mundane time inconceivably more remote than that withwhich the archaeologist is concerned, yet reaches conclusions more definiteand arrives at a nearer approximation to truth than any who occupy themselvesin the same area with manifold and mysterious indications of earlyhumanity’s sojourn. The granite upheaval during that awful revolt ofmatter represented by the creation of Dartmoor has been assigned to a periodbetween the Carboniferous and Permian eras; but whether the womb of onecolossal volcano or the product of a thousand lesser eruptions threw forththis granite monster, none may yet assert. Whether Dartmoor first appeared asa mighty shield, with one uprising spike in its midst, or as a targetsupporting many separate bosses cannot be declared; for the original aspectof the region has long vanished, though our worn and weathered land of torsstill shadows, in its venerable desolation, those sublimer, more savageglories manifested ere the eye of man or beast existed to receive an image ofthem.

But the earliest human problems presented by Devon’s watershed admitof no sure solution, albeit they date from a time adjacent contrasted withthat wherein the land was born. Nature’s message still endures for manto read as his knowledge grows; but the records of our primal fellows havegrown dim and uncertain as the centuries rolled over them. There exists,however, within the lofty, lonely kingdom of the granite, a chain of humanevidences extending from prehistoric ages to the ruined shepherd’s cotof yesterday. At many spots a spectator may perceive in one survey the stoneruin of the Danmonian’s habitation, and hypaethral temple or forum, theheather-clad debris left by Elizabethan streamers of alluvial tin, the inkypeat-ridges from which a moorman has just cut his winter firing. But thefirst-named objects, with kindred fragments that have similarly endured,chiefly fire imagination. Seen grey at gloaming time, golden through sunnydawns, partaking in those spectral transformations cast upon the moor by themovement of clouds, by the curtains of the rain, by the silver of breakingday, the monotone of night and the magic of the moon, these relics revealthemselves and stand as a link between the present and the far past. Mysterybroods over them and the jealous wings of the ages hide a measure of theirsecret. Thus far these lonely rings of horrent stones and the alignmentsbetween them have concealed their story from modern man, and only in presenceof the ancient pound, the foundations of a dwelling, the monolith that markeda stone-man’s sepulchre, the robbed cairn and naked kistvaen, may wespeak with greater certainty and, through the glimmering dawn of history andthe records of Britain’s earliest foes, burrow back to aboriginal manon Dartmoor. Then research and imagination rebuild the eternal rings ofgranite and, erecting upon them tall domes of thatch and skins on wattleribs, conceive the early village like a cluster of gigantic mushrooms, whosecowls are uplifted in that rugged fastness through the night of time. We seePalaeolithic man sink into mother earth before the superior genius of hisNeolithic successor; and we note the Damnonian shepherds flourishing inlonely lodges and preserving their flocks from the wolf, while Egypt’spyramids were still of modern creation, and the stars twinkled in strangeconstellations, above a world innocent as yet of the legends that would namethem. The stone-workers have vanished away, but their labour endures; theirfabricated flints still appear, brought to light from barrows and peat-ties,from the burrows of rabbits and the mounds of the antiquary mole; the ruinsof their habitations, the theatres of their assemblies and unknown ceremoniesstill stand, and probably will continue so to do as long as Dartmoor’sbosom lies bare to the storm and stress of the ages.

Modern man has also fretted the wide expanse, has scratched its surfaceand dropped a little sweat and blood; but his mansion and his cot and hisgrave are no more; plutonic rock is the only tablet on which any human storyhas been scribbled to endure. Castles and manor-houses have vanished from themoorland confines like the cloudy palaces of a dream; the habitations of themining folk shall not be seen to-day, and their handiwork quickly returns toprimitive waste; fern and furze hide the robbed cairn and bury the shatteredcross; flood and lightning and tempest roam over the darkness of a regionsacred to them, and man stretches his hand for what Nature touches not; butthe menhir yet stands erect, the “sacred” circles are circlesstill, and these, with like records of a dim past, present to thinkingtravellers the crown and first glory of the Moor. Integral portions of theambient desolation are they—rude toys that infant humanity has left inMother Nature’s lap; and the spectacle of them twines a golden threadof human interest into the fabric of each lonely heath, each storm-scarredmountain-top and heron-haunted stream. Nothing is changed since skin-cladsoldiers and shepherds strode these wastes, felt their hearts quicken atsight of women, or their hands clench over celt-headed spears before danger.Here the babies of the stone-folk, as the boys and girls to-day, stainedtheir little mouths and ringers with fruit of briar and whortle; the lingbloomed then as now; the cotton-grass danced its tattered plume; the sphagnummosses opened emerald-green eyes in marsh and quaking bog; and hoary granitescattered every ravine and desert valley. About those aboriginal men the Moorspread forth the same horizon of solemn enfolding hills, and where twinklethe red hides of the moor-man’s heifers through upstanding fern, insunny coombs and hawthorn thickets, yesterday the stone-man’s cattleroamed and the little eyes of a hidden bear followed their motions. Here,indeed, the first that came in the flesh are the last to vanish in theirmemorials; here Nature, to whom the hut-circle of granite, all clad inTime’s lichen livery of gold and grey, is no older than the mushroomring shining like a necklace of pearls within it—Nature may follow whatcourse she will, may build as she pleases, may probe to the heart of things,may pursue the eternal Law without let from the pigmies; and here, ifanywhere from man’s precarious standpoint, shall he perceive theimmutable and observe a presentment of himself in those ephemera that danceabove the burn at dawn, and ere twilight passes gather up their gauze wingsand perish.

According to individual temperament this pregnant region attracts andfascinates the human spectator or repels him. Martin Grimbal loved Dartmoorand, apart from ties of birth and early memories, his natural predilectionsfound thereon full scope and play. He was familiar with most of thoseliterary productions devoted to the land, and now developed an ambition toadd some result of personal observation and research to extant achievements.He went to work with method and determination, and it was not untilrespectable accumulations of notes and memoranda already appeared as theresult of his labours that the man finally—almostreluctantly—reconciled himself to the existence of another and deeperinterest in his life than that furnished by the grey granite monuments of theMoor. Hide it from himself he could no longer, nor yet wholly from others. Asin wild Devon it is difficult at any time to escape from the murmur of watersunseen, so now the steady flood of this disquieting emotion made music at allwaking hours in Martin’s archaeologic mind, shattered his most subtletheories unexpectedly, and oftentimes swept the granite clean out of his headon the flood of a golden river.

After three months of this beautiful but disquieting experience, Martinresigned himself to the conclusion that he was in love with Chris Blanchard.He became very cautious and timid before the discovery. He feared much andcontemplated the future with the utmost distrust. Doubt racked him; hechecked himself from planning courses of conduct built on mad presumptions.By night, as a sort of debauch, in those hours when man is awake and fancyfree, he conceived of a happy future with Chris and little children abouthim; at morning light, if any shadow of that fair vision returned, he blushedand looked round furtively, as though some thought-reader’s cold eyemust be sneering at such presumption. He despaired of finding neutral groundfrom which his dry mind could make itself attractive to a girl. Now and againhe told himself that the new emotion must be crushed, in that it began tostand between him and the work he had set himself to do for his county; butduring more sanguine moods he challenged this decision and finally, as wasproper and right, the flood of the man’s first love drowned menhir andhut-circle fathoms deep, and demanded all his attention at the cost of mentalpeace. An additional difficulty appeared in the fact that the Blanchardfamily were responsible for John Grimbal’s misfortune; and Martin,without confusing the two circumstances, felt that before him really lay theproblem of a wife or a brother. When first he heard of the event that setChagford tongues wagging so briskly, he rightly judged that John would holdhim one of the conspirators; and an engagement to Chris Blanchard mustcertainly confirm the baffled lover’s suspicions and part the men forever. But before those words, as they passed through his brain, MartinGrimbal stopped, as the peasant before a shrine. “An engagement toChris Blanchard!” He was too much a man and too deep merged in love tohesitate before the possibility of such unutterable happiness.

For his brother he mourned deeply enough, and when the thousand rumoursbred of the battle on the bridge were hatched and fluttered over thecountryside, Martin it was who exerted all his power to stay them. Mostpeople were impressed with the tragic nature of the unfortunate John’sdisappointment; but his energetic measures since the event were held to payall scores, and it was believed the matter would end without any more troublefrom him. Clement Hicks entertained a different opinion, perhaps judging JohnGrimbal from the secrets of his own character; but Will expressed a livelyfaith that his rival must now cry quits, after his desperate and natural butunsuccessful attempt to render Phoebe a widow. The shattered youth took hisbroken bones very easily, and only grunted when he found that his wife wasnot permitted to visit him under any pretence whatever; while as for Phoebe,her wild sorrow gradually lessened and soon disappeared as each day brought abetter account of Will. John Grimbal vanished on the trip which was to havewitnessed his honeymoon. He pursued his original plans with the modificationthat Phoebe had no part in them, and it was understood that he would returnto Chagford in the spring.

Thus matters stood, and when his brother was gone and Will and Phoebe hadbeen married a month, Martin, having suffered all that love could domeantime, considered he might now approach the Blanchards. Ignorantly hepursued an awkward course, for wholly unaware that Clement Hicks felt anyinterest in Will and his sister beyond that of friendship, Martin sought fromhim the general information he desired upon the subject of Chris, her familyand concerns.

Together the two men went upon various excursions to ancient relics thatinterested them both, though in different measure. It was long before Martinfound courage to bring forth the words he desired to utter, but finally hemanaged to do so, in the bracing conditions that obtained on Cosdon Beaconupon the occasion of a visit to its summit. By this time he had grownfriendly with Hicks and must have learnt all and more than he desired to knowbut for the bee-keeper’s curious taciturnity. For some whim Clementnever mentioned his engagement; it was a subject as absent from hisconversation as his own extreme poverty; but while the last fact Martin hadalready guessed, the former remained utterly concealed from him. Neither didany chance discover it until some time afterwards.

The hut-circles on Cosdon’s south-eastern flank occupiedMartin’s pencil. Clement gazed once upon the drawing, then turned away,for no feeling or poetry inspired the work; it was merely very accurate. Thesketches made, both men ascended immense Cosdon, where its crown of cairnsfrets the long summit; and here, to the sound of the wind in the deadheather, with all the wide world of Northern Devon extended beneath his gazeunder a savage sunset, Martin found courage to speak. At first Hicks did nothear. His eyes were on the pageant of the sky and paid tribute of sad thoughtbefore an infinity of dying cloud splendours. But the antiquary repeated hisremark. It related to Will Blanchard, and upon Clement dropping amonosyllabic reply his companion continued:

“A very handsome fellow, too. Miss Blanchard puts me in mind ofhim.”

“They’re much alike in some things. But though Chris knows herbrother to be good to look at, you’ll never get Will to praise her.Funny, isn’t it? Yet to his Phoebe, she’s the sun to astar.”

“I think so too indeed. In fact, Miss Blanchard is the mostbeautiful woman I ever saw.”

Clement did not answer. He was gazing through the sunset at Chris, and ashe looked he smiled, and the sadness lifted a little from off his face.

“Strange some lucky fellow has not won her before now,”proceeded the other, glancing away to hide the blush that followed hisdiplomacy.

Here, by all experience and reason, and in the natural sequence of eventsClement Hicks might have been expected to make his confession and rejoice inhis prize, but for some cause, from some queer cross-current of disposition,he shut his mouth upon the greatest fact of his life. He answered, indeed,but his words conveyed a false impression. What sinister twist of mind wasresponsible for his silence he himself could not have explained; a meresenseless monkey-mischief seemed to inspire it. Martin had not deceived him,because the elder man was unused to probing a fellow-creature for facts orobtaining information otherwise than directly. Clement noted the falseintonation and hesitation, recollected his sweetheart’s allusion toMartin Grimbal, and read into his companion’s question somethingclosely akin to what in reality lay behind it. His discovery might have beenexpected to hasten rather than retard the truth, and a first impulse in anyman had made the facts instantly clear; but Clement rarely acted on impulse.His character was subtle, disingenuous, secretive. Safe in absolutepossession, the discovery of Martin’s attachment did not flutter him.He laughed in his mind; then he pictured Chris the wife of this man, reviewedthe worldly improvement in her position such a union must effect, and laughedno more. Finally he decided to hold his peace; but his motives for so doingwere not clear even to himself.

“Yes,” he answered, “but she’s not one to give herhand without her heart.”

These words, from Martin’s point of view, embraced a definiteassurance that Chris was free; and, as they walked homewards, he kept silenceupon this thought for the space of half an hour. The uneasy hopes and blackfears of love circled him about. Perhaps his timorous mind, in some moods,had been almost relieved at declaration of the girl’s engagement toanother. But now the tremendous task of storming a virgin heart lay ahead ofhim, as he imagined. Torments unfelt by those of less sensitive mould alsoawaited Martin Grimbal. The self-assertive sort of man, who rates himself asnot valueless, and whose love will not prevent callous calculation on theweight of his own person and purse upon the argument, is doubtless wise inhis generation, and his sanguine temperament enables him to escape oceans ofunrest, hurricanes of torment; but self-distrust and humility have theirvalue, and those who are oppressed by them fall into no such pitiable extremeas that too hopeful lover on whose sanguine ear “No” falls like athunderbolt from red lips that were already considered to have spoken“Yes.” A suitor who plunges from lofty peaks of assured victoryinto failure falls far indeed; but Martin Grimbal stood little chance ofsuffering in that sort as his brother John had done.

The antiquary spoke presently, fearing he must seem too self-absorbed, butClement had little to say. Yet a chance meeting twisted the conversationround to its former topic as they neared home. Upon Chagford Bridge appearedMiller Lyddon and Mr. Blee. The latter had been whitewashing the apple-treestems—a course to which his master attached more importance than thatpursued on Old Christmas Eve—and through the gathering dusk the trunksnow stood out livid and wan as a regiment of ghosts.

“Heard from your brother since he left?” Mr. Lyddon inquiredafter evening greetings.

“I cannot yet. I hope he may write, but you are more likely to hearthan I.”

“Not me. I’m nothing to un now.”

“Things will come right. Don’t let it prey on your mind. Nowoman ever made a good wife who didn’t marry where her heartwas,” declared Martin, exhibiting some ignorance of the subject hepresumed to discuss.

“Ah! you was ag’in’ us, I mind,” said the miller,drawing in. “He said as much that terrible night.”

“He was wrong—utterly. I only spoke for his good. I saw thatyour daughter couldn’t stand the sight of him and shivered if hetouched her. It was my duty to speak. Strange you didn’t seetoo.”

“So easy to talk afterwards! I had her spoken word, hadn’t I?She’d never lied in all her life afore. Strange if I had seen, Ireckon.”

“You frightened her into falsehood. Any girl might have beenexpected to lie in that position,” said Clement coolly; then Mr. Blee,who had been fretting to join the conversation, burst into it unbidden.

“Be gormed if I ban’t like a cat on hot bricks to hear’e! wan might think as Miller was the Devil hisself for cruelty insteado’ bein’, as all knaws, the most muty-hearted4 faither inChagford.”

“As to that, I doan’t knaw, Billy,” declared Mr. Lyddonstoutly; “I be a man as metes out to the world same measure as I getfrom the world. Right is right, an’ law is law; an’ if Idoan’t have the law of Will Blanchard—”

“There’s little enough you can do, I believe,” saidHicks; “and what satisfaction lies in it, I should like to know, ifit’s not a rude question?”

The old man answered with some bitterness, and explained his power.

“William Blanchard’s done abduction, according to LawyerBellamy of Plymouth; an’ abduction’s felony, and that’s abig thing, however you look ’pon it.”

“Long an’ short is,” cut in Billy, who much desired toair a little of his new knowledge, “that he can get a sentence insidethe limits of two years, with or without hard labour; at mercy of judge andjury. That’s his dose or not his dose, ’cording to the graciousgudeness of Miller.”

“Will’s nearly ready to go,” said Clement. “Lethis arm once be restored, and he’ll do your hard labour with a goodheart, I promise you. He wants to please Mr. Lyddon, and will tackle twomonths or two years or twenty.”

“Two an’ not a second less—with hard labour I’llwager, when all’s taken into account.”

“Why are you so hot, Billy Blee? You’re none theworse.”

“Billy’s very jealous for me, same as Elijah was for the Lardo’ Hosts,” said Mr. Lyddon.

Then Martin and Clement climbed the steep hill that lay between them andChagford, while the miller and his man pursued their way through thevalley.

CHAPTER XII
A STORY-BOOK

Despite the miller’s explicit declaration, there was yet a doubt asto what he might do in the matter of Will Blanchard. Six weeks is a period oftime that has often served to cool dispositions more fiery, purposes moreinflexible than those of Mr. Lyddon, and his natural placidity oftemperament, despite outbreaks, had begun to reassert itself. Billy Blee,misunderstanding his master in this, suspected that the first fires of ragewere now sunk into a conflagration, not so visible, but deeper and thereforemore dangerous to the sufferer, if not to other people. He failed to observethat each day of waiting lessened the miller’s desire towards action,and he continued to urge some step against Will Blanchard, as the only roadby which his master’s peace of mind might be regained. He went further,and declared delay to be very dangerous for Mr. Lyddon’s spleen andother physical organs. But though humanity still prevented any definite step,Billy’s master so far adopted his advice as to see a solicitor andlearn what the law’s power might be in the matter. Now he knew, as wasrecorded in the previous chapter; and still Mr. Lyddon halted between twoopinions. He usually spoke on the subject as he had spoken to Martin Grimbaland Clement Hicks; but in reality he felt less desire in the direction ofrevenge than he pretended. Undoubtedly his daughter contributed not a littleto this irresolution of mind. During the period of Will’sconvalescence, his wife conducted herself with great tact and self-restraint.Deep love for her father not only inspired her, but also smootheddifficulties from a road not easy. Phoebe kept much out of sight until themiller’s first dismay and sorrow had subsided; then she crept back intoher old position and by a thousand deft deeds and proper speeches won himagain unconsciously. She anticipated his unspoken desire, brightened hisevery-day life by unobtrusive actions, preserved a bright demeanour, nevermentioned Will, and never contradicted her father when he did so.

Thus the matter stood, and Mr. Lyddon held his hand until young Blanchardwas abroad again and seeking work. Then he acted, as shall appear. Beforethat event, however, incidents befell Will’s household, the first beingan unexpected visit from Martin Grimbal; for the love-sick antiquary nervedhimself to this great task a week after his excursion to Cosdon. He desiredto see Will, and was admitted without comment by Mrs. Blanchard. Thesufferer, who sat at the kitchen fire with his arm still in a sling, receivedMartin somewhat coldly, being ignorant of the visitor’s friendlyintentions. Chris was absent, and Will’s mother, after hoping that Mr.Grimbal would not object to discuss his business in the kitchen, departed andleft the men together.

“Sit down,” said Will. “Be you come for your brother oryourself?”

“For myself. I want to make my position clear. You must notassociate me with John in this affair. In most things our interests were thesame, and he has been a brother in a thousand to me; but concerningMiss—Mrs. Blanchard—he erred in my opinion—greatlyerred—and I told him so. Our relations are unhappily strained, to mysorrow. I tell you this because I desire your friendship. It would be good tome to be friends with you and your family. I do not want to lose your esteemby a misunderstanding.”

“That’s fair speech, an’ I’m glad to hear ’esay it, for it ban’t my fault when a man quarrels wi’ me, asanybody will tell ’e. An’ mother an’ Chris will be glad.God knaws I never felt no anger ’gainst your brother, till he tried totake my girl away from me. Flesh an’ blood weern’t gwaine tosuffer that.”

“Under the circumstances, and with all the difficulties of yourposition, I never could blame you.”

“Nor Phoebe,” said the other warmly. “I won’t havewan word said against her. Absolute right she done. I’m sick an’savage, even now, to think of all she suffered for me. I grits my teeth bynight when it comes to my mind the mort o’ grief an’ tearsan’ pain heaped up for her—just because she loved wan chapan’ not another.”

“Let the past go and look forward. The future will be happypresently.”

“In the long run ’t will for sure. Your brother’s gotall he wants, I reckon, an’ I doan’t begrudge him a twinge; but Ihope theer ban’t no more wheer that comed from, for his awn sake,’cause if us met unfriendly again, t’ other might go awver thebridge, an’ break worse ’n his arm.”

“No, no, Blanchard, don’t talk and think like that. Let thepast go. My brother will return a wiser man, I pray, with his greatdisappointment dulled.”

“A gert disappointment! To be catched out stealin’, an’shawed up for a thief!”

“Well, forgive and forget. It’s a valuable art—to learnto forget.”

“You wait till you ’m faaced wi’ such trouble, an’try to forget! But we ’m friends, by your awn shawm’, and I beglad ’t is so. Ax mother to step in from front the house, will’e? I’d wish her to know how we ’mstandin’.”

Mrs. Blanchard appeared with her daughter, and subsequent conversationbanished a haunting sense of disloyalty to his brother from Martin’smind. Chris never looked more splendid or more sweet than in that noon, newcome from a walk with Clement Hicks. Martin listened to her voice, stayed aslong as he dared, and then departed with many emotions breaking like a stormupon his lonely life. He began to long for her with overwhelming desire. Hehad scarcely looked at a woman till now, and this brown-eyed girl of twenty,so full of life, so beautiful, set his very soul helplessly adrift on the seaof love. Her sudden laugh, like Will’s, but softer and more musical,echoed in the man’s ear as he returned to his house and, in a ferment,tramped the empty rooms.

His own requirements had been amply met by three apartments, furnishedwith sobriety and great poverty of invention; but now he pictured Chrissinging here, tripping about with her bright eyes and active fingers. Likehis brother before him, he fell back upon his money, and in imagination spentmany pounds for one woman’s delight. Then from this dream he tumbledback into reality and the recollection that his goddess must be wooed andwon. No man ever yet failed to make love from ignorance how to begin, but theextent and difficulties of his undertaking weighed very heavily on MartinGrimbal at this juncture. To win even a measure of her friendship appeared atask almost hopeless. Nevertheless, through sleepless nights, he nervedhimself to the tremendous attempt. There was not so much ofself-consciousness in him, but a great store of self-distrust. Martin ratedhimself and his powers of pleasing very low; and unlike the tumultuous andvolcanic methods of John, his genius disposed him to a courtship of mosttardy development, most gradual ripening. To propose while a doubt existed ofthe answer struck him as a proceeding almost beyond the bounds of man’saudacity. He told himself that time would surely show what chance or hopethere might be, and that opportunity must be left to sneak from the battle atany moment when ultimate failure became too certainly indicated. In moresanguine moods, however, by moonlight, or alone on the high moors, greaterbravery and determination awoke in him. At such times he would decide topurchase new clothes and take thought for externals generally. He alsoplanned some studies in such concerns as pleased women if he could learn whatthey might be. His first deliberate if half-hearted attack relied for itseffect upon a novel. Books, indeed, are priceless weapons in the armory ofyour timid lover; and let but the lady discover a little reciprocity, developan unsuspected delight in literature, as often happens, and the most modestvolume shall achieve a practical result as far beyond its intrinsic merit asabove the writer’s dream.

Martin, then, primed with a work of fiction, prayed that Chris might provea reader of such things, and called at Mrs. Blanchard’s cottage exactlyone fortnight after his former visit. Chance favoured him to an extent beyondhis feeble powers to profit by. Will was out for a walk, and Mrs. Blanchardbeing also from home, Martin enjoyed conversation with Chris alone. He beganwell enough, while she listened and smiled. Then he lost his courage andlied, and dragging the novel from his pocket, asserted that he had bought thetale for her brother.

“A story-book! I doubt Will never read no such matter in his life,Mr. Grimbal.”

“But get him to try. It’s quite a new thing. There’s apoaching adventure and so forth—all very finely done according to thecritical journals.”

“He’ll never sit down to that gert buke.”

“You read it then, and tell him if it is good.”

“Me! Well, I do read now and again, an’ stories tu; but Willwouldn’t take my word. Now if Phoebe was to say ’t was braavereadin’, he’d go for it fast enough.”

“I may leave it, at any rate?”

“Leave it, an’ thank you kindly.”

“How is Will getting on?”

“Quite well again. Awnly riled ’cause Mr. Lyddon lies so low.Clem told us what the miller can do, but us doan’t knaw yet what hewill do.”

“Perhaps he doesn’t know himself,” suggested Martin. Thename of “Clem,” uttered thus carelessly by her, made him envious.Then, inspired by the circumstance, a request which fairly astounded thespeaker by its valour dropped on his listener’s ear.

“By the way, don’t call me ‘Mr. Grimbal.’ I hopeyou’ll let me be ‘Martin’ in a friendly way to you all, ifyou will be so very kind and not mind my asking.”

The end of the sentence had its tail between its legs, but he got thewords cleanly out, and his reward was great.

“Why, of course, if you’d rather us did; an’ you cancall me ‘Chris’ if you mind to,” she said, laughing.“’T is strange you took sides against your brother somehow tome.”

“I haven’t—I didn’t—except in the matter ofPhoebe. He was wrong there, and I told him so,—”

He meant to end the sentence with the other’s name, only the wordstuck in his throat; but “Miss Blanchard” he would not say, afterher permission, so left a gap.

“He’ll not forgive ’e that in a hurry.”

“Not readily, but some day, I hope. Now I must reallygo—wasting your precious time like this; and I do hope you may read thebook.”

“That Will may?”

“No—yes—both of you, in fact. And I’ll come toknow whether you liked it. Might I?”

“Whether Will liked it?”

She nodded and laughed, then the door hid her; while Martin Grimbal wenthis way treading upon air. Those labourers whom he met received from him sucha “Good evening!” that the small parties, dropping back onChagford from their outlying toil, grinned inquiringly, they hardly knew atwhat.

Meantime, Chris Blanchard reflected, and the laughter faded out of hereyes, leaving them grave and a little troubled. She was sufficiently familiarwith lovers’ ways. The bold, the uncouth, the humble, and timorous werealike within her experience. She watched this kind-faced man grow hot andcold as he spoke to her, noted the admixture of temerity and fear thatdivided his mind and appeared in his words. She had seen his lips tremble andrefuse to pronounce her name; and she rightly judged that he would possiblyrepeat it aloud to himself more than once before he slept that night. Chriswas no flirt, and now heartily regretted her light and friendly banter uponthe man’s departure. “I be a silly fule, an’ wouldn’twhisper a word of this to any but Clem,” she thought, “for it maybe nothing but the nervous way of un, an’ such a chap ’s a rightto seek a sight further ’n me for a wife; an’ yet they all’pear the same, an’ act the same soft sort o’ style whenthey ’m like it.” Then she considered that, seeing whatfriendship already obtained between Clement and Martin Grimbal, it wasstrange the latter still went in ignorance. “Anyways, if I’m notwrong, the sooner he ’m told the better, for he’s a properfashioned man,” she thought.

While Chris was still revolving this matter in her mind, Mrs. Blanchardreturned with some news.

“Postmistress stepped out of the office wi’ this as I corneddown the village,” she said. “’T is from Mrs. Watson, Ifancy.”

Her daughter brought a light, and the letter was perused. “Uncle’s took bad,” Mrs. Blanchard presently announced;“an’ sends to say as he wants me to go along an’ help SarahWatson nurse un.”

“Him ill! I never thought he was made of stuff to be ill.”

“I must go, whether or no. I’ll take the coach to Moretonto-morrow.”

Mrs. Blanchard mentally traversed her wardrobe as she drank tea, and hadalready packed in anticipation before the meal was ended. Will, on returning,was much perturbed at this bad news, for since his own marriage Uncle Fordhad become a hero among men to him.

“What’s amiss she doan’t say—Mrs. Watson—butit’s more ’n a fleabite else he wouldn’t take his bed. ButI hopes I’ll have un to rights again in a week or so. ’Mind me totake a bottle of last summer’s Marshmally brew, Chris. Doctors laugh atsuch physic, but I knaw what I knaw.”

“Wonder if’t would better him to see me?” musedWill.

“No, no; no call for that. You’ll be fit to stand to work byMonday, so mind your business an’ traapse round an’ look for it.Theer ’s plenty doin’ ’pon the land now, an’ I wantto hear you’ ve got a job ’fore I come home. Husbands must workfor two; an’ Phoebe’ll be on your hands come less than a coupleo’ years.”

“One year and five months and seven days ’t is.”

“Very well. You’ve got to mind a brace of things meantime; tomake a vitty home for her by the sweat of your body, an’ to keep yourhands off her till she ’m free to come to ’e.”

“Big things both, though I ban’t afeared of myself afore’em. I’ve thought a lot in my time, an’ be allowed to havesense an’ spirit for that matter.”

“Spirit, ess fay, same as your faither afore you; but not so muchsense as us can see wi’out lightin’ cannel.”

“Wonder if Uncle Joel be so warm a man as he’d have us thinksometimes of an evenin’ arter his hot whiskey an’ water?”said Chris.

“Don’t ’e count on no come-by-chance from him.He’s got money, that I knaw, but ban’t gwaine to pass our way,for he tawld me so in as many words. Sarah Watson will reap what he’ssawed; an’ who shall grumble? He ’m a just man, though not of theaccepted way o’ thinkin’.”

“Why for didn’t he marry her?” asked Will.

“Caan’t tell’e, more’n the dead. Just a whim. Iasked her same question, when I was last to Newton, an’ she said’t was to save the price of a licence she reckoned, though in his wayof life he might have got matrimony cheap as any man. But theer ’t is.Her ’s bin gude as a wife to un—an’ better ’nmany—this fifteen year.”

“A very kind woman to me while I was biding along with uncle,”said Will. “All the same you should have some of the money.”

“I’m well as I be. An’ this dead-man-shoe talk’svain an’ giddy. I lay he’m long ways from death, an’ thefurther the better. Now I be gwaine to pack my box ’foresupper.”

Mrs. Blanchard withdrew, and Chris, suddenly recollecting it, mentionedMartin Grimbal’s visit. Will laughed and read a page or two of thestory-book, then went out of doors to see Clement Hicks; and his sister, witha spare hour before her while a rabbit roasted, sat near the spit andoccupied her mind with thought.

Will’s business related to himself. He was weary of waiting for Mr.Lyddon, and though he had taken care to let Phoebe know by Chris that his armwas well and strong enough for the worst that might be found for it to do, nonotice was taken of his message, no sign escaped the miller.

All interested persons had their own theories upon this silence. Mrs.Blanchard suspected that Mr. Lyddon would do nothing at all, and Will readilyaccepted this belief; but he found it impossible to wait with patience forits verification. This indeed was the harder to him because Clement Hickspredicted a different issue and foretold an action of most malignant sort onthe miller’s part. What ground existed for attributing any such deed toMr. Lyddon was not manifest, but the bee-keeper stuck to it that Will’sfather-in-law would only wait until he was in good employment and thenproceed to his confusion.

This conviction he now repeated.

“He’s going to make you smart before he’s done with you,if human nature’s a factor to rely upon. It’s clear tome.”

“I doan’t think so ill of un. An’ yet I ban’twishful to leave it to chance. You, an’ you awnly, knaw what lies hidin the past behind me. The question is, should I take that into account now,or go ahead as if it never had failed out?”

“Let it alone, as it has let you alone. Never rake it up again, andforget it if you can. That’s my advice to you. Forget youever—”

“Hush!” said Will. “I’d rather not hear the word,even ’pon your lips.”

They then discussed the main matter from the opposite vantage-grounds ofminds remote in every particular; but no promising procedure suggested itselfto either man, and it was not until upon his homeward way that Will, unaided,arrived at an obvious and very simple conclusion. With some glee he welcomedthis idea.

“I’ll just wait till Monday night,” he said to himself,“an’ then I’ll step right down to Miller, an’ ax unwhat’s in the wind, an’ if I can help his hand. Then he mustspeak if he’s a man.”

CHAPTER XIII
THE MILLER’S OFFER

Will, followed his determination and proceeded to Monks Barton on thefollowing Monday evening, at an hour when he knew that Mr. Lyddon would havefinished supper and be occupied about a pipe or a game of cards with Mr.Blee. The old men occasionally passed an hour at “oaks” or“cribbage” before retiring, but on this occasion they wereengaged in conversation, and both looked up with some surprise when Blanchardappeared.

“You—you here again!” said the miller, and his mouthremained slightly open after the words.

“You ’m allus setting sober hair on end—blessed if youain’t!” was Billy’s comment.

Will, for his part, made no introductory speeches, but went straight tothe point.

“Theer’s my arm,” he said, thrusting it out before him.“’T is mended so neat that Doctor Parsons says no Lunnonbone-setter could have done it better. So I’ve comed just to saytheer’s no call for longer waitin’. ’T was a sportsmanlikething in you, Miller Lyddon, to bide same as you did; and now, if you’dset the law movin’ an’ get the job out o’ hand, I’dthank you kindly. You see, if they put me in for two year, ’t willleave mighty li’l time to get a home ready for Phoebe against the dayshe comes of age.”

“You needn’t be at any trouble about that.”

“But I shall be. Do ’e think my wife’s gwaine to be anydiffer’nt to lesser folks? A home she’ll have, an’ abraave, vitty home, tu, though I’ve got to sweat blood for it. So ifyou’d take your bite so soon as convenient, you’d sarveme.”

“I doan’t say you ’m axin’ anythingonreasonable,” said Mr. Lyddon, thoughtfully. “An’ whatmight you think o’doin, when you comes out o’ prison?”

“First gude work that offers.”

“Maybe you doan’t kuaw that chaps whose last job was on thetreadmill finds it uncommon hard to get another?”

“Depends what they was theer for, I should reckon, Miller”

“Not a bit of it. Gaol-birds is all feathered alike inside clink,an’ honest men feathers ’em all alike when they come out,”declared Will’s father-in-law.

“A sheer Cain, as no man will touch by the hand—that’swhat you’ll be,” added Billy, without apparent regret.

“If that’s so,” said Will, very calmly,“you’d best to think twice ’fore you sends me. I’vedone a high-handed deed, bein’ forced into the same by happenings herewhen I went off last summer; but ’t is auld history now. I’d liketo be a credit to ’e some time, not a misery for all time. Whynot—?” He was going to suggest a course of action more favourableto himself than that promised; but it struck him suddenly that any attitudeother than the one in which he had come savoured of snivelling for mercy. Sohe stopped, left a break of silence, and proceeded with less earnestness inhis voice.

“You’ve had a matter of eight weeks to decide in, so I thoughtI might ax’e, man to man, what’s gwaine to be done.”

“I have decided,” said the miller coldly; “I decided aweek ago.”

Billy started and his blue eyes blinked inquiringly. He sniffed hissurprise and said “Well!” under his breath.

“Ess, ’t is so, I didn’t tell ’e, Blee,’cause I reckoned you’d try an’ turn me from my purpose,which wasn’t to be done.”

“Never—not me. I’m allus in flat agreement with’e, same as any wise man finds hisself all times.”

“Well, doan’t ’e take it ill, me keepin’ it tomyself.”

“No, no—awnly seem’ how—”

“If it ’s all the same,” interrupted Will,“I’d like to knaw what you ’m gwaine for to do.”

“I’m gwaine to do nort, Will Blanchard—nort at all. GodHe knaws you ’ve wronged me, an’ more ’n me, an’her—Phoebe—worst of all; but I’ll lift no handag’in’ you. Bide free an’ go forrard your awnway—”

“To the Dowl!” concluded Billy.

There was a silence, then Will spoke with some emotion.

“You ’m a big, just man, Miller Lyddon; an’ if theer wasanything could make me sorry for the past—which theerban’t—’t would be to knaw you’ve forgivedme.”

“He ain’t done no such thing!” burst out Mr. Blee.“Tellin’ ’e to go to the Dowl ban’t forgivin’of ’e!”

“That was your word,” answered Will hotly, “an’ ifyou didn’t open your ugly mouth so wide, an’ shaw such a’mazing poor crop o’ teeth same time, me an’ Miller mightcome to onderstanding. I be here to see him, not you.”

“Gar! you ’m a beast of a bwoy, looked at anyhow, an’ Iwouldn’t have no dealin’s with ’e for money,” snortedthe old man.

“Theer we’ll leave it then, Blanchard,” said Mr. Lyddon,as Will turned his back upon the last speaker without answering him.“Go your way an’ try to be a better man; but doan’t ax meto forget what ’s passed—no, nor forgive it, not yet. I’llcome to a Christian sight of it some day, God willin’; but it ’sall I can say that I bear you no ill-will.”

“An’ I’m beholden enough for that. You wait an’keep your eye on me. I’ll shaw you what’s in me yet. I’llsurprise ’e, I promise. Nobody in these paarts ’cept mother,knaws what ’s in me. But, wi’out boastful words, I’ll proveit. Because, Miller, I may assure ’e I’m a man as have thought alot in my time ’bout things in general.”

“Ess, you’m a deep thinker, I doan’t doubt. Now best togo; an’, mind, no dealins wi’ Phoebe, for that I won’tstand.”

“I’ve thought that out, tu. I’ll give ’e my wordof honour ’pon that.”

“Best to seek work t’other side the Moor, if you ax me. Thenyou’ll be out the way.”

“As to that, I’d guessed maybe Martin Grimbal, as have proveda gert friend to me an’ be quite o’ my way o’ thinking,might offer garden work while I looked round. Theer ban’t a sparko’ pride in me—tu much sense, I hope, for that.”

The miller sighed.

“You’ve done a far-reachin’ thing, as hits a man fromall sorts o’ plaaces, like the echo in Teign Valley. I caan’t seeno end to it yet.”

“Martin Grimbal’s took on Wat Widdicombe, so you needn’tfule yourself he’ll give ’e work,” snapped Mr. Blee.

“Well, theer be others.”

And then that sudden smile, half sly, half sweet, leapt to Will’seyes and brightened all his grave face, as the sun gladdens a grey sky afterrain.

“Look now, Miller Lyddon, why for shouldn’t you, the biggestman to Chagford, give me a bit of work? I ban’t no caddlin’5chap, an’ for you—by God, I’d dig a mountain flat if youaxed me!”

“Well, I be gormed!” gasped Billy. It was a condition, thoughwhether physical or mental he only knew, to which Will reduced Mr. Blee uponevery occasion of their meeting.

“You hold your jaw an’ let me talk to Mr. Lyddon. ’Tislike this, come to look at it: who should work for ’e same as what Iwould? Who should think for my wife’s faither wi’ more of hisheart than me? I’d glory to do a bit of work for ’e—aye, Iwould so, high or low; an’ do it in a way to make you rub youreyes!”

Billy saw the first-formed negative die still-born on his master’slips. He began to cry out volubly that Monks Barton was over-manned, and thatscandal would blast every opening bud on the farm if such a thing happened.Will glared at him, and in another moment Mr. Blee might have sufferedphysically had not the miller lifted his hand and bid both be silent.

For a full minute no man spoke, while in Mr. Lyddon’s mind proceededa strange battle of ideas. Will’s audacity awakened less resentmentthan might have been foreseen. The man had bent before the shock of hisdaughter’s secret marriage and was now returning to his customarymental condition. Any great altitude of love or extremity of hate was beyondMr. Lyddon’s calibre. Life slipped away and left his forehead smooth.Sorrow brought no great scars, joy no particular exaltation. This temperamenthe had transmitted to Phoebe; and now she came into his mind and largelyinfluenced him. A dozen times he opened his mind to say “No,” butdid not say it. Personal amiability could hardly have overcome naturaldislike of Blanchard at such a moment, but the unexpected usually happenswhen weak natures are called upon to make sudden decisions; and though suchmay change their resolve again and again at a later date and before newaspects of the problem, their first hasty determination will often be thelast another had predicted from them.

A very curious result accrued from Mr. Lyddon’s mental conflict, andit was reached by an accidental train of thought. He told himself that hisconclusion was generous to the extreme of the Christian ideal; he assuredhimself that few men so placed had ever before acted with such notablemagnanimity; but under this repeated mental asseveration there spoke anothervoice which he stifled to the best of his power. The utterance of thismonitor may best be judged from what followed.

“If I gave you work you’d stand to it, Will Blanchard?”he asked at length.

“Try me!”

“Whatsoever it might be?”

“Try me. Ban’t for me to choose.”

“I will, then. Come to-morrow by five, an’ Billy shall show’e what’s to do.”

It would be difficult to say which, of those who heard the miller’sresolve received it with most astonishment. Will’s voice was almosttremulous.

“You’ll never be sorry, never. I couldn’t have hopedsuch a thing. Caan’t think how I comed to ax it. An’yet—but I’ll buckle to anything and everything, so help me.I’ll think for ’e an’ labour for ’e as no hirelingthat was ever born could, I will. An’ you’ve done a big,grand-fashion thing, an’ I’m yours, body an’ bones, for it;an’ you’ll never regret it.”

The young man was really moved by an issue so unexpected. He had utteredhis suggestion on the spur of the moment, as he uttered most things, and sucha reception argued a greatness of heart and generosity of spirit quiteunparalleled in his experience. So he departed wishing all good on Mr. Lyddonand meaning all good with his whole soul and strength.

When he had gone the miller spoke; but contrary to custom, he did not lookinto Mr. Blee’s face while so doing.

“You’m astonished, Billy,” he said, “an’ sobe I, come to think of it. But I’m gettin’ tu auld to fret mylife away with vain strife. I be gwaine to prove un. He’d stand toanything, eh? ’Twas his word.”

“An’ well he might.”

“Can ’e picture Blanchard cleaning out the pigs’house?”

“No fay!”

“Or worse?”

“Ah!”

They consulted, and it presently appeared that Mr. Lyddon deliberatelydesigned to set Will about the most degrading task the farm couldfurnish.

“’Twill sting the very life of un!” said Billygleefully, and he proceeded to arrange an extremely trying programme for WillBlanchard.

“Doan’t think any small spite leads me to this way of dealingwith un,” explained Mr. Lyddon, who knew right well that it was so.“But ’tis to probe the stuff he’s made of. Nothing shouldbe tu hard for un arter what he’ve done, eh?”

“You’m right. ’Tis true wisdom to chastise the man thisway if us can, an’ shake his wicked pride.”

Billy’s genius lent itself most happily to this scheme. He applaudedthe miller’s resolution until his master himself began to believe thatthe idea was not unjust; he ranged airily, like a blue-fly, from oneagglomeration of ordure to another; and he finally suggested a task, notnecessary to dwell on, but which reached the utmost height or depth oforiginality in connection with such a subject. Mr. Lyddon laboured under someshadow of doubt, but he quickly agreed when his man reminded him of the pastcourse of events.

“’Tis nothin’, when all’s said. Who’d doubtif he’d got to choose between that or two year in gaol? He’mlucky, and I’ll tell un so come the marnin’.”

Thus matters were left, and the miller retired in some secret shame, forhe had planned an act which, if great in the world’s eye, had yet adark side from his own inner view of it; but Mr. Blee suffered no pang fromconscience upon the question. He heartily disliked Blanchard, and hecontemplated the morrow with keen satisfaction. If his sharp tongue had powerto deepen the wound awaiting Will’s self-respect, that power wouldcertainly be exercised.

Meantime the youth himself passed homeward in a glow of admiration for Mr.Lyddon.

“I’d lay down my life smilin’ for un,” he toldChris, who was astounded at his news. “I’ll think for un,an’ act for un, till he’ll feel I’m his very right hand.An’ if I doan’t put a spoke in yellow Billy’s wheel, callme a fule. Snarling auld swine! But Miller! Theer’s gude workin’religion in that man; he’m a shining light for sartain.”

They talked late upon this wondrous turn of fortune, then Will recollectedhis mother and nothing would serve but that he wrote instantly to tell her ofthe news.

“It’ll cheer up uncle, tu, I lay,” he said.

“A letter comed while you was out,” answered Chris;“he’m holding his awn, but ’tis doubtful yet how things begwaine to fare in the upshot.”

“Be it as ’twill, mother can do more ’n any other livingwoman could for un,” declared Will.

CHAPTER XIV
LOGIC

As Mr. Blee looked out upon a grey morning, the sallows leaping fromsilver to gold, from bud to blossom, scattered brightness through the dawn,and the lemon catkins of the hazel, the russet tassels of alders, broughtlight along the river, warmth into the world. A bell beat five from ChagfordChurch tower, and the notes came drowsily through morning mists. Then quicksteps followed on the last stroke of the hour and Will stood by Billy’sside in Monks Barton farmyard. The old man raised his eyes from contemplationof a spade and barrow, bid Blanchard “Good morning” withsimulated heartiness, and led the way to work, while Will followed, bringingthe tools. They passed into a shrubbery of syringa bushes twenty yardsdistant, and the younger man, whose humour had been exceedingly amiable untilthat moment, now flushed to his eyes before the spectacle of his labour.

“Do ’e mean that Miller’s got nothin’ for me to dobut this?”

“Plenty, plenty, I ’sure ’e; but that ban’t yourbusiness, be it? Theer’s the work, an’ I’d rather’twas yourn than mine. Light your pipe an’ go ahead. Not a purtyjob, more ’tis; but beggars mustn’t be choosers in this hardworld.”

Billy bolted after these remarks. He heard a growl behind him, but did notlook round. Half an hour later, he crept back again by a circuitous route,watched Will awhile unseen, then stole grinning away to milk the cows.

The young man, honestly thunderstruck at the task planned for him, judgedthat thinking would not mend matters, and so began to work quickly withoutstopping to reflect. But his thoughts could not be controlled, any more thanhis disposition changed. A growing consciousness of deep and deliberateinsult surged up in him. The more he brooded the slower he worked, andfinally anger mastered determination. He flung down his spade, saluted a redsunrise with the worst language at his command, and strode down to the river.Here, for some time and until blue smoke began to climb from the kitchenchimney of the farm, Will paced about; then with a remarkable effort returnedto his task. He actually started again, and might have carried the matter tocompletion; but an evil demon was abroad, and Billy, spying the young man atwork anew, reappeared.

“You’m makin’ poor speed, my son,” he said,viewing the other’s progress with affected displeasure.

It proved enough, for Will’s smouldering fires were ready to leap atany fuel.

“Go to blue, blazing hell!” he cried. “You’m atthe bottom of this business, I’ll lay a pound. Get out o’ mysight, you hookem-snivey auld devil, or I’ll rub your dirty ginger pollin it, sure’s death!”

“My stars! theer’s crooked words! Do ’e try an’keep tighter hand on your temper, Blanchard. A man should knaw hisselfanyways ’fore he has the damn fulishness to take a wife. An’ ifyou ax me—”

Mr. Blee’s remarks were here brutally arrested, for the contents ofWill’s spade saluted his furrowed features, and quite obliterated theold man. He fled roaring, and the other flung his spade twenty yards away,overturned his wheelbarrow, and again strode to the river. He was fairlybubbling and boiling now, nor did the business of cleaning gaiters and boots,arms and hands, restore him to peace. A black pig gazed upon him and gruntedas he came up from the water. It seemed to him a reincarnation of Billy, andhe kicked it hard. It fled screaming and limping, while Will, his rage atfull flood, proceeded through the farmyard on his way home. But here, byunhappy chance, stood Mr. Lyddon watching his daughter feed the fowls. Herhusband ran full upon Phoebe, and she blushed in a great wave of joy untilthe black scowl upon his face told her that something was amiss. His evidentanger made her start, and the involuntary action upset her bowl of grain. Fora moment she stood motionless, looking upon him in fear, while at her feetfought and struggled a cloud of feathered things around the yellow corn.

“If you’ve done your job, Will, may’st come and shaakePhoebe by the hand,” said Mr. Lyddon nervously, while he pretended notto notice the other’s passion.

“I haven’t done it; and if I had, is a scavenger’s handfit to touch hers?” thundered Blanchard. “I thought you was a manto swear by, and follow through thick an’ thin,” he continued,“but you ban’t. You’m a mean, ill-minded sawl, as wouldtrample on your awn flesh an’ blood, if you got the chance. Do your awndirty work. Who be I that you should call on me to wallow in filth to pleaseyour sour spite?”

“You hear him, you hear him!” cried out the miller, now angryenough himself. “That’s how I’m sarved for returnin’gude to his evil. I’ve treated un as no man else on God’s airthwould have done; and this is what I gets. He’s mad, an’that’s to speak kind of the wretch!”

The young wife could only look helplessly from one to the other. Thatmorning had dawned very brightly for her. A rumour of what was to happenreached her on rising, but the short-lived hope was quickly shattered, andthough she had not seen him since their wedding-day, Phoebe was stung intobitterness against Will at this juncture. She knew nothing of particulars,but saw him now pouring harsh reproaches on her father, and paying themiller’s unexampled generosity with hard and cruel words. So she spoketo her husband.

“Oh, Will, Will, to say such things! Do ’e love me no better’n that? To slight dear faither arter all he’sforgiven!”

“If you think I’m wrong, say it, Phoebe,” he answeredshortly. “If you’m against me, tu—”

“‘Against you!’ How can you speak so?”

“No matter what I say. Be you on his side or mine? ’CauseI’ve a right to knaw.”

“Caan’t ’e see ’twas faither’s gert, braave,generous thought to give ’e work, an’ shaw a lesson of gudeness?An’ then we meet again—”

“Ess fay—happy meetin’ for wife an’ husband, me upto the eyes in—Theer, any fule can see ’twas done a purpose toshame me.”

“You’re a fule to say it! ’Tis your silly pride’sgwaine to ruin all your life, an’ mine, tu. Who’s to help you ifyou’ve allus got the black monkey on your shoulder like thishere?”

“You’m a overbearin’, headstrong madman,” summedup the miller, still white with wrath; “an’ I’ve done with’e now for all time. You’ve had your chance an’ thrawed itaway.”

“He put this on me because I was poor an’ withoutwork.”

“He didn’t,” cried the girl, whose emotions for a momenttook her clean from Will to her father. “He never dreamed o’doin’ any such thing. He couldn’t insult a beggar-man; an’you knaw it. ’Tis all your ugly, wicked temper!”

“Then I’ll take myself off, an’ my temper, tu,”said Will, and prepared to do so; while Mr. Lyddon listened to husband andwife, and his last hope for the future dwindled and died, as he heard themquarrel with high voices. His daughter clung to him and supported his action,though what it had been she did not know.

“Caan’t ’e see you’re breakin’faither’s heart all awver again just as ’twasmendin’?” she said. “Caan’t ’e sing smaller, if’tis awnly for thought of me? Doan’t, for God’s love, flingaway like this.”

“I met un man to man, an’ did his will with a gude thankfulheart, an’ comed in the dawn to faace a job as—”

“’Tweren’t the job, an’ you knaw it,” brokein Mr. Lyddon. “I wanted to prove ’e an’ all your finepromises; an’ now I knaw their worth, an’ your worth. An’ Icurse the day ever my darter was born in the world, when I think she’myour wife, an’ no law can break it.”

He turned and went into the house, and Phoebe stood alone with herhusband.

“Theer!” cried Will. “You’ve heard un. That was inhis heart when he spoke me so fair. An’ if you think like he do, sayit. Lard knaws I doan’t want ’e no more, if you doan’t wantme!”

“Will! How can you! An’ us not met since our marriage-day. Butyou’m cruel, cruel to poor faither.”

“Say so, an’ think so; an’ b’lieve all they tell’e ’gainst your lawful husband; an’ gude-bye. Ifyou’m so poor-spirited as to see your man do thicky work, you choosedwrong. Not that ’tis any gert odds. Stop along wi’ your faitheras you loves so much better ’n me. An’ doan’t you fearI’ll ever cross his threshold again to anger un, for I’d ratherblaw my brains out than do it.”

He shook and stuttered with passion; his eyes glowed, his lips changedfrom their natural colour to a leaden blue. He groped for the gate when hereached it, and passed quickly out, heedless of Phoebe’s sorrowful cryto him. He heard her light step following and only hastened his speed foranswer. Then, hurrying from her, a wave of change suddenly flowed upon hisfurious mind, and he began to be very sorry. Presently he stopped and turned,but she had stayed her progress by now, and for a moment’s space stoodand watched him, bathed in tears. At the moment when he hesitated and lookedback, however, his wife herself had turned away and moved homewards. Had shebeen standing in one place, Will’s purposes would perchance have fadedto air, and his arm been round her in a moment; but now he only saw Phoeberetreating slowly to Monks Barton; and he let her go.

Blanchard went home to breakfast, and though Chris discovered thatsomething was amiss, she knew him too well to ask any questions. He ate insilence, the past storm still heaving in a ground-swell through his mind.That his wife should have stood up against him was a sore thought. Itbewildered the youth utterly, and that she might be ignorant of all detailsdid not occur to him. Presently he told his wrongs to Chris, and grew veryhot again in the recital. She sympathised deeply, held him right to be angry,and grew angry herself.

“He ’m daft,” she said, “an’ I’d thinkharder of him than I do, but that he’s led by the nose. ’Twasthat auld weasel, Billy Blee, gived him the wink to set you on a task heknawed you’d never carry through.”

“Theer’s truth in that,” said Will; then he recollectedhis last meeting with the miller’s man, and suddenly roared withlaughter.

“’Struth! What a picter he was! He agged an’ agged at metill I got fair mad, an’—well, I spiled his meal, I dob’lieve.”

His merriment died away slowly in a series of long-drawn chuckles. Then helighted his pipe, watched Chris cleaning the cups and plates, and grew glumagain.

“’Twas axin’ me—a penniless chap; that was thedevil of it. If I’d been a moneyed man wi’out compulsion to work,then I’d have been free to say ‘No,’ an’ no harmdone. De’e follow?”

“I’m thankful you done as you did. But wheer shall ’eturn now?”

“Doan’t knaw. I’ll lay I’ll soon findwork.”

“Theer’s some of the upland farms might be wantingharrowin’ an’ seed plantin’ done.”

“Who’s to Newtake, Gran’faither Ford’s auldplaace, I wonder?”

“’Tis empty. The last folks left ’fore you went away.Couldn’t squeeze bare life out of it. That’s the fourth party ashave tried an’ failed.”

“Yet gran’faither done all right.”

“He was a wonnerful man of business, an’ lived on a straw aday, as mother says. But the rest—they come an’ go an’ justbury gude money theer to no better purpose than the gawld at a rainbowfoot.”

“Well, I’ll go up in the village an’ look around beforeMiller’s got time to say any word against me. He’ll spoil mymarket if he can, I knaw.”

“He’d never dare!”

“I’d have taken my oath he wouldn’t essterday. Now Ithink differ’nt. He never meant friendship; he awnly wanted for me tosmart. Clem Hicks was right.”

“Theer’s Mr. Grimbal might give ’e work, I think. Goan’ ax un, an’ tell un I sent ’e.”

A moment later Chris was sorry she had made this remark.

“What be talkin’ ’bout?” Will asked bluntly.“Tell un you sent me?”

“Martin wants to be friends.”

“‘Martin,’ is it?”

“He axed me to call un so.”

“Do he knaw you’m tokened to Clem?”

“Caan’t say. It almost ’peared as if he didn’tlast time he called.”

“Then sooner he do the better. Axed you to call un’Martin’!”

He stopped and mused, then spoke again.

“Our love-makin’s a poor business, sure enough. I’ve gotwhat I wanted an’, arter this marnin’, could ’most find itin me to wish my cake was dough again; an’ you—you ain’tgot what you want, an’ ban’t no gert sign you will, forClem’s the weakest hand at turnin’ a penny ever I met.”

“I’ll wait for un, whether or no,” said Chris, fiercely.“I’ll wait, if need be, till we’m both tottling auldmumpheads!”

“Ess; an’ when Martin Grimbal knaws that is so, ’twillbe time enough to ax un for work, I dare say,—not sooner. Better heshould give Clem work than me. I’d thought of him myself, for thatmatter.”

“I’ve axed Clem to ax un long ago, but hewon’t.”

“I’ll go and see Clem right away. ’Tis funny he neverlet the man knaw ’bout you. Should have been the first thing he tawldun.”

“Perhaps he thought ’twas so far off that—”

“Doan’t care what he thought. Weern’t plaindealin’ to bide quiet about that, an’ I shall tell unso.”

“Well, doan’t ’e quarrel with Clem. He’m’bout the awnly friend you’ve got left now.”

“I’ve got mother an’ you. I’m all right. I can seeas straight as any man, an’ all my brain-work in the past ban’tgwaine to be wasted ’cause wan auld miller fellow happens to put a meantrick on me. I’m above caring. I just goes along and remembers thatpeople has their failings.”

“We must make allowance for other folk.”

“So us must; an’ I be allus doin’ it; so why the helldoan’t they make allowance for me? That’s why I boil awver nowan’ again—damn it! I gets nought but kicks for myhalfpence—allus have; an’ I won’t stand it from mortal manmuch longer!”

Chris kept her face, for Will’s views on conduct and man’swhole duty to man were no new thing.

“Us must keep patient, Will, ’specially with theauld.”

“I be patient. It ’mazes me, looking back, to see what I havesuffered in my time. But a man’s a man, not a post or a holy angel. Uswouldn’t hear such a deal about angels’ tempers either ifthey’d got to faace all us have.”

“That’s profanity an’ wickedness.”

“’Tis truth. Any fule can be a saint inside heaven; an’them that was born theer and have flown ’bout theer all theer time,like birds in a wood, did ought to be even-tempered. What’s tocross’em?”

“You shouldn’t say such things!”

Suddenly a light came into his eyes.

“I doan’t envy ’em anyway. Think what it must be neverto have no mother to love ’e! They ’m poor, motherless twoads,for all their gold crowns an’ purple wings.”

“Will! whatever will ’e say next? Best go to Clem. An’forget what I spoke ’bout Martin Grimbal an’ work. You waswiser’n me in that.”

“I s’pose so. If a man ban’t wiser ’n his sister,he’s like to have poor speed in life,” said Will.

Then he departed, but the events of that day were still very far from anend, and despite the warning of Chris, her brother soon stood on the verge ofanother quarrel. It needed little to wake fresh storms in his breast and hecriticised Clement’s reticence on the subject of his engagement in sodictatorial and hectoring a manner that the elder man quickly becameincensed. They wrangled for half an hour, Hicks in satirical humour, Willloud with assurances that he would have no underhand dealings where anymember of his family was concerned. Clement presently watched the other trampoff, and in his mind was a dim thought. Could Blanchard forget the past soquickly? Did he recollect that he, Clement Hicks, shared knowledge of it?“He’s a fool, whichever way you look at him,” thought thepoet; “but hardly such a fool as to forget that, or risk angering me ofall men.”

Later in the day Will called at a tap-room, drank half a pint of beer, anddetailed his injuries for the benefit of those in the bar. He asked what manamongst them, situated as he had been, had acted otherwise; and a few, caringnot a straw either way, declared he had showed good pluck and was to becommended; But the bulky Mr. Chapple—he who assisted Billy Blee inwassailing Miller Lyddon’s apple-trees—stoutly criticised Will,and told him that his conduct was much to blame. The younger argued againstthis decision and explained, with the most luminous diction at his command,that ’twas in the offering of such a task to a penniless man its stingand offence appeared.

“He knawed I was at low ebb an’ not able to pick an’choose. So he gives me a starvin’ man’s job. If I’d been ineasy circumstances an’ able to say ‘Yes’ or‘No’ at choice, I’d never have blamed un.”

“Nonsense and stuff!” declared Mr. Chapple.“Theer’s not a shadow of shame in it.”

“You’m Miller’s friend, of coourse,” saidWill.

“’Tis so plain as a pike, I think!” squeaked ahare-lipped young man of weak intellect who was also present.“Blanchard be right for sartain.”

“Theer! If soft Gurney sees my drift it must be pretty plain,”said Will, in triumph.

“But as ’tis awnly him that does, lad,” commented Mr.Chapple, drily, “caan’t say you’ve got any call to bebetter pleased. Go you back an’ do the job, like a wise man.”

“I’d clear the peat out o’ Cranmere Pool sooner!”said Will.

And he turned homewards again, wretched enough, yet fiercely prodding histemper when it flagged, and telling himself repeatedly that he had acted asbecame a man of spirit and of judgment. Then, upon a day sufficiently leadenand dreary until that moment, burst forth sudden splendours, and Will’slife, from a standpoint of extreme sobriety in time, instantly passed to rarebrightness. Between the spot on the highway where Chris met him and hisarrival at home, the youth enjoyed half a lifetime of glorious hopes andambitions; but a cloud indeed shadowed all this overwhelming joy in that theevent responsible for his change of fortune was itself sad.

While yet twenty yards from her brother Chris cried the news to him.

“He’s dead—Uncle—he went quite sudden at the end;an’ he’m to lie to Chagford wi’ gran’faitheran’ gran’mother.”

“Dead! My God! An’ I never seed un more! The best friend to meever I had—leastways I thought so till this marnin’.”

“You may think so still.”

“Ess, so I do. A kind man inside his skin. I knawed unbetter’n most people—an’ he meant well when he married me,out of pure love to us both.”

“He’s left nobody no money but Mrs. Watson and you.”

“If ’tis five pound, ’tis welcome to-day; an’ if’tis five shillin’, I’ll thank un an’ spend it’pon a ring to wear for un. He was a gude auld blid, an’I’m sorry he’s gone.”

“Will, Uncle’s left ’e a thousand pound!”

“What! You’m jokin’.”

“Solemn truth. ’Tis in mother’s letter.”

A rush of joy lighted up the young man’s face. He said not a word;then his eyes grew moist.

“To think as he could have loved a daft fule like me so well asthat! Me—that never done nothin’—no, not so much as tocatch a dish of trout for un, now an’ again, when he washere.”

“You couldn’t, bein’ water-keeper.”

“What matter for that? I ought to have poached for un, seein’the manner of man he was.”

He kept silence for a while, then burst out—

“I’ll buy the braavest marble stone can be cut. Nobody shalldo it but me, wi’ doves or anchors or some such thing on it, to make ita fine sight so long as the world goes on.”

“Theer’s plenty room ’pon the auld slate, for thatmatter,” said Chris.

“Damn the auld slate! The man shall have white marble carvings, Itell ’e, if I’ve got to spend half the money buying ’em. Heb’lieved in me; he knawed I’d come to gude; an’ I’mgrateful to un.”

During the evening Will was unusually silent and much busied with thought.He knew little of the value of money, and a thousand pounds to his mindrepresented possibilities wholly beyond the real power of that sum toachieve. Chris presently visited the vicarage, and after their supper,brother and sister sat late and discussed the days to come. When the girlretired, Will’s thoughts for a moment concerned themselves with theimmediate past rather than the future; and then it was that he caught himselfblankly before his own argument of the morning. To him the force of thecontention, now that his position was magically changed, appeared strong asbefore. A little sophistry had doubtless extricated him from this dilemma,but his nature was innocent of it, and his face grew longer as the conclusionconfronting him became more clear. From his own logic—a mysteriousabstraction, doubtless—he found it difficult to escape without loss ofself-respect. He still held that the deed, impossible to him as a pauper,might be performed without sacrifice of dignity or importance by a man of hispresent fortune. So the muddle-headed youth saw his duty straight ahead ofhim; and he regretted it heartily, but did not attempt to escape from it.

Ten minutes later, in his working clothes, he set out to Monks Barton,carrying an old horn lantern that had swung behind his father’s caravantwenty years before. At the farm all lights were out save one in the kitchen;but Will went about his business as silently as possible, and presently foundthe spade where he had flung it, the barrow where he had overthrown it in themorning. So he set to work, his pipe under his nose, his thoughts afar off ina golden paradise built of Uncle Ford’s sovereigns.

Billy Blee, whose attic window faced out upon the northern side of thefarm, had gone to bed, but he was still awake, and the grunt of a wheelbarrowquickly roused him. Gazing into the night he guessed what was doing, draggedon his trousers, and hurried down-stairs to his master.

The miller sat with his head on his hand. His pipe was out and the“night-cap” Phoebe had mixed for him long ago, remaineduntasted.

“Guy Fawkes an ’angels! here’s a thing! If thatJack-o’-lantern of a bwoy ban’t back again. He’mdelvin’ theer, for all the world like a hobgoblin demon, red as bloodin the flicker of the light. I fancied’t was the Dowl hisself. But’t is Blanchard, sure. Theer’s some dark thought under it,I’ll lay, or else he wants to come around ’e again.”

His master doubted not that Billy was dreaming, but he went aloft andlooked to convince himself. In silence and darkness they watched Will atwork. Then Mr. Blee asked a question as the miller turned to go.

“What in thunder do it mean?”

“God knaws, I doan’t. The man or bwoy, or whatever you callun, beats me. I ban’t built to tackle such a piece as him. He’stook a year off my life to-day. Go to your bed, Billy, an’ let unbide.”

“Gormed if I wouldn’t like to slip down an’ scat un owerthe head for what he done to me this marnin’. Such an auld man as me,tu! weak in the hams this ten year.”

“But strong in the speech. Maybe you pricked him with a bitter word,an’—theer, theer, if I ban’t standin’ up for the chapnow! Yet if I’ve wished un dead wance, I have fifty times since I firstheard tell of un. Get to bed. I s’pose us’ll knaw his drift cometo-morrow.”

Mr. Lyddon and Billy retired, and both slept ere Will Blanchard’swork was done. Upon its completion he sought the cold nocturnal waters of theriver, and then did a thing he had planned an hour before. Entering thefarmyard, he flung a small stone at Phoebe’s window in the thatch, thenanother. But the first had roused his wife, for she lay above in wakefulnessand sorrow. She peeped out, saw Blanchard, knew him in the lantern light, andopened the window.

“Will, my awn Will!” she said, with a throbbing voice.

“Ess fay, lovey! I knawed you’d sleep sweeter forhearin’ tell I’ve done the work.”

“Done it?”

“Truth.”

“It was a cruel, wicked shame; an’ the blame’s BillyBlee’s, an’ I’ve cried my eyes out since I heard what theyset you to do; an’ I’ve said what I thought; an’ I’msorry to bitterness about this marnin’, dear Will.”

“’T is all wan now. I’ve comed into a mort of money, myUncle Ford bein’ suddenly dead.”

“Oh, Will, I could a’most jump out the window!”

“’T would be easier for me to come up-long.”

“No, no; not for the world, Will!”

“Why for not? An’ you that lovely, twinklin’ in yourwhite gownd, an’ me your lawful husband, an’ a man o’money! Damned if I ain’t got a mind to climb up by thepear-tree!”

“You mustn’t, you mustn’t! Go away, dear, sweet Will.An’ I’m so thankful you’ve forgiven me for being so wicked,dear heart.”

“Everybody’ll ax to be forgiven now, I reckon; butyou—theer ban’t nothin’ to forgive you for. You can tellyour faither I’ve forgived un to-morrow, an’ tell un I’mrich, tu. ’T will ease his mind. Theer, an’ theer, antheer!”

Will kissed his hand thrice, then vanished, and his wife shut her windowand, kneeling, prayed out thankful prayers.

As her husband crossed Rushford Bridge, his thought sped backward throughthe storm and sunshine of past events. But chiefly he remembered the strugglewith John Grimbal and its sequel. For a moment he glanced below into the darkwater.

“’T is awver an’ past, awver an’ past,” hesaid to himself. “I be at the tail of all my troubles now, fortheer’s nought gude money an’ gude sense caan’t do between’em.”

BOOK II
HIS ENTERPRISE

CHAPTER I
SPRINGTIME

Nature, waking at the song of woodland birds to find herself naked,fashioned with flying fingers such a robe of young green and amber, hyacinthand pearl as only she can weave or wear. A scent of the season rose frommultitudinous “buds, and bells, and stars without a name”; whilethe little world of Devon, vale and forest, upland and heathery waste,rejoiced in the new life, as it rang and rippled with music and colour evento the granite thrones of the Moor. Down by the margin of Teign, where shemurmured through a vale of wakening leaves and reflected asphodels bendingabove her brink, the valley was born again in a very pageant of golden greenthat dappled all the grey woods, clothed branch and bough anew, ranflower-footed over the meadow, hid nests of happy birds in every dell anddingle, and spread luxuriant life above the ruin of the year that was gone. Asong of hope filled each fair noon; no wasted energy, no unfulfilled intentas yet saddened the eye; no stunted, ruined nursling of Nature yet spokeunsuccess; no canker-bitten bud marked the cold finger of failure; for inthat first rush of life all the earthborn host had set forth, if not equal,at least together. The primroses twinkled true on downy coral stems and thestars of anemone, celandine, and daisy opened perfect. Countless consummate,lustrous things were leaping, mingling, and uncurling, aloft and below, inthe mazes of the wood, at the margins of the water. Verdant spears and bladesexpanded; fair fans opened and tendrils twined; simultaneous showers ofheart-shaped, arrow-shaped, flame-shaped foliage, all pure emerald andtranslucent beryl, made opulent outpouring of that new life which now pulsedthrough the Mother’s million veins. Diaphanous mist wreaths and tendershowers wooed the Spring; under silver gauze of vernal rain rang wild raptureof thrushes, laughter of woodpeckers, chime and chatter of jackdaws from therock, secret crooning of the cushat in the pines. From dawn till dusk thesweet air was winnowed by busy wings; from dawn till dusk the hum and murmurof life ceased not. Infinite possibility, infinite promise, marked the time;and man shared a great new hope with the beasts and birds, and wild violet ofthe wood. Blood and sap raced gloriously together, while a chorus ofconscious and unconscious creation sang the anthem of the Spring in solemnstrophe and antistrophe.

As life’s litany rises once again, and before the thunder of thatmusic rolling from the valleys to the hills, human reason yearly hesitatesfor a moment, while hope cries out anew above the frosty lessons ofexperience. For a brief hour the thinker, perhaps wisely, turns from memory,as from a cloud that blots the present with its shadow, and spends a littlemoment in this world of opal lights and azure shades. He forgets that Natureadorned the bough for other purpose than his joy; forgets that strangecreatures, with many legs and hungry mouths, will presently tatter eachmusical dome of rustling green; forgets that he gazes upon a battlefieldawaiting savage armies, which will fill high Summer with ceaseless war, tostrew the fair earth with slain. He suffers dead Winter to bury her dead,seeks the wine of life that brims in the chalices of Spring flowers: plucksblade and blossom, and is a child again, if Time has so dealt with him thatfor a little he can thus far retrace his steps; and, lastly, he turns oncemore to the Mother he has forgotten, to find that she has not forgotten him.The whisper of her passing in a greenwood glade is the murmur of watersinvisible and of life unseen; the scent of her garment comes sweet on thebloom of the blackthorn; high heaven and lowly forget-me-not alike mirror theblue of her wonderful eyes; and the gleam of the sunshine on rippling riversand dreaming clouds reflects the gold of her hair. She moves a queen who,passing through one fair corner of her world-wide kingdom, joys in it. She,the sovereign of the universe, reigns here too, over the buds and the birds,and the happy, unconsidered life of weald and wold. Each busy atom andunfolding frond is dear to her; each warm nest and hidden burrow inspireslike measure of her care and delight; and at this time, if ever, we may thinkof Nature as forgetting Death for one magic moment, as sharing the wide joyof her wakening world, as greeting the young mother of the year’shopes, as pressing to her bosom the babes of Spring with many a sunny smileand rainbowed tear.

Through the woods in Teign Valley passed Clement Hicks and his sweetheartabout a fortnight after Lawyer Ford had been laid to rest in ChagfordChurchyard. Chris talked about her brother and the great enterprise he haddetermined upon. She supported Will and spoke with sanguine words of hisfuture; but Clement regarded the project differently.

“To lease Newtake Farm is a fool’s trick,” he said.“Everybody knows the last experiments there. The place has been emptyfor ten months, and those who touched it in recent years only broke theirhearts and wasted their substance.”

“Well, they weern’t such men as Will. Theer’s a fitnessabout it, tu; for Will’s awn gran’faither prospered at Newtake;an’ if he could get a living, another may. Mother do like the thoughtof Will being there somehow.”

“I know it. The sentiment of the thing has rather blinded hernatural keen judgment. Curious that I should criticise sentiment in anotherperson; but it ’s like my cranky, contrary way. Only I was thinking ofWill’s thousand pounds. Newtake will suck it out of his pocket quickerthan Cranmere sucks up a Spring shower.”

“Well, I’m more hopeful. He knows the value of money;an’ Phoebe will help him when she comes up. The months slip by soquickly. By the time I’ve got the cobwebs out of the farm an’made the auld rooms water-sweet, I dare say theer’ll be talk of hiswife joining him.”

“You going up! This is the first I’ve heard of it.”

“I meant to tell ’e to-day. Mother is willing and I’mawnly tu glad. A man’s a poor left-handed thing ’bout a house.I’d do more ’n that for Will.”

“Pity he doesn’t think and do something for you. Surely alittle of this money—?”

“Doan’t ’e touch on that, Clem. Us had a braave talk’pon it, for he wanted to make over two hundred pound to me, but Iwouldn’t dream of it, and you wouldn’t have liked me tu. You’m the last to envy another’s fair fortune.”

“I do envy any man fortune. Why should I starve, waiting for you,and—?”

“Hush!” she said, as though she had spoken to a little child.“I won’t hear no wild words to-day in all this gude goldsunshine.”

“God damn everything!” he burst out. “What a poor,impotent wretch He’s made me—a thing to bruise its useless handsbeating the door that will never open! It maddens me—especially whenall the world’s happy, like to-day—all happy but me. And you soloyal and true! What a fool you are to stick to me and let me curse you allyour life!”

“Doan’t ’e, doan’t ’e, Clem,” saidChris wearily. She was growing well accustomed to these ebullitions.“Doan’t grudge Will his awn. Our turn will come, an’perhaps sooner than we think for. Look round ’pon the sweet fresh airthan’ budding flowers. Spring do put heart into a body. We ’m youngyet, and I’ll wait for ’e if ’t is till the crack o’doom.”

“Life’s such a cursed short thing at best—just a stormyday between two nights, one as long as past time, the other all eternity.Have you seen a mole come up from the ground, wallow helplessly a moment ortwo, half blind in the daylight, then sink back into the earth, leaving onlya mound? That’s our life, yours and mine; and Fate grudges that eventhese few poor hours, which make the sum of it, should be spent together.Think how long a man and woman can live side by side at best. Yet everySunday of your life you go to church and babble about a watchful, lovingMaker!”

“I doan’t know, Clem. You an’ me ban’t everybody.You’ve told me yourself as God do play a big game, and it doan’tbecome this man or that woman to reckon their-selves more important than theytruly be.”

“A great game, yes; but a cursed poor game—for a God. Thecounters don’t matter, I know; they’ll soon be broken up andflung away; and the sooner the better. It’s living hell to be born intoa world where there’s no justice—none for king ortinker.”

“Sit alongside of me and smell the primrosen an’ watch thickykingfisher catching the li’l trout. I doan’t like ’e inthese bitter moods, Clem, when your talk’s all dead ashes.”

He sat by her and looked out over the river. It was flooded in sunlight,fringed with uncurling green.

“I’m sick and weary of life without you. ‘Consciousexistence is a failure,’ and the man who found that out and said it waswise. I wish I was a bird or beast—or nothing. All the world is matingbut you and me. Nature hates me because I survive from year to year, notbeing fit to. The dumb things do her greater credit than ever I can.The—”

“Now, I’ll go—on my solemn word, I’ll go—ifyou grumble any more! Essterday you was so different, and said you’dfallen in love with Miss Spring, and pretended to speak to her and make mejealous. You didn’t do that, but you made me laugh. An’ youpromised a purty verse for me. Did ’e make it up after all? I laynot.”

“Yes, I did. I wasted two or three hours over it lastnight.”

“Might ’e get ten shillings for it, like t’other?”

“It’s not worth the paper it’s on, unless you like it.Your praise is better than money to me. Nobody wants any thoughts of mine.Why should they?”

“Not when they ’m all sour an’ poor, same as now; butessterday you spoke like to a picture-book. Theer’s many might havetook gude from what you said then.”

He pulled a scrap of paper from his pocket and flung it into her lap.

“I call it ’Spring Rain,’” he said.“Yesterday the world was grey, and I was happy; to-day the world is allgold, and I’m finding life harder and heavier than usual. Read it outslowly to me. It was meant to be read to the song of the river, and never aprettier voice read a rhyme than yours.”

Chris smoothed the paper and recited her lover’s lyrics. They hadsome shadow of music in them and echoed Clem’s love of beautifulthings; but they lacked inspiration or much skill.

Chris, having read, made customary cheerful comment according to herlimitations.

“’T is just like essterday—butivul grawing weather, but’pears to me it’s plain facts more ’n poetry. Anybody couldcome to the streamside and see it all for themselves.”

“Many are far away, pent in bricks and mortar, yearning deep to seethe dance of the Spring, and chained out of sight of it. This might bring oneglimpse to them.”

“An’ so it might, if you sold it for a bit of money. Then itcould be printed out for ’em like t’other was.”

“You don’t understand—you won’tunderstand—even you.”

“I caan’t please ’e to-day. I likes the li’lverses ever so. You do make such things seem butivul to myear—an’ so true as a photograph.”

Clem shivered and stretched his hand for the paper. Then, in a moment, hehad torn it into twenty pieces and sent the fragments afloat.

“There! Let her take them to the sea with her. She understands.Maybe she’ll find a cool corner for me too before many days arepassed.”

Chris began to feel her patience failing.

“What, in God’s name, have I done to ’e you should treatme like this?” she asked, with fire in her eyes.

“Been fool enough to love me,” he answered. “Butit’s never too late for a woman to change her mind. Leave a sinkingship, or rather a ship that never got properly launched, but, sticking out ofits element, was left to rot. Why don’t you leave me, Chris?”

She stroked his hand, then picked it up and laid her soft cheek againstit.

“Not till the end of the world comes for wan of us, Clem. I’lllove ’e always, and the better and deeper ’cause you ’m sowisht an’ unlucky somehow. But you ’m tu wise to be miserable allyour time.”

“You ought to make me a man if anything could. I burn away withhopes and hopes, and more hopes for the future, and miss the paltry thing athand that might save me.”

“Then miss it no more, love; seek closer, an’ seek sharper.Maybe gude work an’ gude money ’s awnly waitin’ for’e to find it. Doan’t look at the moon an’ stars so much;think of me, an’ look lower.”

Slowly the beauty of the hour and the sweet-hearted girl at his elbowthrew some sunshine into Clement’s moody heart. For a little while themelancholy and shiftless dreamer grew happier. He promised renewed activityin the future, and undertook, as a first step towards Martin Grimbal, toinform the antiquary of that great fact which his foolish whim had thus farconcealed.

“Chance might have got it to his ears through more channels thanone, you would have thought; but he’s a taciturn man, asks noquestions, and invites no confidences. I like him the better for it. Nextweek, come what may, I’ll speak to him and tell him the truth, like aplain, blunt man.”

“Do ’e that very thing,” urged Chris. “Saywe’m lovers these two year an’ more; an’ that you’dbe glad to wed me if your way o’ life was bettered. Ban’tbeggin’, as he knaws, for nobody doubts you’m the mostbook-learned man in Chagford after parson.”

Together they followed the winding of the river and proceeded through thevalley, by wood, and stile, and meadow, until they reached Rushford Bridge.Here they delayed a moment at the parapet and, while they did so, JohnGrimbal passed on foot alone.

“His house is growing,” said Clement, as they proceeded toMrs. Blanchard’s cottage.

“Aye, and his hearth will be as cold as his heart—the wretch!Well he may turn his hard face away from me and remember what fell out onthis identical spot! But for God’s gude grace he’d have beenhanged to Exeter ’fore now.”

“You can’t put yourself in his shoes, Chris; no woman can.Think what the world looked like to him after his loss. The girl he wantedwas so near. His hands were stretched out for her; his heart was full of her.Then to see her slip away.”

“An’ quite right, tu; as you was the first to say at the time.Who’s gwaine to pity a thief who loses the purse he’s stole, or apoacher that fires ’pon another man’s bird an’ missesit?”

“All the same, I doubt he would have made a better husband forPhoebe Lyddon than ever your brother will.”

His sweetheart gasped at criticism so unexpected.

“You—you to say that! You, Will’s awn friend!”

“It’s true; and you know it as well as anybody. He has solittle common sense.”

But Chris flamed up in an instant. Nothing the man’s cranky tempercould do had power to irritate her long. Nothing he might say concerninghimself or her annoyed her for five minutes; but, upon the subject of herbrother, not even from Clem did Chris care to hear a disparaging word orunfavourable comment. And this criticism, of all others, levelled againstWill angered her to instant bitter answer before she had time to measure theweight of her words.

“’Common sense’! Perhaps you’ll be so kind as togive Will Blanchard a li’l of your awn—you being so rich in it.Best look at home, and see what you can spare!”

So the lovers’ quarrel which had been steadily brewing under thesunshine now bubbled over and lowered thunder-black for the moment, as suchstorms will.

Clement Hicks, perfectly calm now that his sweetheart’s temper wasgone, marched off; and Chris, slamming the cottage door, vanished, withouttaking any further leave of him than that recorded in her last utterance.

CHAPTER II
NEWTAKE FARM

Clement Hicks told the truth when he said that Mrs. Blanchard fellsomething short of her usual sound judgment and sagacity in the matter ofWill’s enterprise. The home of childhood is often apt enough toexercise magic, far-reaching attraction, and even influence a mind for themost part unsentimental. To Damaris the thought of her son winning his livingwhere her father had done so was pleasant and in accordance with eternalfitness. Not without emotion did she accompany Will to Newtake Farm while yetthe proposed bargain awaited completion; not without strange awakenings inthe dormant recesses of her memory did Will’s mother pass and passagain through the scenes of her earliest days. From the three stone steps, or“upping stock,” at the farmhouse door, whereat a thousand timesshe had seen her father mount his horse, to the environment of the farmyard;from the strange, winding staircase of solid granite that connected upper andlower storeys, to each mean chamber in Newtake, did Mrs. Blanchard’seyes roam thoughtfully amid the ghosts of recollections. Her girl’slife returned and the occasional bright days gleamed forth again, vivid bycontrast with the prevailing grey. So active became thought that to relieveher mind she spoke to Will.

“The li’l chamber over the door was mine,” she said;“an’ your poor uncle had the next. I can just mind him, allus athis books, to his faither’s pride. Then he went away to Newton to joinsome lawyer body an’ larn his business. An’ I mind the two smallmaids as was my elder sisters and comed betwixt me an’ Joel. Bothdied—like candles blawed out roughly by the wind. They wasn’tmade o’ the stuff to stand Dartymoor winters.”

She paused for a few moments, then proceeded:

“Theer, to west of the yard, is a croft as had corn in it wan year,though ’tis permanent grass now, seemin’ly. Your faither cornedthrough theer like a snake by night more’n wance; an’ oftentimesI crept down house, shivering wi’ fear an’ love, to meet himunder moonlight while the auld folks slept. Tim he’d grawed to a powerwi’ the gypsy people by that time; but faither was allus hard againstun. He hated wanderers in tents or ’pon wheels, or even sea-gwainesailor-men—he carried it that far. Then comed a peep o’ day whenTim’s bonny yellow caravan ’peared around the corner of thatwindin’ road what goes all across the Moor. At the first stirring oflight, I was ready an’ skipped out; an’, to this hour, I mind thelast thing as touched me kindly was the red tongue of the sheep-dog. He ran amile after the van, unhappy-like; then Tim ordered un away, an’ hestood in the white road an’ held up his paw an’ axed a questionas plain as a human. So Tim hit un hard wi’ a gert stone, an’ heyelped an’ gived me up for lost, an’ bolted home wi’ histail between his legs an’ his eye thrawed back full of sadness over hisshoulder. Ess fay! I can see the dust puffin’ up under his pads in thegrey dawn so clear as I can see you.”

Again she stopped, but only for breath.

“They never answered my writings. Faither wouldn’t an’mother didn’t dare. But when I was near my time, Timothy, reckoningthey’d yield then if ever, arranged to be in Chagford when I should bebrought to bed. Yet ’twas ordained differ’nt, an’ theroundy-poundy, wheer the caravan was drawed up when the moment corned, bejust round theer on Metherill hill, as you knaws. So it happened right underthe very walls of Newtake. In the stone circle you comed; an’ by nightarterwards, sweatin’ for terror, your gran’mother, as had heardtell of it, sneaked from Newtake to kiss me an’ press you to her body.Faither never knawed till long arter; an’ though mother used to say sheheard un forgive me on his death-bed, ’twas her awn pious wish echoingin her awn ears I reckon. But that’s all awver an’done.”

Mrs. Blanchard now sank into silent perambulation of the desertedchambers. In the kitchen the whitewash was grimy, the ceiling and windowsunclean. Ashes of a peat fire still lay upon the cracked hearthstone, and apair of worn-out boots, left by a tramp or the last tenant, stood on thewindow-sill. Dust and filth were everywhere, but no indication of dampness ordecay.

“A proper auld rogue’s-roost of dirt ’tis justnow,” said Will; “but a few pound spent in the right way will doa deal for it.”

“An’ soap an’ water more,” declared Mrs.Blanchard, escaping from her reverie. “What’s to be spentlandlord must spend,” she continued. “A little whitewash, andsome plaster to fill them holes wheer woodwork’s poking through theceiling, an’ you’ll be vitty again. ’Tis lonesome-like now,along o’ being deserted, an’ you’ll hear the rats gallopingan’ gallyarding by night, but ’twill soon be all it wasagain—a dear li’l auld plaace, sure enough!”

She eyed the desolation affectionately.

“Theer’s money in it, any way, for what wan man can do anothercan.”

“Aye, I hope so, I b’lieve ’tis so; but you’llhave to live hard, an’ work hard, an’ be hard, if you wants toprosper here. Your gran’faither stood to the work like a giant,an’ the sharpest-fashion weather hurt him no worse than if he’dbeen a granite tor. Steel-built to his heart’s core, an’ neededto be.”

“An’ I be a stern, far-seein’ man, same as him.’Tis generally knawn I’m no fule; and my heart’s grawedhard, tu of late days, along wi’ the troubles life’sbrought.”

She shook her head.

“You’m your faither’s son, not yourgran’faither’s. Tim was flesh an’ blood, same as you.T’other was stone. Stone’s best, when you’ve got to fightwi’ stone; but if flesh an’ blood suffers more, it joys more, tu.I wouldn’t have ’e differ’nt—not to them as loves’e, any way.”

“I sha’n’t change; an’ if I did to all the worldelse, ’twouldn’t be to you, mother. You knaw that, I reckon.I’m hopeful; I’m more; I’m ’bout as certain of fairfortune as a man can be. Venwell rights6 be mine, andtheer’s no better moorland grazing than round these paarts. Thefarm-land looks a bit foul, along o’ being let go to rack, butus’ll soon have that clean again, an’ some gude stuff into it,tu. My awn work’ll be staring me in the faace before summer; an’by the time Phoebe do come to be mistress, nobody’ll knaw Newtake, Ipromise ’e.”

Mrs. Blanchard viewed with some uneasiness the spectacle of valley-bornand valley-nurtured Phoebe taking up her abode on the high lands. For herselfshe loved them well, and the Moor possessed no terrors for her; but she hadwit to guess that her daughter-in-law would think and feel differently.Indeed, neither woman nor man might reasonably be blamed for viewing the farmwithout delight when first brought within the radius of its influence.

Newtake stood, a squat and unlovely erection, under a tar-pitched roof ofslate. Its stone walls were coated with a stucco composition, which includedtallow as an ingredient and ensured remarkable warmth and dryness. Before itsface there stretched a winding road of white flint, that climbed from thevillage, five miles distant, and soon vanished amid the undulations of thehills; while, opposite, steep heathery slopes and grassy coombs ascendedabruptly to masses of weathered granite; and at the rear a hillside, whereonMetherill’s scattered hut-circles made incursions even into the fieldsof the farm, fell to the banks of Southern Teign where she babbled betweenbanks of brake-fern and heather. Swelling and sinking solemnly along the sky,Dartmoor surrounded Newtake. At the entrance of the yard stood a brokenfive-barred gate between twin masses of granite; then appeared a raggedoutbuilding or two, with roofs of lichen-covered slate; and upon one side, ina row, grew three sycamores, bent out of all uprightness by years of westernwinds, and coated as to their trunks with grey lichen. Behind a cowyard ofshattered stone pavement and cracked mud stood the farm itself, and around itextended the fields belonging thereto. They were six or seven in number, andembraced some five-and-fifty acres of land, mostly indifferent meadow.

Seen from the winding road, or from the bird’s-eye elevation of theadjacent tor, Newtake, with its mean ship-pens and sties, outbuildings andlittle crofts, all huddled together, poverty-stricken, time-fretted,wind-worn, and sad of colour, appeared a mere forlorn fragment ofcivilisation left derelict upon the savage bosom of an untamable land. Itmight have represented some forsaken, night-foundered abode of men, torn byearthquake or magic spell from a region wholly different, and dropped andstranded here. It sulked solitary, remote, and forgotten; its black rooffrowned over its windows, and green tears, dribbling down its walls in timepast, had left their traces, as though even spring sunlight was powerless toeradicate the black memories of winters past, or soften the bitter certaintyof others yet to come. The fields, snatched from the Moor in time long past,now showed a desire to return to their wild mother again. The bars ofcultivation were broken and the land struggled to escape. Scabious wouldpresently throw a mauve pallor over more than one meadow croft; in another,waters rose and rushes and yellow iris flourished and defied husbandry;elsewhere stubble, left unploughed by the last defeated farmer, gleamedsilver-grey through a growth of weeds; while at every point the Moor thrustforward hands laden with briar and heather. They surmounted the low stonewalls and fed and flourished upon the clods and peat that crowned them.Nature waved early gold of the greater furze in the van of her oncoming, andsent her wild winds to sprinkle croft and hay-field, ploughed land and potatopatch, with thistledown and the seeds of the knapweed and rattle and brackenfern. These heathen things and a thousand others, in all the early vigour ofspring, rose triumphant above the meek cultivation. They trampled it,strangled it, choked it, and maddened the agriculturist by their sturdy andstubborn persistence. A forlorn, pathetic blot upon the land of the mist wasNewtake, seen even under conditions of sunlight and fair weather; but beheldbeneath autumnal rains, observed at seasons of deep snow or in the dead wasteof frozen winters, its apparition rendered the most heavy-hearted less sadbefore the discovery that there existed a human abode more hateful, a humanoutlook more oppressive, than their own.

To-day heavy moorland vapours wrapped Newtake in ghostly raiment, yet noforlorn emotions clouded the survey of those who now wandered about thelifeless farm. In the mind of one, here retracing the course of hermaidenhood, this scene, if sad, was beautiful. The sycamores, whose brownspikes had burst into green on a low bough or two, were the trees she lovedbest in the world; the naked field on the hillside, wherein a great stonering shone grey through the silver arms of the mist, represented the theatreof her life’s romance. There she had stolen oftentimes to her lover,and in another such, not far distant, had her son been born. Thoughts oflittle sisters rose in the naked kitchen, with the memory of a flat-breasted,wild-eyed mother, who did man’s work; of a father, who spoke seldom andnever twice—a father whose heavy foot upon the threshold sent hischildren scuttling like rabbits to hidden lairs and dens. She remembered thedogs; the bright gun-barrel above the chimney-piece; the steam of clotheshung to dry after many a soaking in “soft” weather; the reek ofthe peat; the brown eyes and steaming nostrils of the bullocks, thatsometimes looked through the kitchen window in icy winter twilights, asthough they would willingly change their byres for the warmth within.

Mrs. Blanchard enjoyed the thought that her son should reanimate thesescenes of her own childhood; and he, burning with energy and zeal, and notdead to his own significance as a man of money, saw promises of prosperity oneither hand. It lay with him, he told his heart, to win smiling fatness fromthis hungry region. Right well he knew how it came about that those who hadpreceded him had failed, missed their opportunities, fooled themselves, andflung away their chances. Evidences of their ignorance stared at him from thecurtains of the mist, but he knew better; he was a man who had thought a bitin his time and had his head screwed on the right way, thank God. These factshe poured into his mother’s ear, and she smiled thoughtfully, noted thechanges time had wrought, and indicated to him those things the landlordmight reasonably be expected to do before Will should sign and seal.

The survey ended, her son helped Damaris into a little market-cart, whichhe had bought for her upon coming into his fortune. A staid pony, also hispurchase, completed the equipage, and presently Mrs. Blanchard drovecomfortably away; while Will, who yet proposed to tramp, for the twentiethtime, each acre of Newtake land, watched her depart, then turned to continuehis researches. A world of thought rested on his brown face. Arrived at eachlittle field, he licked his pencil, and made notes in a massive newpocketbook. He strode along like a conqueror of kingdoms, frowned andscratched his curly head as problem after problem rose, smiled when he solvedthem, and entered the solution in his book. For the wide world was full ofyoung green, and this sanguine youth soared lark-high in soul under his happycircumstances. Will breathed out kindness to all mankind just at present, andnow before that approaching welfare he saw writ largely in beggarly Newtake,before the rosy dawn which Hope spread over this cemetery of othermen’s dead aspirations, he felt his heart swell to the world. Twoclouds only darkened his horizon then. One was the necessity of beginning thenew life without his life’s partner; while the other, formerlytremendous enough, had long since shrunk to a shadow on the horizon of thepast. His secret still remained, but that circumstance was too remote toshadow the new enterprise. It existed, however, and its recurrence woveoccasional gloomy patterns into the web of Will Blanchard’sthought.

CHAPTER III
OVER A RIDING-WHIP

Will completed his survey and already saw, in his mind’s eye, abrave masque of autumn gold spreading above the lean lands of Newtake. Fromthis spectacle to that of garnered harvests and great gleaming stacksbursting with fatness the transition was natural and easy. He pictured kinein the farmyard, many sheep upon the hills, and Phoebe with such geese,ducks, and turkeys as should make her quite forget the poultry of MonksBarton. Then, having built castles in the air until his imagination wasexhausted, Will shut the outer gate with the touch of possession, turned amoment to see how Newtake looked from the roadway, found only the shadow ofit looming through the mist, and so departed, whistling and slapping hisgaiters with an ash sapling.

It happened that beside a gate which closed the moorland precincts toprevent cattle from wandering, a horseman stood, and as the pedestrian passedhim in the gathering gloaming, he dropped his hunting-stock while making aneffort to open the gate without dismounting.

“Bide wheer you be!” said Will; “I’ll pick un upan’ ope the gate for ’e.”

He did so and handed the whip back to its owner. Then each recognised theother, and there was a moment of silence.

“’Tis you, Jan Grimbal, is it?” asked the younger.“I didn’t knaw ’e in the dimpsy light.”

He hesitated, and his words when they came halted somewhat, but hismeaning was evident.

“I’m glad you’m back to home. I’ll forget allwhat’s gone, if you will. ’Twas give an’ take, Is’pose. I took my awn anyway, an’ you comed near killing mefor’t, so we’m upsides now, eh? We’m men o’ the worldlikewise. So—so shall us shake hands an’ let bygones be, JanGrimbal?”

He half raised his hand, and looked up, with a smile at the corner of hislip ready to jump into life if the rider should accept his friendship. ButGrimbal’s response was otherwise.

To say little goodness dwelt in this man had been untrue, but recentevents and the first shattering reverse that life brought him provedsufficient to sour his very soul and eclipse a sun which aforetime shone withgreat geniality because unclouded. Fate hits such men particularly hard whenher delayed blow falls. Existences long attuned to success and level fortune;lives which have passed through five-and-thirty years of their allotted spanwithout much sorrow, without sharp thorns in the flesh, without thosecarking, gnawing trials of mind and body which Time stores up for allhumanity—such feel disaster when it does reach them with a bitternessunknown by those who have been in misery’s school from youth. Povertydoes not bite the poor as it bites him who has known riches and afterwardsfights destitution; feeble physical circumstances do not crush the congenitalinvalid, but they often come near to break the heart of a man who, untiltheir black advent, has known nothing but rude health; great reverses in thevital issues of life and fortune fail to obliterate one who knows their facesof old, but the first enemy’s cannon on Time’s road must everbring ugly shock to him who has advanced far and happily without meeting anysuch thing.

Grimbal’s existence had been of a rough-and-ready sort shone over bysuccess. Philosophy he lacked, for life had never turned his mind that way;religion was likewise absent from him; and his recent tremendousdisappointment thus thundered upon a mind devoid of any machinery to resistit. The possession of Phoebe Lyddon had come to be an accepted andaccomplished fact; he chose her for his own, to share the good things Fortunehad showered into his lap—to share them and be a crowning glory ofthem. The overthrow of this scheme at the moment of realisation upset hisestimate of life in general and set him adrift and rudderless, in thehurricane of his first great reverse. Of selfish temperament, and doubly soby the accident of consistent success, the wintry wind of this calamity slewand then swept John Grimbal’s common sense before it, like a dead leaf.All that was worst in him rose to the top upon his trouble, and sinceWill’s marriage the bad had been winning on the good and thrusting itdeeper and deeper out of sight or immediate possibility of recovery. At alltimes John Grimbal’s inferior characteristics were most prominentlydisplayed, and superficial students of character usually rated him lower thanothers really worse than himself, but who had wit to parade their besttraits. Now, however, he rode and strode the country a mere scowling ruffian,with his uppermost emotions still stamped on his face. The calamity also bredan unsuspected sensitiveness in him, and he smarted often under thereflection of what others must be thinking. His capability towardsvindictiveness proved very considerable. Formerly his anger against hisfellow-men had been as a thunder-storm, tremendous but brief in duration;now, before this bolt of his own forging, a steady, malignant activitygerminated and spread through the whole tissue of his mind.

Those distractions open to a man of Grimbal’s calibre presentlyblunted the edge of his loss, and successful developments of business alsoserved to occupy him during the visit he paid to Africa; but no interests asyet had arisen to obscure or dull his hatred of Will Blanchard. The originalblaze of rage sank to a steady, abiding fire, less obviously tremendous thanthat first conflagration, but in reality hotter. In a nature unsubtle,revenge will not flourish as a grand passion for any length of time. It mustreach its outlet quickly and attain to its ambition without overmuch delay,else it shrivels and withers to a mere stubborn, perhaps lifelong,enmity—a dwarfish, mulish thing, devoid of any tragic splendour. But upto the point that John Grimbal had reached as yet, his character, thoughcommonplace in most affairs, had unexpectedly quickened to a condition quiteprofound where his revenge was concerned.

He still cherished the certainty of a crushing retaliation. He was glad hehad not done Blanchard any lifelong injury; he was glad the man yet lived fortime and him to busy themselves about; he was even glad (and herein appearedthe unsuspected subtlety) that Will had prospered and come by a little showof fortune. Half unconsciously he hoped for the boy something of his ownexperiences, and had determined with himself—in a spirit verymelodramatic but perfectly sincere at present—to ruin his enemy ifpatience and determination could accomplish it.

In this mood, with his wrongs sharpened by return to Chagford and hispurposes red-hot, John Grimbal now ran against his dearest foe, received thehorsewhip from him, and listened to his offer of peace.

He still kept silence and Will lowered the half-lifted arm and spokeagain.

“As you please. I can bide very easy without your gudeword.”

“That’s well, then,” said the other, in his big voice,as his hands tightened. “We’ve met again. I’m glad Ididn’t break your neck, for your heart’s left to break, and bythe living God I’ll break it! I can wait. I’m older than you, butyoung enough. Remember, I’ll run you down sooner or later. I’vehunted most things, and men aren’t the cleverest beasts andyou’re not the cleverest man I’ve bested in my time. You beatme—I know it—but it would have been better for you if youhadn’t been born. There’s the truth for your country ears, youdamned young hound. I’ll fight fair and I’ll fight to the finish.Sport—that’s what it is. The birds and the beasts and the fishhave their close time; but there won’t be any close time for you, notwhile I can think and work against you. So now you know. D’ you hearme?”

“Ess,” said Will, meeting the other’s fierce eyes;“I hear ’e, an’ so might the dead in Chagfordburyin’-ground. You hollers loud enough. I ban’t ’feared ofnothing a hatch-mouthed,7 crooked-minded man, same as you be, can do.An’ if I’m a hound, you ’m a dirty red fox, an’everybody knaws who comes out top when they meet. Steal my gal, would’e? Gaw your ways, an’ mend your ways, an’ swallow yourbile. I doan’t care a flicker o’ wildfire for’e!”

John Grimbal heard only the beginning of this speech, for he turned hisback on Will and rode away while the younger man still shouted after him.Blanchard was in a rage, and would have liked to make a third trial ofstrength with his enemy on the spot, but the rider vanished and Will quicklycooled as he went down the hill to Chagford. The remembrance of thisinterview, for all his scorn, chilled him when he reflected on JohnGrimbal’s threats. He feared nothing indeed, but here was anothercloud, and a black one, blown violently back from below the horizon of hislife to the very zenith. Malignity of this type was strange to him anddiffered widely from the petty bickerings, jealousies, and strifes ofordinary country existence. It discouraged him to feel in his hour ofuniversal contentment that a strong, bitter foe would now be at hand, foreverwatching to bring ruin on him at the first opportunity. As he walked home heasked himself how he should feel and act in Grimbal’s shoes, and triedto look at the position from his enemy’s standpoint. Of course he toldhimself that he would have accepted defeat with right philosophy. It was ajust fix for a man to find himself in,—a proper punishment for a meanact. Arguing thus, from the right side of the hedge, he forgot what wiser menhave forgotten, that there is no disputing about man’s affection forwoman, there is no transposition of the standpoint, there is no lookingthrough another’s eyes upon a girl. Many have loved, and many haverendered vivid pictures of the emotion, touched with insight of genius anduniversally proclaimed true to nature from general experience; but no two menlove alike, and neither you nor another man can better say how a third feelsunder the yoke, estimate his thrall, or foretell his actions, despite yourown experience, than can one sufferer from gout, though it has torn him halfa hundred times, gauge the qualities of another’s torment under thesame disease. Will could not guess what John Grimbal had felt for Phoebe; heknew nothing of the other’s disposition, because, young in knowledge ofthe world and a boy still, despite his age, it was beyond him to appreciateeven remotely the mind of a man fifteen years older than himself—a manof very different temper and one whose life had been such as we have justdescribed.

Home went Blanchard, and kept his meeting secret. His mother, returninglong before him, was already in some argument with Chris concerning thedisposal of certain articles of furniture, the pristine splendour of whichhad been worn off at Newtake five-and-thirty years before. At FarmerFord’s death these things passed to his son, and he, not requiringthem, had made them over to Damaris.

“They was flam-new when first my parents married and comed toNewtake, many a year ago; and now I want ’em to go back theer.They’ve seed three generations, an’ I’d be well pleasedthat a fourth should kick its li’l boots out against them. They’m stout enough yet. Sweat went to building of chairs an’ tablesin them days; now it’s steam. Besides, ’twill save Will’spocket a tidy bit.”

Chris, however, though she could deny Will nothing, was divided here, forwhy should her mother part from those trifles which contributed to the ampleadornment of her cottage? Certain stout horsehair furniture and a piano werethe objects Mrs. Blanchard chiefly desired should go to Newtake. The piano,indeed, had never been there before. It was a present to Damaris from herdead husband, who purchased the instrument second-hand for five pounds at afarm sale. Its wiry jingle spoke of evolution from harpsichord or spinet tothe modern instrument; its yellow keys, from which the ivory in some caseswas missing, and its high back, stained silk front, and fretted veneerindicated age; while above the keyboard a label, now growing indistinct, setforth that one “William Harper, of Red Lion Street, Maker ofpiano-fortes to his late Majesty” was responsible for the instrumentvery early in the century.

Now Will joined the discussion, but his mother would take no denial.

“These chairs and sofa be yours, and the piano’s my present toPhoebe. She’ll play to you of a Sunday afternoon belike.”

“An’ it’s here she’ll do it; for mySundays’ll be spent along with you, of coourse, ’cept when youcomes up to my farm to spend ’em. That’s what I hope’llfall out; an’ I want to see Miller theer, tu, after he’ve foundI’m right and he’m wrong.”

But the event proved that, even in his new capacity as a man of money anda landholder, Will was not to win much ground with Mr. Lyddon. Twocircumstances contributed to the continued conflict, and just as Phoebe wascongratulating herself and others upon the increasing amity between herfather and her husband matters fell out which caused the miller to give upall hope of Will for the hundredth time. First came the occupancy of Newtakeat a rent Mr. Lyddon considered excessive; and then followed a circumstancethat touched the miller himself, for, by the offer of two shillings more aweek than he received at Monks Barton, Will tempted into his service alabourer held in great esteem by his father-in-law.

Sam Bonus appeared the incarnation of red Devon earth, built up on solidbeef and mutton. His tanned face was framed in crisp black hair that no razorhad ever touched; his eyes were deep-set and bright; his narrow brow waswrinkled, not with thought, but as the ape’s. A remarkably tall andpowerful frame supported Sam’s little head. He laboured like a horseand gave as little trouble, triumphed in feats of brute strength, laughed ata day’s work, never knew ache or pain. He had always greatly admiredBlanchard, and, faced with the tempting bait of a florin a week more than hispresent wage, abandoned Monks Barton and readily followed Will to the Moor.His defection was greatly deplored, and though Will told Mr. Blee what heintended beforehand, and made no secret of his design to secure Sam ifpossible, Billy discredited the information until too late. Then the millerheard of his loss, and, not unnaturally, took the business ill.

“Gormed if it ban’t open robbery!” declared Mr. Blee, ashe sat and discussed the matter with his master one evening, “an’the thankless, ill-convenient twoad to go to Blanchard, of allmen!”

“He’ll be out of work again soon enough. And he needn’tcome back to me when he is. I won’t take him on no more.”

“’Twould be contrary to human nature if you did.”

“Human nature!” snapped the miller, with extreme irritation.“’Twould puzzle Solomon to say what’s come over humannature of late days.”

“’Tis a nut wi’ a maggot in it,” mused Billy:“three parts rotten, the rest sweet. An’ all owing to fantasticinventions an’ new ways of believin’ in God wi’outchurch-gwaine, as parson said Sunday. Such things do certainly Play hell withhuman nature, in a manner o’ speakin’. I reckon the uprising menan’ women’s wickeder than us, as sucked our mothers in quietertimes afore the railroads.”

“Bonus is such a fule!” said Mr. Lyddon, harking back to hisloss. “Yet I thought he belonged to the gude old-fashionedsort.”

“I told un he was out in his reckoning, that he’d be left inthe cold bimebye, so sure as Blanchard was Blanchard and Newtake was Newtake;but he awnly girned his gert, ear-wide girn, an’ said he knawedbetter.”

“To think of more gude money bein’ buried up theer!You’ve heard my view of all ground wi’ granite under it. Such adeal ought to have been done wi’ that thousand pound.”

“Oughts are noughts, onless they’ve strokes to’em,” declared Billy. “’Tis a poor lookout, forhe’m the sort as buys experience in the hardest market. Then, whenit’s got, he’ll be a pauper man, with what he knaws useless forwant o’ what’s spent gettin’ it. Theer’s the thoughto’ Miss Phoebe, tu,—Mrs. Blanchard, I should say. Caan’tsee her biding up to Newtake nohow, come the hard weather.”

“’Wedlock an’ winter tames maids an’beastes,’” said Mr. Lyddon bitterly. “A true sawthat.”

“Ess; an’ when ’tis wedlock wi’ Blanchard,an’ winter on Dartymoor, ’twould tame the daughter of the Dowl,if he had wan.”

Billy laughed at this thought. His back rounded as he sat in his chair,his head seemed to rise off his lower jaw, and the yellow frill of hair underhis chin stood stiffly out.

“He’s my son-in-law; you ’pear to forget that,Blee,” said Mr. Lyddon; “I’m sure I wish I could, if’twas even now an’ again.”

Thereupon Billy straightened his face and cast both rancour and merrimentto the winds.

“Why, so he be; an’ grey hairs should allus make allowance forthe young youths; though I ain’t forgot that spadeful o’ muckyet, an’ never shall. But theer’s poison in bwoy’s bloodwhat awnly works out of the brain come forty. I’m sure I wish nothingbut well to un. He’s got his saving graces, same as all of us, if wecould but see ’em; an’ come what may, God looks arter His awnchosen fules, so theer’s hope even for Blanchard.” “Coldconsolation,” said Mr. Lyddon wearily; “but’t is allwe’ve got. Two nights since I dreamt I saw un starvin’ on adunghill. ’T was a parable, I judge, an’ meant NewtakeFarm.”

CHAPTER IV
DEFEATED HOPES

Below Newtake Farm the river Teign wound, with many a foaming fall andsinging rapid, to confluence with her twin sister in the valley beneath.Here, at a certain spot, above the forest and beneath the farm, stood MartinGrimbal on a bright afternoon in May. Over his head rose a rowan, in a softcloud of serrated foliage, with clusters of grey-green flower buds alreadyforetelling the crimson to come; about his feet a silver army of uncurlingfronds brightened the earth and softened the sharp edges of the bouldersscattered down the coomb. Here the lover waited to the music of a cuckoo, andhis eyes ever turned towards a stile at the edge of the pine woods, twohundred yards distant from him.

The hour was one of tremendous possibilities, because Fate had beenoccupied with Martin through many days, and now he stood on the brink ofgreat joy or sorrow. Clement Hicks had never spoken to him. During hisquarrel with Chris, which lasted a fortnight, the bee-keeper purposelyabstained from doing her bidding, while after their reconciliation everyother matter in the world was swallowed up for a time in the delight ofrenewed love-making. The girl, assuming throughout these long weeks thatMartin now knew all, had met him in frank and kindly spirit on thoseoccasions when he planned to enjoy her society, and this open warmth awokerenewed heart for Grimbal, who into her genial friendship read promise andfrom it recruited hope. His love now dominated his spiritual being and filledhis life. Grey granite was grey granite only, and no more. During his longwalks by pillar-stone, remote row, and lonely circle, Chris, and Chris alone,occupied his brain. He debated the advisability of approaching Will, thenturned rather to the thought of sounding Mrs. Blanchard, and finally nervedhimself to right action and determined to address Chris. He felt this presentheart-shaking suspense must be laid at rest, for the peace of his soul, andtherefore he took his courage in his hands and faced the ordeal.

That day Chris was going up to Newtake. She had not yet settled there,though her brother and Sam Bonus were already upon the ground, but the girlcame and went, busying her fingers with a hundred small matters that dailyincreased the comfort of the little farm. Her way lay usually by the coomb,and Martin, having learned that she was visiting Will on the occasion inquestion, set out before her and awaited her here, beside the river, in alonely spot between the moorland above and the forest below. He feltphysically nervous, yet hope brightened his mind, though he tried to strangleit. Worn and weary with his long struggle, he paced up and down, now lookingto the stile, now casting dissatisfied glances upon his own person. Shavingwith more than usual care, he had cut his chin deeply, and, though he knew itnot, the wound had bled again since he left home and ruined both his collarand a new tie, put on for the occasion.

Presently he saw her. A sunbonnet bobbed at the stile and Chris appeared,bearing a roll of chintz for Newtake blinds. In her other hand she carriedhalf a dozen bluebells from the woods, and she came with the free gaitacquired in keeping stride through long tramps with Will when yet her frockswere short. Martin loved her characteristic speed in walking. So Dianadoubtless moved. The spring sunshine had found Chris and the clear, softbrown of her cheek was the most beautiful thing in nature to the antiquary.He knew her face so well now: the dainty poise of her head, the light of hereyes, the dark curls that always clustered in the same places, the littleupdrawing at the corner of her mouth as she smiled, the sudden gleam of herteeth when she laughed, and the abrupt transitions of her expression fromrepose to gladness, from gladness back again into repose.

She saw the man before she reached him, and waved her bluebells to showthat she had done so. Then he rose from his granite seat and took off his hatand stood with it off, while his heart thundered, his eye watered, and hismouth twitched. But he was outwardly calm by the time Chris reached him.

“What a surprise to find ’e here, Martin! Yet not much,neither, for wheer the auld stones be, theer you ’m to beexpected.”

“How are you, Chris? But I needn’t ask. Yes, I’m fond ofthe stones.”

“Well you may be. They talk to ’e like friends, seemingly.An’ even I knaw a sight more ’bout ’em now. You’vemade me feel so differ’nt to ’em, you caan’tthink.”

“For that matter,” he answered, leaping at the chance,“you’ve made me feel different to them.”

“Why, how could I, Martin?”

“I’ll tell you. Would you mind sitting down here, just for amoment? I won’t keep you. I’ve no right to ask for a minute ofyour time; but there’s dry moss upon it—I mean the stone; and Iwas waiting on purpose, if you’ll forgive me for waylaying you likethis. There’s a little thing—a big thing, I mean—thebiggest—too big for words almost, yet it wants words—and yetsometimes it doesn’t—at least—I—would you sithere?”

He was breathing rather hard, and his words were tripping. Managing hisvoice ill, the tones of it ran away from bass to shrill treble. She saw itall at a glance, and realised that Martin had been blundering on, in pureignorance and pure love, all these weary weeks. She sat down silently and hermind moved like light along the wide gamut of fifty emotions in a second.Anger and sorrow strove together,—anger with Clem and his callous,cynic silence, sorrow for the panting wretch before her. Chris opened hermouth to speak, then realised where her flying thoughts had taken her andthat, as yet, Martin Grimbal had said nothing. Her unmaidenly attitude andthe sudden reflection that she was about to refuse one before he had askedher, awoke a hysteric inclination to laugh, then a longing to cry. But allthe anxious-visaged man before her noted was a blush that waved like aurorallight from the girl’s neck to her cheek, from her cheek to herforehead. That he saw, and thought it was love, and thanked the Lord in hisclumsy fashion aloud.

“God be praised! I do think you guess—I do think you guess!But oh, my dear, my dear, you don’t know what ’s in my heart foryou. My little pearl of a Chris, can you care for such a bear of a man? Canyou let me labour all my life long to make your days good to you? I love youso—I do. I never thought when the moment came I should find tongue tospeak it, but I have; and now I could say it fifty thousand times. I’djust be proud to tie your shoe-string, Chris, my dear, and be your old slaveand—Chris! my Chris! I’ve hurt you; I’ve made you cry! WasI—was I all wrong? Don’t, don’t—I’llgo—Oh, my darling one, God knows I wouldn’t—”

He broke off blankly and stood half sorrowful, half joyous. He knew he hadno right as yet to go to the comfort of the girl now sobbing beside him, buthope was not dead. And Chris, overcome by this outpouring of love, nowsuffered very deep sorrow, while she turned away from him and hid her faceand wept. The poor distracted fool still failed to guess the truth, for heknew tint tears are the outcome of happiness as well as misery. He waited,open-mouthed, he murmured something—God knows what—then he wentclose and thought to touch her waist, but feared and laid his hand gently onher shoulder.

“Don’t ’e!” she said; and he began to understandand to struggle with himself to lessen her difficulty.

“Forgive me—forgive me if you can, Chris. Was I all wrong?Then I ought to have known better—but even an old stick likeme—before you, Chris. Somehow I—but don’t cry. Iwouldn’t have brought the tears to your eyes for all theworld—dense idiot I am—”

“No, no, no; no such thing ’t all, Martin. ’Tis I wascruel not to see you didn’t knaw. You’ve been treated ill,an’ I’m cryin’ that such a gude—gude, braave,big-hearted man as you, should be brought to this for a fule of a gal likeme. I ban’t worthy a handshake from ’e, or a kind word.An’—an’—Clem Hicks—Clem be tokened to me thesetwo year an’ more. He’m the best man in the world; an’ Ihate un for not tellin’’e—an’—an’—”

Chris sobbed herself to the end of her tears; and the man took histrial—like a man. His only thought was the sadness his blunder hadbrought with it for her. To misread her blush seemed in his humility a crime.His consistent unselfishness blinded him, for an instant at least, to his owngrief. He blamed himself and asked pardon and prepared to get away out of hersight as soon as possible.

“Forgive me, Chris—I needn’t ask you twice, Iknow—such a stupid thing—I didn’t understand—I neverobserved: but more shame to me. I ought to have seen, of course. Anybody elsewould—any man of proper feeling.”

“How could ’e see it with a secret chap like him? He ought tohave told ’e; I bid un speak months since; an’ I thought he had;an’ I hate un for not doing it!”

“But you mustn’t. Don’t cry any more, and forget allabout it. I could almost laugh to think how blind I’ve been.We’ll both laugh next time we meet. If you’re happy, thenI’ll laugh always. That’s all I care for. Now I know you’re happy again, I’m happy, too, Chris—honour bright. AndI’ll be a friend still—remember that—always—toyou—to you and him.”

“I hate un, I say.”

“Why, he didn’t give me credit for being such a bat—sucha mole. Now I must be away. We’ll meet pretty soon, I expect. Justforget this afternoon as though it had never been, even though it’ssuch a jolly sunny one. And remember me as a friend—a friend still forall my foolishness. Good-by for the present. Good-by.”

He nodded, making the parting a slight thing and not missing the ludicrousin his anxiety to spare her pain. He went down the valley, leaving hersitting alone. He assumed a jaunty air and did not look round, but hastenedoff to the stile. Never in his most light-hearted moments had he walked thusor struck right and left at the leaves and shrubs with such a clumsyaffectation of nonchalance. Thus he played the fool until out of sight; thenhis head came down, and his feet dragged, and his walk and mien grew yearsolder than his age. He stopped presently and stood still, staring upon thesilence. Westering sunlight winnowed through the underwood, splashed into itssombre depths and brightened the sobriety of a grey carpet dotted with deadcones. Sweet scents floated downward upon the sad whisper that lives in everypine forest; then came suddenly a crisp rattle of little claws and a tinybarking, where two red squirrels made love, high aloft, amid the grey lichensand emerald haze of a great larch that gleamed like a green lamp through thenight of the dark surrounding foliage.

Martin Grimbal dropped his stick and flung down his body in the hushed andhidden dreamland of the wood. Now he knew that his hope had lied to him, thatthe judgment he prided himself upon, and which had prompted him to this greatdeed, was at fault. The more than common tact and delicacy of feeling he hadsometimes suspected he possessed in rare, exalted moments, were now shownvain ideas born from his own conceit; and the event had proved him no moresubtle, clever, or far-seeing than other men. Indeed, he rated himself as anabject blunderer and thought he saw how a great overwhelming fear, at thebottom of his worship of Chris, had been the only true note in all that pastwar of emotions. But he had refused to listen and pushed forward; and now hestood thus. Looking back in the light of his defeat, his previous temerityamazed him. His own ugliness, awkwardness, and general unfitness to be thehusband of Chris were ideas now thrust upward in all honesty to the top ofhis mind. No mock modesty or simulated delicacy inspired them, for afterdefeat a man is frank with himself. Whatever he may have pretended before heputs his love to the test, however he may have blinded himself as to his realfeelings and beliefs before he offers his heart, after the event has endedunfavourably his real soul stands naked before him and, according to hischaracter, he decides whether himself or the girl is the fool. Grimbalcriticised his own audacity with scanty compassion now; and the thought ofthe tears of Chris made him clench one hand and smash it hard again and againinto the palm of the other. No passionate protest rose in his mind againstthe selfish silence of Clement Hicks; he only saw his own blindness andmagnified it into an absolute offence against Chris. Presently, as thesunlight sank lower, and the straight stems of the pines glimmered red-goldagainst the deepening gloom, Martin retraced the scene that was past andrecalled her words and actions, her tears, the trembling of her mouth, andthat gesture when the wild flowers dropped from her hand and her fingers wentup to cover her eyes. Then a sudden desire mastered him: to possess thepurple of her bluebell bouquet. He knew she would not pick it up again whenhe was gone; so he returned, stood in that theatre of Fate beneath the rowan,saw where her body had pressed the grass, and found the fading flowers.

Then he turned to tramp home, with the truth gnawing his heart at last.The excitement was over, all flutter of hope and fear at rest. Only thatbitter fact of failure remained, with the knowledge that one, but yesterdayso essential and so near, had now vanished like a rainbow beyond hisreach.

Martin’s eyes were opened in the light of this experience. John cameinto his mind, and estimating his brother’s sufferings by his own, thestricken man found room in his sad heart for pity.

CHAPTER V
THE ZEAL OF SAM BONUS

Under conditions of spring and summer Newtake Farm flattered Will’shopes not a little. He worked like a giant, appropriated some of that creditbelonging to fine weather, and viewed the future with very considerabletranquillity. Of beasts he purchased wisely, being guided in that matter byMr. Lyddon; but for the rest he was content to take his own advice. Alreadyhis ambition extended beyond the present limits of his domain; already hecontemplated the possibility of reclaiming some of the outlying waste andenlarging his borders. If the Duchy might spread greedy fingers and inclose“newtakes,” why not the Venville tenants? Many besides Will askedthemselves that question; the position was indeed fruitful of disputes invarious districts, especially on certain questions involving cattle; and nomoorland Quarter breathed forth greater discontent against the powers thanthat of which Chagford was the central parish.

Sam Bonus, inspired by his master’s sanguine survey of life, toiledamain, believed all that Will predicted, and approved each enterprise heplanned; while as for Chris, in due time she settled at Newtake and undertookwoman’s work there with her customary thoroughness and energy. To herlot fell the poultry, the pair of fox-hound puppies that Will undertook tokeep for the neighbouring hunt, and all the interior economy and control ofthe little household.

On Sundays Phoebe heard of the splendid doings at Newtake; upon which sheenvied Chris her labours, and longed to be at Will’s right hand. Forthe present, however, Miller Lyddon refused his daughter permission even tovisit the farm; and she obeyed, despite her husband’s indignantprotests.

Thus matters stood while the sun shone brightly from summer skies. Will,when he visited Chagford market, talked to the grizzled farmers, elaboratedhis experience, shook his head or nodded it knowingly as they, in their turn,discussed the business of life, paid due respect to their wisdom, and offereda little of his own in exchange for it. That the older men lacked pluck washis secret conviction. The valley folk were braver; but the uplandagriculturists, all save himself, went in fear. Their eyes were careworn,their caution extreme; behind the summer they saw another shadow forevermoving; and the annual struggle with those ice-bound or water-logged monthsof the early year, while as yet the Moor had nothing for their stock, leftthem wearied and spiritless when the splendour of the summer came. Theyfarmed furtively, snatching at such good as appeared, distrusting their ownhusbandry, fattening the land with reluctance, cowering under the shadow ofwithered hopes and disappointments too numerous to count. Will pitied thismean spirit and, unfamiliar with wet autumns and hard winters on the highland, laughed at his fellow-countrymen. But they were kind and bid him becautious and keep his little nest-egg snug.

“Tie it up in stout leather, my son,” said a farmer fromGidleigh. “Ay, an’ fasten the bag wi’ a knot as’lltake ’e half an hour to undo; an’ remember, the less you open it,the better for your peace of mind.”

All of which good counsel Blanchard received with expressions ofgratitude, yet secretly held to be but the croaking of a past generation,stranded far behind that wave of progress on which he himself was advancingcrest-high.

It happened one evening, when Clement Hicks visited Newtake to go for awalk under the full moon with Chris, that he learnt she was away for a fewdays. This fact had been mentioned to Clement; but he forgot it, and nowfound himself here, with only Will and Sam Bonus for company. He accepted theyoung farmer’s invitation to supper, and the result proved unlucky inmore directions than one. During this meal Clem railed in surly vein againstthe whole order of things as it affected himself, and made egotisticalcomplaint as to the hardness of life; then, when his host began to offeradvice, he grew savage and taunted Will with his own unearned good fortune.Blanchard, weary after a day of tremendous physical exertion, made sharpanswer. He felt his old admiration for Clem Hicks much lessened of late, andit nettled him not a little that his friend should thus attribute his presentposition to the mere accident of a windfall. He was heartily sick of theother’s endless complaints, and now spoke roughly and to the point.

“What the devil’s the gude of this eternal bleat? You’mallus snarlin’ an’ gnashin’ your teeth ’gainst God,like a rat bitin’ the stick that’s killin’ it.”

“And why should God kill me? You’ve grown so wise of late,perhaps you know.”

“Why shouldn’t He? Why shouldn’t He kill you, or anyother man, if He wants the room of un for a better? Not that I believeparson’s stuff more ’n you; but grizzlin’ your guts tofiddlestrings won’t mend your fortune. Best to put your time into work,’stead o’ talk—same as me an’ Bonus. And as for mymoney, you knaw right well if theer’d been two thousand ’stead ofwan, I’d have shared it with Chris.”

“Easy to say! If there had been two, you would have said, ’Ifit was only four’! That’s human nature.”

“Ban’t my nature, anyway, to tell a lie!” burst outWill.

“Perhaps it’s your nature to do worse. What were you aboutlast Christmas?”

Blanchard set down knife and fork and looked the other in the face. Nonehad heard this, for Bonus, his meal ended, went off to the little tallet overa cattle-byre which was his private apartment.

“You’d rip that up again—you, who swore never toopen’ your mouth upon it?”

“You’re frightened now.”

“Not of you, anyway. But you’d best not to come up here nomore. I’m weary of you; I don’t fear you worse than a blind worm;but such as you are, you’ve grawed against me since my luck comed. Iwish Chris would drop you as easy as I can, for you’m teachin’her to waste her life, same as you waste yours.”

“Very well, I’ll go. We’re enemies henceforth, since youwish it so.”

“Blamed if you ban’t enough to weary Job!’Enemies’! It’s like a child talkin’.’Enemies’! D’you think I care a damn wan way ort’other? You’m so bad as Jan Grimbal wi’ his bigplay-actin’ talk. He’m gwaine to cut my tether some day.P’r’aps you’ll go an’ help un to do it! The past isdone, an’ no man who weern’t devil all through would go back onsuch a oath as you sweared to me. An’ you won’t. As towhat’s to come, you can’t hurt a straight plain-dealer, same asme, though you’m free an’ welcome to try if you pleaseto.”

“The future may take care of itself; and for your straight speakingI’ll give you mine. Go your way and I’ll go my way; but until youbeg my forgiveness for this night’s talk I’ll never cross yourthreshold again, or speak to you, or think of you.”

Clement rose from his unfinished food, picked up his hat, and vanished,and Will, dismissing the matter with a toss of his head and a contemptuousexpiration of breath, gave the poet’s plate of cold potato and bacon toa sheep-dog and lighted his pipe.

Not ten hours later, while yet some irritation at the beekeeper’sspleen troubled Blanchard’s thoughts as he laboured upon his land, avoice saluted him from the highway and he saw a friend.

“An’ gude-marnin’ to you, Martin. Another braave day,sure ’nough. Climb awver the hedge. You’m movin’ early.Ban’t eight o’clock.”

“I’m off to the ‘Grey Wethers,’ those old ruinedcircles under Sittaford Tor, you know. But I meant a visit to you as well.Bonus was in the farmyard and brought me with him.”

“Ess fay, us works, I tell ’e. We’m fightin’ therabbits now. The li’l varmints have had it all theer way tu long; butthis wire netting’ll keep ’em out the corn next year an’the turnips come autumn. How be you fearin’? I aint seen ’e thislongful time.”

“Well, thank you; and as busy as you in my way. I’m going towrite a book about the Dartmoor stones.”

“’S truth! Be you? Who’ll read it?”

“Don’t know yet. And, after all, I have found out little thatsharper eyes haven’t discovered already. Still, it fills my time. Andit is that I’m here about.”

“You can go down awver my land to the hut-circles an’ welcomewhenever you mind to.”

“Sure of it, and thank you; but it’s another thing justnow—your brother-in-law to be. I think perhaps, if he has leisure, hemight be useful to me. A very clever fellow, Hicks.”

But Will was in no humour to hear Clement praised just then, or suggestschemes for his advancement.

“He’m a weak sapling of a man, if you ax me. Allusgrumblin’, an’ soft wi’ it—as I knaw—nonebetter,” said Blanchard, watching Bonus struggle with the rabbitnetting.

“He’s out of his element, I think—a student—abookish man, like myself.”

“As like you as chalk’s like cheese—no more. His temper,tu! A bull in spring’s a fule to him. I’m weary of him an’his cleverness.”

“You see, if I may venture to say so, Chris—”

“I knaw all ’bout that. ’Tis like your gudeness to tryan’ put a li’l money in his pocket wi’out stepping on hiscorns. They ’m tokened. Young people ’s so muddle-headed. Beesindeed! Nice things to keep a wife an’ bring up a fam’ly on!An’ he do nothin’ but write rhymes, an’ tear ’em upagain, an’ cuss his luck, wi’out tryin’ to mend it. Ithought something of un wance, when I was no more ’n a bwoy, but as Iget up in years I see the emptiness of un.”

“He would grow happy and sweeter-hearted if he could marry yoursister.”

“Not him! Of course, if it’s got to be, it will be. Iban’t gwaine to see Chris graw into an auld maid. An’ comebimebye, when I’ve saved a few hunderd, I shall set ’em upmyself. But she’s makin’ a big mistake, an’, to a friend, Idoan’t mind tellin’ ’e ’tis so.”

“I hope you’re wrong. They’ll be happy together. Theyhave great love each for the other. But, of course, that’s nothing todo with me. I merely want Hicks to undertake some clerical work for me, as amatter of business, and I thought you might tell me the best way to tacklehim without hurting his feelings. He’s a proud man, I fancy.”

“Ess; an’ pride’s a purty fulish coat for poverty,ban’t it? I’ve gived that man as gude advice as ever I gived anyman; but what’s well-thought-out wisdom to the likes of him? Get un ajob if you mind to. I shouldn’t—not till he shaws better metaland grips the facts o’ life wi’ a tighter hand.”

“I’ll sound him as delicately as I can. It may be that hisself-respect would strengthen if he found his talents appreciated and able tocommand a little money. He wants something of that sort—eh?”

“Doan’t knaw but what a hiding wouldn’t be so gude forun as anything,” mused Will. There was no animosity in the reflection.His ill-temper had long since vanished, and he considered Clement as he mighthave considered a young, wayward dog which had erred and brought itselfwithin reach of the lash.

“I was welted in my time hard an’ often, an’ be none theworse,” he continued.

Martin smiled and shook his head.

“Might have served him once; too late now for that remedy, Ifear.”

There was a brief pause, then Will changed the conversation abruptly.

“How’s your brother Jan?” he asked.

“He’s furnishing his new house and busy about the formation ofa volunteer corps. I met him not long since in Fingle Gorge.”

“Be you friends now, if I may ax?”

“I tried to be. We live and learn. Things happened to me a while agothat taught me what I didn’t know. I spoke to him and reminded him ofthe long years in Africa. Blood’s thicker than water,Blanchard.”

“So ’tis. What did he make of it?”

“He looked up and hesitated. Then he shook his head and set his faceagainst me, and said he would not have my friendship as a gift.”

“He’s a gude hater.”

“Time will bring the best of him to the top again some day. Iunderstand him, I think. We possess more in common than people suppose. Wefeel deeply and haven’t a grain of philosophy between us.”

“Well, I reckon I’ve allus been inclined to deep ways ofthought myself; and work up here, wi’ nothing to break your thoughtsbut the sight of a hawk or the twinkle of a rabbit’s scut, be veryripening to the mind. If awnly Phoebe was here! Sometimes I’m in a moodto ramp down-long an’ hale her home, whether or no. But I sweats thelonging out o’ me wi’ work.”

“The day will soon come. Time drags with me just now, somehow, butit races with you, I’ll warrant. I must get on with my book, and seeHicks and try and persuade him to help me.”

“’Tis like your big nature to put it that way. You’rn tusoft-hearted a man to dwell in a house all alone. Let the dead stones bide,Martin, an’ look round for a wife. Theer’s more gude advice.Blamed if I doan’t advise everybody nowadays! Us must all come to it.Look round about an’ try to love a woman. ’T will surprise’e an’ spoil sleep if you can bring yourself to it. But thecuddlin’ of a soft gal doan’t weaken man’s thews and sinewsneither. It hardens ’em, I reckon, an’ puts fight in the mostpoor-spirited twoad as ever failed in love. ’Tis a manly thing,an’ ’boldens the heart like; an’, arter she’s said‘Yes’ to ’e, you’ll find a wonnerful change comeawver life. ’Tis all her, then. The most awnself8 man feels itmore or less, an’ gets shook out of his shell. You’ll knaw someday. Of course I speaks as wan auld in love an’ married into thebargain.”

“You speak from experience, I know. And is Phoebe as wise as you,Will?”

“Waitin’ be harder for a wummon. They’ve less to busythe mind, an’ less mind to busy, for that matter.”

“That’s ungallant.”

“I doan’t knaw. ’Tis true, anyway. I shouldn’thave failed in love wi’ her if she’d been cleverer’nme.”

“Or she with you, perhaps?”

“P’r’aps not. Anyway as it stands we’m halves of awhole: made for man and wife. I reckon I weern’t wan to miss my way inlove like some poor fules, as wastes it wheer they might see’twasn’t wanted if they’d got eyes in their heads.”

“What it is to be so wise!”

Will laughed joyously in his wisdom.

“Very gude of ’e to say that. ’Tis a happy thing to havesense enough. Not but we larn an’ larn.”

“So we should. Well, I must be off now. I’m safe on the Moorto-day!”

“Ess, by the looks of it. Theer’ll likely come some mist afternoon, but shouldn’t be very thick.”

So they parted, Blanchard having unconsciously sown the seed of an uglycrop that would take long in reaping. His remarks concerning Clement Hickswere safe enough with Martin, but another had heard them as he worked withinearshot of his master. Bonus, though his judgment was scanty, entertained aprofound admiration for Will; and thus it came about, that a few days later,when in Chagford, he called at the “Green Man” and made somegrave mischief while he sang his master’s praises. He extolled theglorious promise of Newtake, and the great improvements already visiblethereon; he reflected not a little of Will’s own flamboyant manner tothe secret entertainment of those gathered in the bar, and presently he drewdown upon himself some censure.

Abraham Chown, the police inspector, first shook his head and prophesiedspeedy destruction of all these hopes; and then Gaffer Lezzard criticisedstill more forcibly.

“All this big-mouthed talk’s cracklin’ of thorns under apotsherd,” hesaid. “You an’ him be just two childernplayin’ at shop in the gutter, an’ the gutter’s wheeryou’ll find yourselves ’fore you think to. What do the manknaw? Nothin’.”

“Blanchard’s a far-seein’ chap,” answered SamBonus stoutly. “An’ a gude master; an’ us’ll sticktogether, fair or foul.”

“You may think it, but wait,” said a small man in the corner.Charles Coomstock, nephew of the widow of that name already mentioned, was awheelwright by trade and went lame, owing to an accident with hot iron inyouth.

“Ax Clem,” continued Mr. Coomstock. “For all his crankyways he knaws Blanchard better’n most of us, an’ I heard un sizeup the chap t’other day in a word. He said he hadn’t wit enoughto keep his brains sweet.”

“He’m a braave wan to talk,” fired back Bonus.“Him! A poor luny as caan’t scrape brass to keep a wife on.Blanchard, or me either, could crack un in half like a dead stick.”

“Not that that’s anything for or against,” declaredGaffer Lezzard. “Power of hand’s nought against brain.”

“It gaws a tidy long way ’pon Dartymoor, however,”declared Bonus. “An’ Blanchard doan’t set no’mazin’ store on Hicks neither, if it comes to words. I heard unsay awnly t’other forenoon that the man was a weak saplin’, allusgrumblin’, an’ might be better for a gude hiding.”

Now Charles Coomstock did not love his cousin Clement. Indeed, none ofthose who had, or imagined they had, any shadow of right to a place in MaryCoomstock’s will cared much for others similarly situated; but thelittle wheelwright was by nature a spreader of rumours and reports—anintelligencer, malignant from choice. He treasured this assertion, therefore,together with one or two others. Sam, now at his third glass, felt his heartwarm to Will. He would have fought with tongue or fist on his behalf, andpresently added to the mischief he had already done.

“To shaw ’e, neighbours, just the man he is, I may tell’e that a larned piece like Martin Grimbal ackshually comed all the wayto Newtake not long since to ax advice of un. An’ ’twas on theidentical matter of this same Hicks. Mr. Grimbal wanted to give un some workto do, ’bout a book or some such item; an’ Will he ups and sez,‘Doan’t,’ just short an’ straight like that theer.‘Doan’t,’ he sez. ‘Let un shaw what’s in unfirst’; an’ t’other nodded when he said it.”

Having now attested his regard for the master of Newtake, Sam jogged off.He was pleased with himself, proud of having silenced more than onedetractor, and as his little brain turned the matter over, his lips parted ina grin.

Coomstock meanwhile had limped into the cottage where Clement lived withhis mother. He did not garble his news, for it needed no artistic touch; and,with nice sense of his perfect and effective instrument, he realised theweapon was amply sharp enough without whetting, and employed the story as itcame into his hand. But Mr. Coomstock was a little surprised and disappointedat his cousin’s reserve and self-restraint. He had hoped for a heartyoutburst of wrath and the assurance of wide-spreading animosity, yet no suchthing happened, and the talebearer presently departed in some surprise. Mrs.Hicks, indeed, had shrilled forth a torrent of indignation upon the solesubject equal to raising such an emotion in her breast, for Clem was her onlyson. The man, however, took it calmly, or appeared to do so; and even whenCharles Coomstock was gone he refused to discuss the matter more.

But had his cousin, with Asmodeus-flight, beheld Clement during thesubsequent hours which he spent alone, it is possible that the wheelwrighthad felt amply repaid for his trouble. Not until dawn stole grey along thevillage street; not until sparrows in the thatch above him began theirsalutation to the morning; not until Chagford rookery had sent forth aharmonious multitude to the hills and valleys did Clement’s aching eyesfind sleep. For hours he tossed and turned, now trembling with rage, nowprompted by some golden thread in the tangled mazes of his mind to discreditthe thing reported. Blanchard, as it seemed, had come deliberately andmaliciously between him and an opportunity to win work. He burnt to know whathe should do; and, like a flame of forked light against the sombre backgroundof his passion, came the thought of another who hated Blanchard too.Will’s secret glowed and gleamed like the writing on the wall; lookingout, Hicks saw it stamped on the dark earth and across the starry night; andhe wished to God that the letters might so remain to be read by the worldwhen it wakened. Finally he slept and dreamed that he had been to the RedHouse, that he had spoken to John Grimbal, and returned home again with a bagof gold.

When his mother came to call him he was lying half uncovered in a wildconfusion of scattered bed-clothes; and his arms and body were jerking as adog’s that dreams. She saw a sort of convulsion pinch and pucker hisface; then he made some inarticulate sounds—as it were a franticnegation; and then the noise of his own cry awakened him. He looked wildlyround and lifted his hands as though he expected to find them full.

“Where is it? Where is it? The bag of money? I won’t—Ican’t—Where is it, I say?”

“I wish I knawed, lovey. Dream-gawld, I’m afeared.You’ve bin lying cold, an’ that do allus breed bad thoughts insleep. ’Tis late; I done breakfast an hour ago. An’ Okehamptonday, tu. Coach’ll be along in twenty minutes.”

He sighed and dragged the clothes over himself.

“You’d best go to-day, mother. The ride will do you good, andI have plenty to fill my time at home.”

Mrs. Hicks brightened perceptibly before this prospect. She was a little,faded woman, with a brown face and red-rimmed, weak eyes, washed by manyyears of sorrow to the palest nondescript colour. She crept through the worldwith no ambition but to die out of the poorhouse, no prayer but a petitionthat the parish might not bury her at the end, no joy save in her son. Lifeat best was a dreary business for her, and an occasional trip to Okehamptonrepresented about the only brightness that ever crept into it. Now shebustled off full of excitement to get the honey, and, having put on awithered bonnet and black shawl, presently stood and waited for theomnibus.

Her son dwelt with his thoughts that day, and for him there was no peaceor pleasure. Full twenty times he determined to visit Newtake at once andhave it out with Will; but his infirmity of purpose acted like a drag uponthis resolution, and his pride also contributed a force against it. Once heactually started, and climbed up Middledown to reach the Moor beyond; then hechanged his mind again as new fires of enmity swept through it. His wrongsrankled black and bitter; and, faint under them, he presently turned and wenthome shivering though the day was hot.

CHAPTER VI
A SWARM OF BEES

Above Chagford rise those lofty outposts of Dartmoor, named respectivelyNattadown and Middledown. The first lies nearer to the village, and upon itsside, beneath a fir wood which crowns one spur, spread steep wastes of fernand furze. This spot was a favourite one with Clement Hicks, and a fortnightafter the incidents last related he sat there smoking his pipe, while hiseyes roved upon the scene subtended before him. The hill fell abruptly away,and near the bottom glimmered whitewashed cots along a winding road. Stilllower down extended marshy common land, laced with twinkling watercourses anddotted with geese; while beyond, in many a rise and fall and verdantundulation, the country rolled onwards through Teign valley and upwardstowards the Moor. The expanse seen from this lofty standpoint extended like amighty map, here revealing a patchwork of multicoloured fields, hereexhibiting tracts of wild waste and wood, here beautifully indicating by amisty line, seen across ascending planes of forest, the course of the distantriver, here revealing the glitter of remote waters damaskeened with gold.Little farms and outlying habitations were scattered upon the land; andbeyond them, rising steadily to the sky-line, the regions of the Moorrevealed their larger attributes, wider expanses, more savage and abruptconfigurations of barren heath and weathered tor. The day passed graduallyfrom gloom to brightness, and the distance, already bathed in light, gleamedout of a more sombre setting, where the foreground still reflected theshadows of departing clouds, like a picture of great sunshine framed indarkness. But the last vapours quickly vanished; the day grew very hot and,as the sky indicated noon, all things beneath Clement’s eyes weresoaked in a splendour of June sunlight. He watched a black thread lyingacross a meadow five miles away. First it stretched barely visible athwartthe distance green; in half an hour it thickened without apparent means;within an hour it had absorbed an eighth part at least of the entire space.Though the time was very unusual for tilling of land, Hicks knew that thecombined operations of three horses, a man, and a plough were responsible forthis apparition, and he speculated as to how many tremendous physical andspiritual affairs of life are thus wrought by agents not visible to thebeholder. Thus were his own thoughts twisted back to those speculations whichnow perpetually haunted them like the incubus of a dream. What would WillBlanchard say if he woke some morning to find his secret in JohnGrimbal’s keeping? And, did any such thing happen, there must certainlybe a mystery about it; for Blanchard could no more prove how his enemy cameto learn his secret than might some urban stranger guess how the dark linegrew without visible means on the arable ground under Gidleigh.

From these dangerous thoughts he was roused by the sight of a womanstruggling up the steep hill towards him. The figure came slowly on, andmoved with some difficulty. This much Hicks noted, and then suddenly realisedthat he beheld his mother. She knew his haunt and doubtless sought him now.Rising, therefore, he hastened to meet her and shorten her arduous climb.Mrs. Hicks was breathless when Clement reached her, and paused a while, withher hand pressed to her side, before she could speak. At length she addressedhim, still panting between the syllables.

“My heart’s a pit-pat! Hurry, hurry, for the Lard’ssake! The bees be playin’9 an’they’ll call Johnson if you ban’t theer directlyminute!”

Johnson, a thatcher, was the only other man in Chagford who shared anyknowledge of apiarian lore with Clement.

“Sorry you should have had the journey only for that, mother.’Twas so unlikely a morning, I never thought to hear of a swarm to-day.I’ll start at once, and you go home quietly. You’re sadly out ofbreath. Where is it?”

“To the Red House—Mr. Grimbal’s. It may lead to thehandlin’ of his hives for all us can say, if you do the job vitty, asyou ’m bound to.”

“John Grimbal’s!”

Hicks stood still as though this announcement had turned him intostone.

“Ess fay! Why do ’e stand glazin’ like that? A chap rodeout for ’e ’pon horseback; an’ a bit o’ time be losta’ready. They ’m swarmin’ in the orchard, an’ nobodyknaws more ’n the dead what to be at.”

“I won’t go. Let them get Johnson.”

“‘Won’t go’! An’ five shillin’hangin’ to it, an’ Lard knaws what more in time to come!‘Won’t go’! An’ my poor legs throbbin’something cruel with climbin’ for ’e!”

“I—I’m not going there—not to that man. I havereason.”

“O my gude God!” burst out the old woman, “what’ll’e do next? An’ me—as worked so hard to find’e—an’ so auld as I am! Please, please, Clem, for yourmother—please. Theer’s bin so little money in the house of latedays, an’ less to come. Doan’t, if you love me, as I knaws wellyou do, turn your back ’pon the scant work as falls in best o’times.”

The man reflected with troubled eyes, and his mother took his arm andtried to pull him down the hill.

“Is John Grimbal at home?” he asked.

“How shude I knaw? An’ what matter if he is? Your business iswith the bees, not him. An’ you’ve got no quarrel with himbecause that Blanchard have. After what Will done against you, youneedn’t be so squeamish as to make his enemies yourn.”

“My business is with the bees—as you say, mother,” heanswered slowly, repeating her words.

“Coourse ’tis! Who knaws a half of what you knaw ’bout’em? That’s my awn braave Clem! Why, there might be a morto’ gude money for a man like you at the Red House!”

“I’ll go. My business is with the bees. You walk along slowly,or sit down a while and get your breath again. I’ll hurry.”

She praised him and blessed him, crying after him as hedeparted,—“You’ll find all set out for ’e—veil,an’ gloves, an’ a couple of bee-butts to your hand.”

The man did not reply, but soon stumbled down the steep hill and vanished;then five-and-twenty minutes later, with the implements of his trade, hestood at the gate of the Red House, entered, and hastened along the newlyplanted avenue.

John Grimbal had not yet gone into residence, but he dwelt at present inhis home farm hard by; and from this direction he now appeared to meet thebee-keeper. The spectacle of Grimbal, stern, grave, and older of manner thanformerly, impressed Hicks not a little. In silence, after the firstsalutation, they proceeded towards an adjacent orchard; and from here as theyapproached arose an extravagant and savage din, as though a dozen baiteddogs, each with a tin kettle at his tail, were madly galloping down somestone-paved street, and hurtling one against the other as they ran.

“They can stop that row,” said Hicks. “’Tis anold-fashioned notion that it hurries swarming, but I never found it doso.”

“You know best, though beating on tin pots and cans at such atime’s a custom as old as the hills.”

“And vain as many others equally old. I have a different method tohurry swarming.”

Now they passed over the snows of a million fallen petals, while yet goodstore of flowers hung upon the trees. June basked in the heart of the orchardand a delicious green sweetness and freshness marked the moment. Crimson andcream, all splashed with sunlight, here bloomed against a sky of summer blue,here took a shade from the new-born leaves and a shadow from branch andbough. To the eye, a mottled, dimpled glory of apple-blossom spread abovegrey trunks and twisted branches, shone through deep vistas of the orchard,brightened all the distance; while upon the ear, now growing and deepening,arose one sustained and musical susurration of innumerable wings.

“You will be wise to stay here,” said Hicks. He himselfstopped a moment, opened his bag, put on his veil and gloves, and tucked histrousers inside his stockings.

“Not I. I wish to see the hiving.”

Twenty yards distant a play of light and glint and twinkle of many franticbees converged upon one spot, as stars numerically increase towards the heartof a cluster. The sky was full of flying insects, and their wings sparkledbrightly in the sun; though aloft, with only the blue for background, theyappeared as mere dark points filling the air in every direction. The swarmhung at the very heart of a little glade. Here two ancient apple-trees stoodapart, and from one low bough, stretched at right angles to the parent stem,and not devoid of leaves and blossoms, there depended a grey-brown mass fromwhich a twinkling, flashing fire leaped forth as from gems bedded in thematrix. Each transparent wing added to the dazzle under direct sunlight; thewhole agglomeration of life was in form like a bunch of grapes, and where itthinned away to a point the bees dropped off by their own weight into thegrass below, then rose again and either flew aloft in wide and circlingflight or rushed headlong upon the swarm once more. Across the iridescentcluster passed a gleam and glow of peacock and iris, opal andmother-of-pearl; while from its heart ascended a deep murmur, telling oftremendous and accumulated energy suddenly launched into this peaceful gladeof apple-blossom and ambient green. The frenzy of the moment held all thatlittle laborious people. There was none of the concerted action to beobserved at warping, or simultaneous motion of birds in air and fishes inwater; but each unit of the shining army dashed on its own erratic orbit,flying and circling, rushing hither and thither, and sooner or laterreturning to join the queen upon the bough.

The glory of the moment dominated one and all. It was their hour—abrief, mad ecstasy in short lives of ceaseless toil. To-day they desistedfrom their labours, and the wild-flowers of the waste places, and theold-world flowers in cottage gardens were alike forgotten. Yet their year hadalready seen much work and would see more. Sweet pollen from many a bluebelland anemone was stored and sealed for a generation unborn; the asphodels andviolets, the velvet wallflower and yellow crocuses had already yieldedtreasure; and now new honey jewels were trembling in the trumpets of thehoneysuckle, at the heart of the wild rose, within the deep cups of thecandid and orange lilies, amid the fairy caps of columbines, and the petalsof clove-pinks. There the bees now living laboured, and those that followedwould find their sweets in the clover,—scarlet and purple andwhite,—in the foxgloves, in the upland deserts of the heather withtheir oases of euphrasy and sweet wild thyme.

“Is it a true swarm or a cast?” inquired John Grimbal.

“A swarm, without much question, though it dawned an unlikely dayfor an old queen to leave the hive. Still, the weather came over splendidenough by noon, and they knew it was going to. Where are your butts? You see,young maiden queens go further afield than old ones. The latter take but ashort flight for choice.”

“There they are,” said Grimbal, pointing to a row of thatchedhives not far off. “So that should be an old queen, by your showing. Isshe there?”

“I fancy so by the look of them. If the queen doesn’t join,the bees break up, of course, and go back to the butt. But I’ve broughta couple of queens with me.”

“I’ve seen a good few drones about the boardlately.”

“Sure sign of swarming at this season. Inside, if you could look,you’d find plenty of queen cells, and some capped over. You’dcome across a murder or two as well. The old queens make short work of theyoung ones sometimes.”

“Woman-like.”

Hicks admitted the criticism was just. Then, being now upon his ownground, he continued to talk, and talk well, until he won a surly complimentfrom his employer.

“You’re a bee-master, in truth! Nobody’ll deny youthat.”

Clement laughed rather bitterly.

“Yes, a king of bees. Not a great kingdom for man torule.”

The other studied his dark, unhappy face. Trouble had quickenedGrimbal’s own perceptions, and made him a more accurate judge of sorrowwhen he saw it than of yore.

“You’ve tried to do greater things and failed, perhaps,”he said.

“Why, perhaps I have. A man’s a hive himself, I’vethought sometimes—a hive of swarming, seething thoughts and experiencesand passions, that come and go as easily as any bees, and store the heart andbrain.”

“Not with honey, I’ll swear.”

“No—gall mostly.”

“And every hive’s got a queen bee too, for that matter,”said Grimbal, rather pleased at his wit responsible for the image.

“Yes; and the queens take each other’s places quick enough,for we’re fickle brutes.”

“A strange swarm we hive in our hearts, God knows.”

“And it eats out our hearts for our pains.”

“You’ve found out that, have you?” asked Johncuriously.

“Long ago.”

“Everybody does, sooner or later.”

There was a pause. Overhead the multitude dwindled while the greatglimmering cluster on the tree correspondingly increased, and the fiercehumming of the bees was like the sound of a fire. Clement feared nothing, buthe had seen few face a hiving without some distrust. The man beside him,however, stood with his hands in his pockets, indifferent and quiteunprotected.

“You will be wiser to stand farther away, Mr. Grimbal. You’reunlikely to come off scot-free if you keep so close.”

“What do I care? I’ve been stung by worse thaninsects.”

“And I also,” answered Clement, with such evident passion thatthe other grew a little interested. He had evidently pricked a sore point inthis moody creature.

“Was it a woman stung you?”

“No, no; don’t heed me.”

Clement was on guard over himself again. “Your business is withbees”—his mother’s words echoed in his mind to the pulsingmonotone of the swarm. He tried to change the subject, sent for a pail ofwater, and drew a large syringe from his bag, though the circumstances reallyrendered this unnecessary. But John Grimbal, always finding a sort ofpleasure in his own torment, took occasion to cross-question Clement.

“I suppose I’m laughed at still in Chagford, am I not? Notthat it matters to me.”

“I don’t think so; an object of envy, rather, for good wivesare easier to get than great riches.”

“That’s your opinion, is it? I’m not so sure. Are youmarried?”

“No.”

“Going to be, I’ll wager, if you think good wives can bepicked off blackberry bushes.”

“I don’t say that at all. But I am going to be marriedcertainly. I’m fortunate and unfortunate. I’ve won a prize,but—well, honey’s cheap. I must wait.”

“D’ you trust her? Is waiting so easy?”

“Yes, I trust her, as I trust the sun to swing up out of the eastto-morrow, to set in the west to-night. She’s the only being of my ownbreed I do trust. As for the other question, no—waiting isn’teasy.”

“Nor yet wise. I shouldn’t wait. Tell me who she is. Womeninterest me, and the taking of ’em in marriage.”

Hicks hesitated. Here he was drifting helpless under this man’s hardeyes—helpless and yet not unwilling. He told himself that he was safeenough and could put a stop on his mouth when he pleased. Besides, JohnGrimbal was not only unaware that the bee-keeper knew anything againstBlanchard, but had yet to learn that anybody else did,—that there evenexisted facts unfavourable to him. Something, however, told Hicks thatmention of the common enemy would result from this present meeting, and theother’s last word brought the danger, if danger it might be, a stepnearer. Clement hesitated before replying to the question; then he answeredit.

“Chris Blanchard,” he said shortly, “though thatwon’t interest you.”

“But it does—a good deal. I’ve wondered, some time, whyI didn’t hear my own brother was going to marry her. He got struck allof a heap there, to my certain knowledge. However, he ’s escaped. TheLord be good to you, and I take my advice to marry back again. Think twice,if she’s made of the same stuff as her brother.”

“No, by God! Is the moon made of the same stuff as the marshlights?”

Concentrated bitterness rang in the words, and a man much less acute thanGrimbal had guessed he stood before an enemy of Will. John saw the bee-keeperstart at this crucial moment; he observed that Hicks had said a thing he muchregretted and uttered what he now wished unspoken. But the confession wastorn bare and laid out naked under Grimbal’s eyes, and he knew thatanother man besides himself hated Will. The discovery made his face growredder than usual. He pulled at his great moustache and thrust it between histeeth and gnawed it. But he contrived to hide the emotion in his mind fromClement Hicks, and the other did not suspect, though he regretted his ownpassion. Grimbals next words further disarmed him. He appeared to knownothing whatever about Will, though his successful rival interested himstill.

“They call the man Jack-o’-Lantern, don’t they?Why?”

“I can’t tell you. It may be, though, that he is erratic anduncertain in his ways. You cannot predict what he will do next.”

“That’s nothing against him. He’s farming on the Moornow, isn’t he?”

“Yes.”

“Where did he come from when he dropped out of the clouds to marryPhoebe Lyddon?”

The question was not asked with the least idea of its enormoussignificance. Grimbal had no notion that any mystery hung over that autumntime during which he made love to Phoebe and Will was absent from Chagford.He doubted not that for the asking he could learn how Will had occupiedhimself; but the subject did not interest him, and he never dreamed theperiod held a secret. The sudden consternation bred in Hicks by this questionastounded him not a little. Indeed, each man amazed the other, Grimbal by hisquestion, Hicks by the attitude which he assumed before it.

“I’m sure I haven’t the least idea,” he answered;but his voice and manner had already told Grimbal all he cared to learn atthe moment; and that was more than his wildest hopes had even risen to. Hesaw in the other’s face a hidden thing, and by his demeanour that itwas an important one. Indeed, the bee-keeper’s hesitation and evidentalarm before this chance question proclaimed the secret vital. For thepresent, and before Clement’s evident alarm, Grimbal dismissed thematter lightly; but he chose to say a few more words upon it, for the expresspurpose of setting Hicks again at his ease.

“You don’t like your future brother-in-law?”

“Yes, yes, I do. We’ve been friends all our lives—allour lives. I like him well, and am going to marry his sister—only I seehis faults, and he sees mine—that’s all.”

“Take my advice and shut your eyes to his faults. That’s thebest way if you are marrying into his family. I’ve got cause to thinkill enough of the scamp, as you know and everybody knows; but life’stoo short for remembering ill turns.”

A weight rolled off Clement’s heart. For a moment he had feared thatthe man knew something; but now he began to suspect Grimbal’s questionto be what in reality it was—casual interrogation, without any shadowof knowledge behind it. Hicks therefore breathed again and trusted that hisown emotion had not been very apparent. Then, taking the water, he shot athin shower into the air, an operation often employed to hasten swarming, andpossibly calculated to alarm the bees into apprehension of rain.

“Do wasps ever get into the hives?” asked Mr. Grimbalabruptly.

“Aye, they do; and wax-moths and ants, and even mice. These thingseat the honey and riddle and ruin the comb. Then birds eat the bees, andspiders catch them. Honey-bees do nothing but good that I can see, yet Nature’s pleased to fill the world with their enemies. Queen and drone andthe poor unsexed workers—all have their troubles; and so has the littleworld of the hive. Yet during the few weeks of a bee’s life he does anamount of work beyond imagination to guess at.”

“And still finds time to steal from the hives of hisfellows?”

“Why, yes, if the sweets are exposed and can be tasted for nothing.Most of us might turn robbers on the same terms. Now I can take them, and asplendid swarm, too—finest I’ve seen this year.”

The business of getting the glittering bunch of bees into a hive was thenproceeded with, and soon Clement had shaken the mass into a big straw butt,his performance being completely successful. In less than half an hour allwas done, and Hicks began to remove his veil and shake a bee or two off therim of his hat.

John Grimbal rubbed his cheek, where a bee had stung him under the eye,and regarded Hicks thoughtfully.

“If you happen to want work at any time, it might be within my powerto find you some here,” he said, handing the bee-master five shillings.Clement thanked his employer and declared he would not forget the offer; hethen departed, and John Grimbal returned to his farm.

CHAPTER VII
AN OFFER OF MARRIAGE

Billy Blee, who has appeared thus far as a disinterested spectator ofother people’s affairs, had yet his own active and personal interestsin life. Them he pursued, at odd times, and in odd ways, with admirablepertinacity; and as a crisis is now upon him and chance knits the outcome ofit into the main fabric of this narrative, Billy and his actions commandattention.

Allusion has already been made, and that frequently, to one WidowCoomstock, whose attractions of income, and the ancillary circumstance of anample though elderly person, had won for her certain admirers more ancientthan herself. Once butt-woman, or sextoness, of Chagford Church, the lady haddwelt alone, as Miss Mary Reed, for fifty-five years—not becauseopportunity to change her state was denied her, but owing to the fact thatexperience of life rendered her averse to all family responsibilities. MaryReed had seen her sister, the present Mrs. Hicks, take a husband, had watchedthe result of that step; and this, with a hundred parallel instances ofmisery following on matrimony, had determined her against it. But when oldBenjamin Coomstock, the timber merchant and coal-dealer, became a widower,this ripe maiden, long known to him, was approached before his wife’sgrave became ready for a stone. To Chagford’s amazement he so farbemeaned himself as to offer the sextoness his hand, and she accepted it.Then, left a widow after two years with her husband, Mary Coomstocklanguished a while, and changed her methods of life somewhat. The roomydwelling-house of her late partner became her property and a sufficientincome went with it. Mr. Coomstock’s business had been sold in hislifetime; the money was invested, and its amount no man knew, though rumour,which usually magnifies such matters, spoke of a very handsome figure; andMrs. Coomstock’s lavish manner of life lent confirmation to the report.But though mundane affairs had thus progressed with her, the woman’smarriage was responsible for very grave mental and moral deterioration.Prosperity, and the sudden exchange of a somewhat laborious life for the easeand comfort of independence, played havoc with Widow Coomstock. She grew lax,gross in habit and mind, self-indulgent, and ill-tempered. When her husbanddied her old friends lost sight of her, while only those who had reason tohope for a reward still kept in touch with her, and indeed forced themselvesupon her notice. Everybody predicted she would take another husband; but,though it was now nearly eight years since Mr. Coomstock’s death, hiswidow still remained one. Gaffer Lezzard and Billy Blee had long pursued herwith varying advantage, and the latter, though his proposals were declined,yet saw in each refusal an indication to encourage future hope.

Now, urged thereto by whispers that Mr. Lezzard had grown the richer bythree hundred pounds on the death of a younger brother in Australia, Billydetermined upon another attack. He also was worth something—less indeedthan three hundred pounds; though, seeing that he had been earning reasonablygood wages for half a century, the fact argued but poor thrift in Mr. Blee.Of course Gaffer Lezzard’s alleged legacy could hardly be a sum tocount with Mrs. Coomstock, he told himself; yet his rival was a man of wideexperience and an oily tongue: while, apart from any question of opposition,he felt that another offer of marriage might now be made with decorum, seeingthat it was a full year since the last. Mr. Blee therefore begged for ahalf-holiday, put on his broadcloth, blacked his boots, anointed hislion-monkey fringe and scanty locks with pomatum, and set forth. Mrs.Coomstock’s house stood on the hill rising into the village fromChagford Bridge. A kitchen garden spread behind it; in front pale purplepoppies had the ill-kept garden to themselves.

As he approached, Mr. Blee felt a leaden weight about his newly polishedboots, and a distinct flutter at the heart, or in a less poetical portion ofhis frame.

“Same auld feeling,” he reflected. “Gormed if Iban’t gettin’ sweaty ’fore the plaace comes in sight!’Tis just the sinkin’ at the navel, like what I had when I smokedmy first pipe, five-and-forty years agone!”

The approach of another man steadied Billy, and on recognising him Mr.Blee forgot all about his former emotions and gasped in the clutch of a newone. It was Mr. Lezzard, evidently under some impulse of genial exhilaration.There hung an air of aggression about him, but, though he moved like aconqueror, his gait was unsteady and his progress slow. He had wit to guessBilly’s errand, however, for he grinned, and leaning against the hedgewaved his stick in the air above his head.

“Aw, Jimmery! if it ban’t Blee; an’ prinked out for aweddin’, tu, by the looks of it!”

“Not yourn, anyway,” snapped back the suitor.

“Well, us caan’t say ’zactly—world ’s fullo’ novelties.”

“Best pull yourself together, Gaffer, or bad-hearted folks might sayyou was bosky-eyed.10 That ban’t no novelty anyway, but’t is early yet to be drunk—just three o’clock by thechurch.”

Mr. Blee marched on without waiting for a reply. He knew Lezzard to bemore than seventy years old and usually regarded the ancient man’srivalry with contempt; but he felt uneasy for a few moments, until the frontdoor of Mrs. Coomstock’s dwelling was opened to him by the ladyherself.

“My stars! You? What a terrible coorious thing!” she said.

“Why for?”

“Come in the parlour. Theer! coorious ban’t theword!”

She laughed, a silly laugh and loud. Then she shambled before him to thesitting-room, and Billy, familiar enough with the apartment, noticed a bottleof gin in an unusual position upon the table. The liquor stood, with twoglasses and a jug of water, between the Coomstock family Bible, on its greenworsted mat, and a glass shade containing the stuffed carcass of afox-terrier. The animal was moth-eaten and its eyes had fallen out. It couldbe considered in no sense decorative; but sentiment allowed the corpse thiscentral position in a sorry scheme of adornment, for the late timber merchanthad loved it. Upon Mrs. Coomstock’s parlour walls hung Biblical Germanprints in frames of sickly yellow wood; along the window-ledge geraniums andbegonias flourished, though gardeners had wondered to see their luxuriance,for the windows were seldom opened.

“’It never rains but it pours,’” said WidowCoomstock. She giggled again and looked at Billy. She was very fat, and thered of her face deepened to purple unevenly about the sides of her nose. Hereyes were bright and black. She had opened a button or two at the top of herdress, and her general appearance, from her grey hair to her slattern heels,was disordered. Her cap had fallen off on to the ground, and Mr. Blee noticedthat her parting was as a broad turnpike road much tramped upon by Time. Theroom smelt stuffy beyond its wont and reeked not only of spirits but tobacco.This Billy sniffed inquiringly, and Mrs. Coomstock observed the action.“’Twas Lezzard,” she said. “I like to see a man incomfort. You can smoke if you mind to. Coomstock always done it, and aman’s no man without, though a dirty habit wheer they doan’t usea spittoon.”

She smiled, but to herself, and was lost in thought a moment. He saw hereyes very bright and her head wagging. Then she looked at him and laughedagain.

“You’m a fine figure of a man, tu,” she said, apropos ofnothing in particular. But the newcomer understood. He rumpled his hair andsnorted and frowned at the empty glasses.

“Have a drop?” suggested Mrs. Coomstock; but Billy, of opinionthat his love had already enjoyed refreshment sufficient for the time,refused and answered her former remark.

“A fine figure?—yes, Mary Coomstock, though not so fine for aman as you for a woman. Still, a warm-blooded chap an’ younger than myyears.”

“I’ve got my share o’ warm blood, tu, Billy.”

It was apparent. Mrs. Coomstock’s plump neck bulged in creases overthe dirty scrap of white linen that represented a collar, while her massivebust seemed bursting through her apparel.

“Coourse,” said Mr. Blee, “an’ your share,an’ more ’n your share o’ brains, tu. He had badluck—Coomstock—the worse fortune as ever fell to a Chaggyfordman, I reckon.”

“How do ’e come at that, then?”

“To get ’e, an’ lose ’e again inside two year.That’s ill luck if ever I seen it. Death’s a envious twoad. Twoshort year of you; an’ then up comes a tumour on his neck unbeknawnst,an’ off he goes, like a spring lamb.”

“An’ so he did. I waked from sleep an’ bid un rise, buttheer weern’t no more risin’ for him till theJudgment.”

“Death’s no courtier. He’ll let a day-labourer go sopeaceful an’ butivul as a child full o’ milk goes to sleep; whilehe’ll take a gert lord or dook, wi’ lands an’ moneys,an’ strangle un by inches, an’ give un the hell of atwistin’. You caan’t buy a easy death seemin’ly.”

“A gude husband he was, but jealous,” said Mrs. Coomstock, herthoughts busy among past years; and Billy immediately fell in with thisview.

“Then you’m well rid of un. Theer’s as gude in the worldalive any minute as ever was afore or will be again.”

“Let ’em stop in the world then. I doan’t want’em.”

This sentiment amused the widow herself more than Billy. She laugheduproariously, raised her glass to her lips unconsciously, found it empty,grew instantly grave upon the discovery, set it down again, and sighed.

“It’s a wicked world,” she said. “Sure asmen’s in a plaace they brings trouble an’ wickedness. An’yet I’ve heard theer’s more women than men on the airth whenall’s said.”

“God A’mighty likes ’em best, I reckon,” declaredMr. Blee.

“Not but what ’t would be a lonesome plaace wi’out thelords of creation,” conceded the widow.

“Ess fay, you ’m right theer; but the beauty of things is thatnone need n’t be lonely, placed same as you be.”

“‘Once bit twice shy,’” said Mrs. Coomstock. Thenshe laughed again. “I said them very words to Lezzard not an hoursince.”

“An’ what might he have answered?” inquired Billywithout, however, showing particular interest to know.

“He said he wasn’t bit. His wife was a propercreature.”

“Bah! second-hand gudes—that’s what Lezzard be—awidow-man an’ eighty if a day. A poor, coffin-ripe auld blid, wi’wan leg in the graave any time this twenty year.”

Mrs. Coomstock’s frame heaved at this tremendous criticism. Shegurgled and gazed at Billy with her eyes watering and her mouth open.

“You say that! Eighty an’ coffin-ripe!”

“Ban’t no ontruth, neither. A man ’s allus ready for hiselm overcoat arter threescore an’ ten. I heard the noise of hisbreathin’ paarts when he had brown kitty in the fall three years ago,an’ awnly thrawed it off thanks to the gracious gudeness of MillerLyddon, who sent rich stock for soup by my hand. But to hear un, you mighthave thought theer was a wapsies’ nest in the man’slungs.”

“I doan’t want to be nuss to a chap at my time of life, incoourse.”

“No fay; ’t is the man’s paart to look arter his wife,if you ax me. I be a plain bachelor as never thought of a female serious’fore I seed you. An’ I’ve got a heart in me, tu.Ban’t no auld, rubbishy, worn-out thing, neither, but a tough,love-tight heart—at least so ’t was till I seed you in your weedseight year agone.”

“Eight year a widow! An’ so I have been. Well, Blee,you’ve got a powerful command of words, anyways. That I’ll grantyou.”

“’T is the gert subject, Mary.”

He moved nearer and put down his hat and stick; she exhibited trepidation,not wholly assumed. Then she helped herself to more spirits.

“A drop I must have to steady me. You men make a woman’s heartgo flutterin’ all over her buzzom, like a flea underher—”

She stopped and laughed, then drank. Presently setting down the glassagain, she leered in a manner frankly animal at Mr. Blee, and told him to saywhat he might have to say and be quick about it. He fired a little at thisinvitation, licked his lips, cleared his throat, and cast a nervous glance ortwo at the window. But nobody appeared; no thunder-visaged Lezzard frownedover the geraniums. Gaffer indeed was sound asleep, half a mile off, upon oneof those seats set in the open air for the pleasure and convenience ofwayfarers about the village. So Billy rose, crossed to the large sofa whereonMrs. Coomstock sat, plumped down boldly beside her and endeavoured to get hisarm round the wide central circumference of her person. She suffered thiscourageous attempt without objection. Then Billy gently squeezed her, and shewriggled and opened her mouth and shut her eyes.

“Say the word and do a wise thing,” he urged. “Say theword, Mary, an’ think o’ me here as master, a-keeping all yourdamn relations off by word of command.”

She laughed.

“When I be gone you’ll see some sour looks, Ireckon.”

“Nothing doan’t matter then; ’t is while you ’mhere I’d protect ’e ’gainst ’em. Look, see!ban’t often I goes down on my knees, ’cause a man risin’ inyears, same as me, can pray to God more dignified sittin’; but now Iwill.” He slid gingerly down, and only a tremor showed the stab hisgallantry cost him.

“You ’m a masterful auld shaver, sure ’nough!”said Mrs. Coomstock, regarding Billy with a look half fish like, halfaffectionate.

“Rise me up, then,” he said. “Rise me up, an’ doit quick. If you love me, as I see you do by the faace of you, rise me up,Mary, an’ say the word wance for all time. I’ll be a gude husbandto ’e an’ you’ll bless the day you took me, though I sez itas shouldn’t.”

She allowed her fat left hand, with the late Mr. Coomstock’swedding-ring almost buried in her third finger, to remain with Billy’s;and by the aid of it and the sofa he now got on his legs again. Then he satdown beside her once more and courageously set his yellow muzzle against herred cheek. The widow remained passive under this caress, and Mr. Blee, havingkissed her thrice, rubbed his mouth and spoke.

“Theer! ’T is signed and sealed, an’ I’ll have nodrawin’ back now.”

“But—but—Lezzard, Billy. I do like ’e—Icaan’t hide it from ’e, try as I will—buthim—”

“I knawed he was t’other. I tell you, forget un. Hismarryin’ days be awver. Dammy, the man’s ’most chuckleheaded wi’ age! Let un go his way an’ say his prayers’gainst the trump o’ God. An’ it’ll take un his timeto pass Peter when all ’s done—a bad auld chap in his day. Notthat I’d soil your ears with it.”

“He said much the same ’bout you. When you was atDrewsteignton, twenty year agone—”

“A lie—a wicked, strammin’, gert lie, with no more truthto it than a auld song! He ’m a venomous beast to call home such athing arter all these years.”

“If I did take ’e, you’d be a gude an’ faithfulhusband, Billy, not a gad-about?”

“Cut my legs off if I go gaddin’ further than to do yourerrands.”

“An’ you’ll keep these here buzzin’ parties offme? Cuss ’em! They make my life a burden.”

“Doan’t fear that. I’ll larn ’em!”

“Theer ’s awnly wan I can bide of the wholelot—an’ that’s my awn nephew, Clem Hicks. He’ll drinkhis drop o’ liquor an’ keep his mouth shut, an’ listen tome a-talkin’ as a young man should. T’others are allusyelpin’ out how fond they be of me, and how they’d go to theworld’s end for me. I hate the sight of ’em.”

“A time-servin’ crew, Mary; an’ Clement Hicks no better’n the rest, mark my word, though your sister’s son. ’T iscupboard love wi’ all. But money ban’t nothin’ to me.I’ve been well contented with enough all my life, though ’t isfew can say with truth that enough satisfies ’em.”

“Lezzard said money was nothin’ to him neither, having plentyof his awn. ’T was my pusson, not my pocket, as he’d falled inlove with.”

“Burnish it all! Theer ’s a shameful speech! ‘Yourpusson’! Him! I’ll tell you what Lezzard is—just a damnevil disposition kep’ in by skin an’ bones—that’sLezzard. ‘Your pusson’!”

“I’m afraid I’ve encouraged him a little. You’vebeen so backward in mentioning the subject of late. But I’m sure Ididn’t knaw as he’d got a evil disposition.”

“Well, ’t is so. An’ ’t is awnly your bigness ofheart, as wouldn’t hurt a beetle, makes you speak kind of the boozyauld sweep. I’ll soon shaw un wheer he’s out if he thinks you’m tinkering arter him!”

“He couldn’t bring an action for breach, or anything o’that, could he?”

“At his time of life! What Justice would give ear to un? An’the shame of it!”

“Perhaps he misunderstood. You men jump so at aconclusion.”

“Leave that to me. I’ll clear his brains double-quick; aye,an’ make un jump for somethin’!”

“Then I suppose it’s got to be. I’m yourn, Billy,an’ theer needn’t be any long waitin’ neither. To think ofanother weddin’ an’ another husband! Just a drop or I shall cry.It’s such a supporting thing to a lone female.”

Whether Mrs. Coomstock meant marriage or Plymouth gin, Billy did not stopto inquire. He helped her, filled Lezzard’s empty glass for himself,and then, finding his future wife thick of speech, bleared of eye, andevidently disposed to slumber, he departed and left her to sleep off hervaried emotions.

“I’ll mighty soon change all that,” thought Mr. Blee.“To note a fine woman in liquor ’s the frightfullest sight in allnature, so to say. Not but what with Lezzard a-pawin’ of her ’twas enough to drive her to it.”

That night the lover announced his triumph, whereon Phoebe congratulatedhim and Miller Lyddon shook his head.

“’T is an awful experiment, Billy, at your age,” hedeclared.

“Why, so ’t is; but I’ve weighed the subject in my mindfor years and years, an ’t wasn’t till Mary Coomstock comed to bewidowed that I thought I’d found the woman at last. ’T waslookin’ tremendous high, I knaw, but theer ’t is; she’llhave me. She ’m no young giglet neither, as would lead me adevil’s dance, but a pusson in full blooth with ripe mind.”

“She drinks. I doan’t want to hurt your feelings; buteverybody says it is so,” declared the miller.

“What everybody sez, nobody did ought to believe,” returnedMr. Blee stoutly. “She ’m a gude, lonely sawl, as wants a manround the house to keep off her relations, same as us has a dog to keep downvarmints in general. Theer ’s the Hickses, an’ Chowns, an’Coomstocks all a-stickin’ up theer tails an’ a-purrin’an’ a-rubbin’ theerselves against the door-posts of the plaacelike cats what smells feesh. I won’t have none of it. I’ll dwellalong wi’ she an’ play a husband’s part, an’ comfortthe decline of her like a man, I warn ’e.”

“Why, Mrs. Coomstock ’s not so auld as all that, Billy,”said Phoebe. “Chris has often told me she’s only sixty-two orthree.”

But he shook his head.

“Ban’t a subject for a loving man to say much on, awnly truth’s truth. I seed it written in the Coomstock Bible wan day. Fifty-fiveshe were when she married first. Well, ban’t in reason she twald thenaked truth ’bout it, an’ who’d blame her on such adelicate point? No, I’d judge her as near my awn age as possible;an’ to speak truth, not so well preserved as what I be.”

“How’s Monks Barton gwaine to fare without ’e,Blee?” whined the miller.

“As to that, be gormed if I knaw how I’ll fare wi’outthe farm. But love—well, theer ’t is. Theer ’s money to it,I knaw, but what do that signify? Nothin’ to me. You’ll see mefrequent as I ride here an’ theer—horse, saddle, stirrups,an’ all complete; though God He knaws wheer my knees’ll go whenmy boots be fixed in stirrups. But a man must use ’em if theer ’sthe dignity of money to be kept up. ’T is just wan of themoncomfortable things riches brings with it.”

While Miller Lyddon still argued with Billy against the step he nowdesigned, there arrived from Chagford the stout Mr. Chappie, with his mouthfull of news.

“More weddin’s,” he said. “I comed down-long totell ’e, lest you shouldn’t knaw till to-morrow an’ so fallbehind the times. Widow Coomstock ’s thrawed up the sponge and givedherself to that importuneous auld Lezzard. To think o’ such aMethuselah as him—aulder than the century—fillin’ the eyeo’ that full-bodied—”

“It’s a black lie—blacker ’n hell—an’if’t was anybody but you brought the news I’d hit un awver thejaw!” burst out Mr. Blee, in a fury.

“He tawld me hisself. He’s tellin’ everybody hisself. Itcomed to a climax to-day. The auld bird’s hoppin’ all awver thevillage so proud as a jackdaw as have stole a shiny button. He’mbustin’ wi’ it in fact.”

“I’ll bust un! An’ his news, tu. An’ you can say,when you’m axed, ’t is the foulest lie ever falled out of wickedlips.”

Billy now took his hat and stick from their corner and marched to the doorwithout more words.

“No violence, mind now, no violence,” begged Mr. Lyddon.“This love-making ’s like to wreck the end of my life, wan way oranother, yet. ’T is bad enough with the young; but when it comes toauld, bald-headed fules like you an’ Lezzard—”

“As to violence, I wouldn’t touch un wi’ the end of adung-fork—I wouldn’t. But I’m gwaine to lay his lie wancean’ for all. I be off to parson this instant moment. An’ when mybanns of marriage be hollered out next Sunday marnin’, then us’llknaw who ’m gwaine to marry Mother Coomstock an’ who ban’t.I can work out my awn salvation wi’ fear an’ tremblin’ sowell as any other man; an’ you’ll see what that God-forsaken auldpiece looks like come Sunday when he hears what’s done an’caan’t do nought but just swallow his gall an’ chew ’ponit.”

CHAPTER VIII
MR. BLEE FORGETS HIMSELF

The Rev. James Shorto-Champernowne made no difficulty about Billy’sbanns of marriage, although he doubtless held a private opinion upon thewisdom of such a step, and also knew that Mrs. Coomstock was now a verydifferent woman from the sextoness of former days. He expressed a hope,however, that Mr. Blee would make his future wife become a regularchurch-goer again after the ceremony; and Billy took it upon himself topromise as much for her. There the matter ended until the following Sunday,when a sensation, unparalleled in the archives of St. Michael’s,awaited the morning worshippers.

Under chiming of bells the customary congregation arrived, and aperceptible wave of sensation swept from pew to pew at the appearance of morethan one unfamiliar face. Of regular attendants we may note Mrs. Blanchardand Chris, Martin Grimbal, Mr. Lyddon, and his daughter. Mr. Blee usually sattowards the back of the church at a point immediately behind those benchesdevoted to the boys. Here he kept perfect order among the lads, and had doneso for many years. Occasionally it became necessary to turn a youngster outof church, and Billy’s procedure at such a time was masterly; but ofopinion to-day that he was a public character, he chose a more conspicuousposition, and accepted Mr. Lyddon’s invitation to take a seat in themiller’s own pew. He felt he owed this prominence, not only to himself,but to Mrs. Coomstock. She, good soul, had been somewhat evasive andindefinite in her manner since accepting Billy, and her condition of nerveson Sunday morning proved such that she found herself quite unable to attendthe house of prayer, although she had promised to do so. She sent her twoservants, however, and, spending the time in private between spirtual andspirituous consolations of Bible and bottle, the widow soon passed into atemporary exaltation ending in unconsciousness. Thus her maids found her onreturning from church.

Excitement within the holy edifice reached fever-heat when a most unwontedworshipper appeared in the venerable shape of Mr. Lezzard. He was supportedby his married daughter and his grandson. They sought and found a veryprominent position under the lectern, and it was immediately apparent that nomere conventional attendance for the purpose of praising their Maker haddrawn Mr. Lezzard and his relations. Indeed he had long been of the Baptistparty, though it derived but little lustre from him. Much whispering passedamong the trio. Then his daughter, having found the place she sought in aprayer-book, handed it to Mr. Lezzard, and he made a big cross in pencil uponthe page and bent the volume backwards so that its binding cracked veryaudibly. Gaffer then looked about him with a boldness he was far fromfeeling; but the spectacle of Mr. Blee, hard by, fortified his spirit. Heglared across the aisle and Billy glared back.

Then the bells stopped, the organ droned, and there came a clatter of ironnails on the tiled floor. Boys and men proceeded to the choir stalls and Mr.Shorto-Champernowne fluttered behind, with his sermon in his hand. Like astately galleon of the olden time he swept along the aisle, then reached hisplace, cast one keen glance over the assembled congregation, and slowlysinking upon his hassock enveloped his face and whiskers in snowy lawn andprayed a while.

The service began and that critical moment after the second lesson wasreached with dreadful celerity. Doctor Parsons, having read a chapter fromthe New Testament, which he emerged from the congregation to do, and which hedid ill, though he prided himself upon his elocution, returned to his seat asthe Vicar rose, adjusted his double eyeglasses and gave out a notice asfollows:

“I publish the banns of marriage between William Blee, Bachelor, andMary Coomstock, Widow, both of this parish. If any of you know cause, or justimpediment, why these two persons should not be joined together in holymatrimony, ye are to declare it. This is for the first time ofasking.”

There was a momentary pause. Then, nudged by his daughter, who had grownvery pale, Gaffer Lezzard rose. His head shook and he presented theappearance of a man upon the verge of palsy. He held up his hand, struggledwith his vocal organs and at last exploded these words, sudden, tremulous,and shrill:

“I deny it an’ I defy it! The wummon be mine!”

Mr. Lezzard succumbed instantly after this effort. Indeed, he went down asthough shot through the head. He wagged and gasped and whispered to hisgrandson,—

“Wheer’s the brandy to?”

Whereupon this boy produced a medicine bottle half full of spirits, andhis grandfather, with shaking fingers, removed the cork and drank thecontents. Meantime the Vicar had begun to speak; but he suffered anotherinterruption. Billy, tearing himself from the miller’s restraininghand, leapt to his feet, literally shaking with rage. He was dead to hisposition, oblivious of every fact save that his banns of marriage had beenforbidden before the assembled Christians of Chagford. He had waited to finda wife until he was sixty years old—for this!

“You—you to do it! You to get up afore this rallyo’ gentlefolks an’ forbid my holy banns, you wrinkled, crinkled,baggering auld lizard! Gormed if I doan’t wring your—”

“Silence in the house of God!” thundered Mr.Shorto-Champernowne, with tones so resonant that they woke rafter echoes theorgan itself had never roused. “Silence, and cease this sacrilegiousbrawling, or the consequences will be unutterably serious! Let thoseinvolved,” he concluded more calmly, “appear before me in thevestry after divine service is at an end.”

Having frowned, in a very tragic manner, both on Mr. Blee and Mr. Lezzard,the Vicar proceeded with the service; but though Gaffer remained in his placeBilly did not. He rose, jammed on his hat, glared at everybody, and assumedan expression curiously similar to that of a stone demon which grinned fromthe groining of two arches immediately above him. He then departed, growlingto himself and shaking his fists, in another awful silence; for the Vicarceased when he rose, and not until Billy disappeared and his footfall washeard no more did the angry clergyman proceed.

A buzz and hubbub, mostly of laughter, ascended when presently Mr.Shorto-Champernowne’s parishioners returned to the air; and any chancespectator beholding them had certainly judged he stood before an audience nowdismissed from a theatre rather than the congregation of a church.

“Glad Will weern’t theer, I’m sure,” said Mrs.Blanchard. “He’d ’a’ laughed out loud an’ madebad worse. Chris did as ’t was, awnly parson’s roarin’luckily drowned it. And Mr. Martin Grimbal, whose eye I catched, was put toit to help smilin’.”

“Ban’t often he laughs, anyway,” said Phoebe, who walkedhomewards with her father and the Blanchards; whereon Chris, from being in aboisterous vein of merriment, grew grave. Together all returned to thevalley. Will was due in half an hour from Newtake, and Phoebe, as a specialfavour, had been permitted to dine at Mrs. Blanchard’s cottage with herhusband and his family. Clement Hicks had also promised to be of the party;but that was before the trouble of the previous week, and Chris knew he wouldnot come.

Meantime, Gaffer Lezzard, supported by two generations of his family,explained his reasons for objecting to Mr. Blee’s proposedmarriage.

“Mrs. Coomstock be engaged, right and reg’lar, to me,”he declared. “She’d gived me her word ’fore ever Blee axedher. I seed her essterday, to hear final ’pon the subjec’,an’ she tawld me straight, bein’ sober as you at the time, as’t was me she wanted an’ meant for to have. She wasexcited t’ other day an’ not mistress of herself ezacally;an’ the crafty twoad took advantage of it, an’ jawed, an’made her drink an’ drink till her didn’t knaw what her wassayin’ or doin’. But she’m mine, an’ she’lltell ’e same as what I do; so theer’s an end on’t.”

“I’ll see Mrs. Coomstock,” said the Vicar. “I,myself will visit her to-morrow.”

“Canst punish this man for tryin’ to taake her fromme?”

“Permit yourself no mean desires in the direction of revenge. Forthe present I decline to say more upon the subject. If it were possible topunish, and I am not prepared to say it is not, it would be for brawling inthe house of God. After an experience extending over forty years, I maydeclare that I never saw any such disreputable and horrifyingspectacle.”

So the Lezzard family withdrew and, on the following day, Mrs. Coomstockpassed through most painful experiences.

To the clergyman, with many sighs and tears, she explained that Mr.Lezzard’s character had been maligned by Mr. Blee, that before theyounger veteran she had almost feared for her life, and been driven to accepthim out of sheer terror at his importunity. But when facts came to her earsafterwards, she found that Mr. Lezzard was in reality all he had declaredhimself to be, and therefore returned to him, threw over Mr. Blee, and beggedthe other to forbid the banns, if as she secretly learnt, though not fromBilly himself, they were to be called on that Sunday. The poor woman’sears tingled under Mr. Shorto-Champernowne’s sonorous reproof; but hedeparted at last, and by the time that Billy called, during the same day, shehad imbibed Dutch courage sufficient to face him and tell him she had changedher mind. She had erred—she confessed it. She had been far from well atthe time and, upon reconsideration of the proposal, had felt she would neverbe able to make Mr. Blee happy, or enjoy happiness with him.

As a matter of fact, Mrs. Coomstock had accepted both suitors on one andthe same afternoon. First Gaffer, who had made repeated but rather vagueallusion to a sum of three hundred pounds in ready money, was takendefinitely; while upon his departure, the widow, only dimly conscious of whatwas settled with her former admirer, said, “Yes” to Billy in histurn. Had a third suitor called on that event-ful afternoon, it is quitepossible Mrs. Coomstock would have accepted him also.

The conversation with Mr. Blee was of short duration, and ended by Billycalling down a comprehensive curse on the faithless one and returning toMonks Barton. He had attached little importance to Lezzard’s publicprotest, upon subsequent consideration and after the first shock of hearingit; but there was no possibility of doubting what he now learned from Mrs.Coomstock’s own lips. That she had in reality changed her mind appearedonly too certain.

So he went home again in the last extremity of fury, and Phoebe, who wasalone at the time, found herself swept by the hurricane of his wrath. Heentered snorting and puffing, flung his hat on the settle, his stick into thecorner; then, dropping into a seat by the fire, he began taking off hisgaiters with much snuffling and mumbling and repeated inarticulate explosionsof breath. This cat-like splutter always indicated deep feeling in Mr. Blee,and Phoebe asked with concern what was the matter now.

“Matter? Tchut—Tchut—Theer ban’t noGod—that’s what’s the matter!”

“Billy! How can you?”

“She’m gwaine to marry t’other, arter all! From her awnlips I’ve heard it! That’s what I get for being a church memberfrom the womb! That’s my reward! God, indeed! Be them the ways o’a plain-dealin’ God, who knaws what’s doin’ in humanhearts? No fay! Bunkum an’ rot! I’ll never lift my voice in hymnnor psalm no more, nor pray a line o’ prayer again. Who be I to betreated like that? Drunken auld cat! I cussed her—I cussed her!Wouldn’t marry her now if she axed wi’ her mouth in the dirt.Wheer’s justice to? Tell me that. Me in church, keepin’ order’mong the damn boys generation arter generation, and him never insidethe door since he buried his wife. An’ parson siding wi’ un,I’ll wager. Mother Coomstock ’ll give un hell’s delights,that’s wan gude thought. A precious pair of ’em! Tchut!Gar!”

“I doan’t really think you could have loved Mrs. Coomstockovermuch, Billy, if you can talk so ugly an’ crooked ’bouther,” said Phoebe.

“I did, I tell ’e—for years an’ years. I went downon my knees to the bitch—I wish I hadn’t; I’ll be sorry forthat to my dying day. I kissed her, tu,—s’ elp me, I did. Youmightn’t think it, but I did—a faace like a frost-bittenbeetroot, as ’t is!”

“Doan’t ’e, please, say such horrible things. You mustbe wise about it. You see, they say Mr. Lezzard has more money than you. Atleast, so Mrs. Coomstock told her nephew, Clement Hicks. Every one of herrelations is savage about it.”

“Well they may be. Why doan’t they lock her up? If sheban’t mad, nobody ever was. ’Money’! Lezzard! Lyingauld—auld—Tchut! Not money enough to pay for a graave to hide hisrotten bones, I lay. Oh, ’t is enough to—theer, what ’s theuse of talkin’? Tchut—Tchut!”

At this point Phoebe, fearing even greater extravagances in Mr.Blee’s language, left him to consider his misfortunes alone. Long hecontinued in the profoundest indignation, and it was not until Miller Lyddonreturned, heard the news, and heartily congratulated Billy on a mercifulescape, that the old man grew a little calmer under his disappointment, andmoderated the bitterness and profanity of his remarks.

CHAPTER IX
A DIFFERENCE WITH THE DUCHY

Newtake Farm, by reason of Will’s recent occupancy, could offer novery considerable return during his first year as tenant; but that heunderstood and accepted, and the tribulation which now fell upon him was ofhis own making. To begin with, Sam Bonus vanished from the scene. Onlearning, soon after the event, that Bonus had discussed Hicks and himself atChagford, and detailed his private conversation with Martin Grimbal,Blanchard, in a fury, swept off to the loft where his man slept, roused himfrom rest, threw down the balance of his wages, and dismissed him on thespot. He would hear no word in explanation, and having administered apassionate rebuke, departed as he had come, like a whirlwind. Sam, smartingunder this injustice, found the devil wake in him through that sleeplessnight, and had there stood rick or stack within reach of revenge, he mighthave dealt his master a return blow before morning. As usual, after the lapseof hours, Will cooled down, modified his first fiery indignation, anddetermined, yet without changing his mind, to give Bonus an opportunity ofexplaining the thing he had done. Chris had brought the news from Clementhimself, and Will, knowing that his personal relations with Clement werealready strained, felt that in justice to his servant he must be heard uponthe question. But, when he sought Sam Bonus, though still the dawn was onlygrey, he found the world fuller for him by another enemy, for the man hadtaken him at his word and departed. During that day and the next Will madesome effort to see Bonus, but nothing came of it, so, dismissing the matterfrom his mind, he hired a new labourer—one Teddy Chown, son of AbrahamChown, the Inspector of Police—and pursued his way.

Then his unbounded energy led him into difficulties of a graver sort. Willhad long cast covetous eyes on a tract of moorland immediately adjoiningNewtake, and there being little to do at the moment, he conceived theadventurous design of reclaiming it. The patch was an acre and a half inextent—a beggarly, barren region, where the heather thinned away andthe black earth shone with water and disintegrated granite. Quartz particlesglimmered over it; at the centre black pools of stagnant water marked anabandoned peat cutting; any spot less calculated to attract an agriculturaleye would have been hard to imagine; but Blanchard set to work, began to fillthe greedy quag in the midst with tons of soil, and soon caused the place tolook business-like—at least in his own estimation. As for the Duchy, hedid not trouble himself. The Duchy itself was always reclaiming land withoutconsidering the rights and wrongs of the discontented Venville tenants, andWill knew of many a “newtake” besides this he contemplated.Indeed, had not the whole farm, of which he was now master, been rescued fromthe Moor in time past? He worked hard, therefore, and his new assistant,though not a Bonus, proved stout and active. Chris, who still dwelt with herbrother, was sworn to secrecy respecting Will’s venture; and so lonelya region did the farm occupy that not until he had put a good month of workinto the adjacent waste were any of those in authority aware of the youngfarmer’s performance.

A day came when the new land was cleaned, partly ploughed, and whollysurrounded by a fence of split stumps, presently to be connected by wires. Atthese Chown was working, while Will had just arrived with a load of earth toadd to the many tons already poured upon that hungry central patch. He heldthe tailboard of the cart in his hand and was about to remove it; when,looking up, his heart fluttered a moment despite his sturdy consciousness ofright. On the moor above him rode grey old Vogwell, the Duchy’s man.His long beard fluttered in the wind, and Will heard the thud of hishorse’s hoofs as he cantered quickly to the scene, passed between twoof the stakes, and drew up alongside Blanchard.

“Marnin’, Mr. Vogwell! Fine weather, to be sure, an’gude for the peat next month; but bad for roots, an’ no mistake. Will’e have a drink?”

Mr. Vogwell gazed sternly about him, then fixed his little bright eyes onthe culprit.

“What do this mean, Will Blanchard?”

“Well, why not? Duchy steals all the gude land from Venwell men; whyfor shouldn’t us taake a little of the bad? This here weern’t nogude to man or mouse. Ban’t ’nough green stuff for a rabbit’pon it. So I just thought I’d give it a lick an’ a promiseo’ more later on.”

“‘A lick an’ a promise’! You’ve wasted amonth’s work on it, to the least.”

“Well, p’raps I have—though ban’t wasted. Do’e think, Mr. Vogwell, as the Duchy might be disposed to give me ahand?”

Will generally tackled difficulties in this audacious fashion, and a laughalready began to brighten his eye; but the other quenched it.

“You fool! You knawed you was doin’ wrong better’n I cantell you—an’ such a plaace! A babe could see you ’mworkin’ awver living springs. You caan’t fill un even now in thedrouth, an’ come autumn an’ rain ’t will all be bogagain.”

“Nothing of the sort,” flamed out Will, quite forgetting hisrecent assertion as to the poverty of the place. “Do ’e think,you, as awnly rides awver the Moor, knaws more about soil than I as works onit? ’Twill be gude proofy land bimebye—so good as any Princetownway, wheer the prison men reclaim, an’ wheer theer’s grass thisminute as carries a bullock to the acre. First I’ll plant rye, thenswedes, then maybe more swedes, then barley; an’, with the barley,I’ll sow the permanent grass to follow. That’s gude rotation ofcrops for Dartymoor, as I knaw an’ you doan’t; an’ if theDuchy encloses the best to rob our things11, why forshouldn’t we—”

“That’ll do. I caan’t bide here listenin’ to yourchild’s-talk all the marnin’. What Duchy does an’doan’t do is for higher ’n you or me to decide. If this was anyman’s work but yours I’d tell Duchy this night; but bein’you, I’ll keep mute. Awnly mind, when I comes this way a fortnighthence, let me see these postes gone an’ your plough an’ cartt’ other side that wall. An’ you’ll thank me, whenyou’ve come to more sense, for stoppin’ this wild-goose chase.Now I’ll have a drop o’ cider, if it’s all the same toyou.”

Will opened a stone jar which lay under his coat at hand, and answered ashe poured cider into a horn mug for Mr. Vogwell—

“Here’s your drink; but I won’t take your orders, so Itell ’e. Damn the Duchy, as steals moor an’ common wheer itpleases an’ then grudges a man his toil.”

“That’s the spirit as’ll land ’e in the poorhouse,Will Blanchard,” said Mr. Vogwell calmly; “and that’s sucha job as might send ’e to the County Asylum,” he added, pointingto the operations around him. “As to damning Duchy,” hecontinued, “you might as well damn the sun or moon. They’d careas little. Theer ’m some varmints so small that, though they bite’e with all their might, you never knaw it; an’ so ’t iswi’ you an’ Duchy. Mind now, a fortnight. Thank ’e—sogude cider as ever I tasted; an’ doan’t ’e tear an’rage, my son. What’s the use?”

“’Twould be use, though, if us all raged together.”

“But you won’t get none to follow. ’Tis all talk. Duchyhaven’t got no bones to break or sawl to lose; an’ moormenhaven’t got brains enough to do aught in the matter but jaw.”

“An’ all for a royal prince, as doan’t knaw differencebetween yether an’ fuzz, I lay,” growled Will. “Small blameto moormen for being radical-minded these days. Who wouldn’t, treatedsame as us?”

“Best not talk on such high subjects, Will Blanchard, or you mightget in trouble. A fortnight, mind. Gude marnin’ to ’e.”

The Duchy’s man rode off and Will stood angry and irresolute. Then,seeing Mr. Vogwell was still observing him, he ostentatiously turned to thecart and tipped up his load of earth. But when the representative of powerhad disappeared—his horse and himself apparently sinking into ratherthan behind a heather ridge—Will’s energy died and his moodchanged. He had fooled himself about this enterprise until the present, buthe could no longer do so. Now he sat down on the earth he had brought, lethis horse drag the cart after it, as it wandered in search of some greenthing, and suffered a storm of futile indignation to darken his spirit.

Blanchard’s unseasoned mind had, in truth, scarcely reached thesecond milestone upon the road of man’s experience. Some arrive earlyat the mental standpoint where the five senses meet and merge in that sixthor common sense, which may be defined as an integral of the others, and whichis manifested by those who possess it in a just application of all theexperience won from life. But of common sense Will had none. He couldunderstand laziness and wickedness being made to suffer; he could readNature’s more self-evident lessons blazoned across every meadow,displayed in every living organism—that error is instantly punished,that poor food starves the best seed, that too much water is as bad as toolittle, that the race is to the strong, and so forth; but he could notunderstand why hard work should go unrewarded, why good intentions shouldbreed bad results, why the effect of energy, self-denial, right ambitions,and other excellent qualities is governed by chance; why the prizes in thegreat lottery fall to the wise, not to the well-meaning. He knew himself fora hard worker and a man who accomplished, in all honesty, the best within hispower. What his hand found to do he did with his might; and the fact that hishead, as often as not, prompted his hand to the wrong thing escaped him. Heregarded his life as exemplary, felt that he was doing all that might inreason be demanded, and confidently looked towards Providence to do the rest.To find Providence unwilling to help him brought a wave of riotousindignation through his mind on each occasion of making that discovery. Thesewaves, sweeping at irregular intervals over Will, left the mark of their hightides, and his mind, now swinging like a pendulum before this last buffetdealt by Fate in semblance of the Duchy’s man, plunged him into a hugediscontent with all things. He was ripe for mischief and would havequarrelled with his shadow; but he did worse—he quarrelled with hismother.

She visited him that afternoon, viewed his shattered scheme, and listenedas Will poured the great outrage upon her ear. Coming up at his expressinvitation to learn the secret, which he had kept from her that her joy mightbe the greater, Mrs. Blanchard only arrived in time to see hisdisappointment. She knew the Duchy for a bad enemy, and perhaps at the bottomof her conservative heart felt no particular delight at the spectacle ofNewtake enlarging its borders. She therefore held that everything was for thebest, and counselled patience; whereupon her son, with a month’s wastedtoil staring him in the face, rebelled and took her unconcerned demeanourill. Damaris also brought a letter from Phoebe, and this added fuel to theflame. Will dwelt upon his wife’s absence bitterly.

“Job’s self never suffered that, for I read ’bout whathe went through awnly last night, for somethin’ to kill an hour in theevenin’. An’ I won’t suffer it. It’s contrary tonature, an’ if Phoebe ban’t here come winter I’ll go downan’ bring her, willy-nilly.”

“Time’ll pass soon enough, my son. Next summer will be herequick. Then her’ll have grawin’ corn to look at and fine cropsrisin’, an’ more things feedin’ on the Moor in sight of hereyes. You see, upland farms do look a little thin to them who have lived alltheir time in the fatness of the valleys.”

“If I was bidin’ in one of them stone roundy-poundies, withnothin’ but a dog-kennel for a home, she ought to be shoulder toshoulder wi’ me. Did you leave my faither cause other peopledidn’t love un?”

“That was differ’nt. Theer s Miller Lyddon. I could much wishyou seed more of him an’ let un come by a better ’pinion of’e. ’T s awnly worldly wisdom, true; but—”

“I’m sick to death o’ worldly wisdom! What’s itdone for me? I stand to work nine an’ ten hour a day, an’ notwi’out my share o’ worldly wisdom, neither. Then I’m playedwith an’ left to whistle, I ban’t gwaine to think so much, I tell’e. It awnly hurts a man’s head, an’ keeps him wakin’o’ nights. Life’s guess-work, by the looks of it, an’ afule’s so like to draw a prize as the wisest.”

“That’s not the talk as’ll make Newtake pay, Will. You’m worse than poor Blee to Monks Barton. He’s gwaine roundgivin’ out theer ban’t no God ’t all, ’cause Mrs.Coomstock took auld Lezzard ’stead of him.”

“You may laugh if you like, mother. ’Tis the fashion to laughat me seemin’ly. But I doan’t care. Awnly you’ll be sorrysome day, so sure as you sit in thicky chair. Now, as you’venothin’ but blame, best to go back home. I’ll put your pony inthe shafts. ’Twas a pity you corned so far for so little.”

He went off, his breast heaving, while the woman followed him with hereyes and smiled when he was out of sight. She knew him so well, and alreadypictured her repentant son next Sunday. Then Will would be at hismother’s cottage, and cut the bit of beef at dinner, and fuss over hercomfort according to his custom.

She went into the farmyard and took the pony from him and led it back intothe stall. Then she returned to him and put her arm through his andspoke.

“Light your pipe, lovey, an’ walk a li’l way along downto the stones on the hill, wheer you was born. Your auld mother wants to talkto ’e.”

CHAPTER X
CONNECTING LINKS

Spaces of time extending over rather more than a year may now be dismissedin a chapter.

Chris Blanchard, distracted between Will and her lover, stayed on atNewtake after the estrangement, with a hope that she might succeed in healingthe breach between them; but her importunity failed of its good object, andthere came an August night when she found her own position at herbrother’s farm grow no longer tenable.

The blinds were up, and rays from the lamp shot a broad band of light intothe farmyard, while now and again great white moths struck soft blows againstthe closed window, then vanished again into the night. Will smoked and Chrispleaded until a point, beyond which her brother’s patience could notgo, was reached. Irritation grew and grew before her ceaseless entreaty onClement’s behalf; for the thousandth time she begged him to write aletter of apology and explanation of the trouble bred by Sam Bonus; and he,suddenly rising, smashed down his clay pipe and swore by all his gods hewould hear the name of Hicks mentioned in his house no more. Thus challengedto choose between her lover and her brother, the girl did not hesitate.Something of Will’s own spirit informed her; she took him at his wordand returned home next morning, leaving him to manage his own householdaffairs henceforth as best he might.

Upon the way to Chagford Chris chanced to meet with Martin Grimbal, and,having long since accepted his offer of friendship, she did not hesitate totell him of her present sorrow and invite his sympathy. From ignorance ratherthan selfishness did Chris take Martin literally when he had hoped in thepast they might remain friends, and their intercourse was always maintainedby her when chance put one in the other’s way—at a cost to theman beyond her power to guess.

Now he walked beside her, and she explained how only a word was wantingbetween Will and Clement which neither would speak. Hicks had forgiven Will,but he refused to visit Newtake until he received an apology from the masterof it; and Blanchard bore no ill-will to Clement, but declined to apologisefor the past. These facts Martin listened to, while the blood beat like atide within his temples, and a mist dimmed his eyes as the girl laid herbrown hand upon his arm now and again, to accentuate a point. At such momentsthe truth tightened upon his soul and much distressed him.

The antiquary had abandoned any attempt to forget Chris, or cease fromworshipping her with all his heart and soul; but the emotion now muzzled andchained out of sight he held of nobler composition than that earlier lovewhich yearned for possession. Those dreary months that dragged between thepresent and his first disappointment had served as foundations for newdevelopments of character in the man. He existed through a period ofunutterable despair and loneliness; then the fruits of bygone battles foughtand won came to his aid, and long-past years of self-denial and self-controlfortified his spirit. The reasonableness of Martin Grimbal lifted him slowlybut steadily from the ashes of disappointment; even his natural humilityhelped him, and he told himself he had no more than his desert. Presently,with efforts the very vigour of which served as tonic to character, he beganto wrestle at the granite again and resume his archaeologic studies. Speakingin general terms, his mind was notably sweetened and widened by hisexperience; and, resulting from his own failure to reach happiness, thereawoke in him a charity and sympathy for others, a fellow-feeling withhumanity, remarkable in one whose enthusiasm for human nature was not large,whose ruling passion, until the circumstance of love tinctured it, had ledhim by ways which the bulk of men had pronounced arid and unsatisfying. Nowthis larger insight was making a finer character of him and planting, even atthe core of his professional pursuits, something deeper than is generally tobe found there. His experience, in fact, was telling upon his work, and hebegan slowly to combine with the labour of the yard-measure and the pencil,the spade and the camera, just thoughts on the subject of those humangenerations who ruled the Moor aforetime, who lived and loved and labouredthere full many a day before Saxon keel first grated on British shingle.

To Chris did Martin listen attentively. Until the present time he hadtaken Will’s advice and made no offer of work to Clement; but now hedetermined to do so, although he knew this action must mean speedy marriagefor Chris. Love, that often enough can shake a lifetime of morality, that canset ethics and right conduct and duty playing a devil’s dance in thevictim’s soul, that can change the practised customs of a man’slife and send cherished opinions, accepted beliefs, and approved dogmasspinning into chaos before its fiery onslaught—love did not thusoverpower Martin Grimbal. His old-fashioned mind was no armour against it,and in that the passion proved true; religion appeared similarly powerless toinfluence him; yet now his extreme humility, his natural sense of justice andthe dimensions of his passion itself combined to lead him by a lofty road.Chris desired another man, and Martin Grimbal, loving her to that point whereher perfect happiness dominated and, indeed, became his own, determined thathis love should bear fruit worthy of its object.

This kindly design was frustrated, however, and the antiquary himselfdenied power to achieve the good action that he proposed, for on visitingClement in person and inviting his aid in the clerical portions of aconsiderable work on moorland antiquities, the poet refused to assist.

“You come too late,” he said coldly. “I would not helpyou now if I could, Martin Grimbal. Don’t imagine pride or any suchmotive keeps me from doing so. The true reason you may guess.”

“Indeed! I can do nothing of the sort. What reason is there againstyour accepting an offer to do remunerative and intellectual work in yourleisure hours—work that may last ten years for all I can see to thecontrary?”

“The reason is that you invited another man’s judgment uponme, instead of taking your own. Better follow Will Blanchard’s advicestill. Don’t think I’m blind. It is Chris who has made you dothis.”

“You’re a very difficult man to deal with, really. Consider mysuggestion, Hicks, and all it might mean. I desire nothing but yourwelfare.”

“Which is only to say you are offering me charity.”

Martin looked at the other quietly, then took his hat and departed. At thedoor he said a last word.

“I don’t want to think this is final. You would be very usefulto me, or I should not have asked you to aid my labour. Let me hear from youwithin a week.”

But Clement was firm in his folly; while, although they met on more thanone occasion, and John Grimbal repeated his offer of regular work, thebee-keeper refused that proposal, also. He made some small sums out of theRed House hives, but would not undertake any regular daily labour there.Clement’s refusal of Martin resulted from his own weak pride andself-conscious stupidity; but a more subtle tangle of conflicting motives wasresponsible for his action in respect of the elder Grimbal’sinvitation. Some loyalty to the man whom he so cordially disliked stillinhabited his mind, and with it a very considerable distrust of himself. Hepartly suspected the reason of John Grimbal’s offer of work, and thepossibility of sudden temptation provoking from him utterance of words bestleft unsaid could not be ignored after his former experience at the hiving ofthe swarm.

So he went his way and told nobody—not even Chris—of theseopportunities and his action concerning them. Such reticence made two womensad. Chris, after her conversation with Martin, doubted not but that he wouldmake some effort, and, hearing nothing as time passed, assumed he had changedhis mind; while Mrs. Hicks, who had greatly hoped that Clement’s visitto the Red House might result in regular employment, felt disappointed whenno such thing occurred.

The union of Mr. Lezzard and Mrs. Coomstock was duly accomplished to achorus of frantic expostulation on the part of those interested in thewidow’s fortune. Mr. Shorto-Champernowne, having convinced himself thatthe old woman was in earnest, could find no sufficient reason for doingotherwise than he was asked, and finally united the couple. To Newton Abbotthey went for their honeymoon, and tribulation haunted them from the first.Mrs. Lezzard refused her husband permission to inquire any particulars of heraffairs from her lawyer—a young man who had succeeded Mr. JoelFord—while the Gaffer, on his side, parried all his lady’sendeavours to learn more of the small fortune concerning which he had spokennot seldom before marriage. Presently they returned to Chagford, and liferesolved itself into an unlovely thing for both of them. Time brought nobetter understanding or mutual confidence; on the contrary, they never ceasedfrom wrangling over money and Mrs. Lezzard’s increasing propensitytowards drink. The old man suffered most, and as his alleged three hundredpounds did not appear, being, indeed, a mere lover’s effort ofimagination, his wife bitterly resented marriage under such false pretences,and was never weary of protesting. Of her own affairs she refused to tell herhusband anything, but as Mr. Lezzard was found to possess no money at all, itbecame necessary to provide him with a bare competence for the credit of thefamily. He did his best to win a little more regard and consideration, in thehope that when his wife passed away the reward of devotion might be reaped;but she never forgave him, expressed the conviction that she would outlivehim by many years, and exhausted her ingenuity to make the old man rue hisbargain. Only one experience, and that repeated as surely as Mr. Blee met Mr.Lezzard, was more trying to the latter than all the accumulated misfortune ofhis sorry state—Gaffer’s own miseries appeared absolutely trivialby comparison with Mr. Blee’s comments upon them.

With another year Blanchard and Hicks became in some sort reconciled,though the former friendship was never renewed. The winter proved a severeone, and Will experienced a steady drain on his capital, but he comfortedhimself in thoughts of the spring, watched his wheat dapple the dark groundwith green, and also foretold exceptional crops of hay when summer shouldreturn. The great event of his wife’s advent at Newtake occupied mostof his reflections; while as for Phoebe herself the matter was never out ofher mind. She lived for the day in June that should see her by herhusband’s side; but Miller Lyddon showed no knowledge of thesignificance of Phoebe’s twenty-first birthday; and when Will broughtup the matter, upon an occasion of meeting with his father-in-law, the millerdeprecated any haste.

“Time enough—time enough,” he said. “Youdoan’t want no wife to Newtake these years to come, while I dowant a darter to home.”

So Phoebe, albeit the course of operations was fully planned, forbore totell her father anything, and suffered the day to drift nearer and nearerwithout expressly indicating the event it was to witness.

CHAPTER XI
TOGETHER

Though not free from various temporal problems that daily demandedsolution, Will very readily allowed his mind a holiday from all affairs ofbusiness during the fortnight that preceded his wife’s arrival atNewtake. What whitewash could do was done; a carpet, long since purchased butnot laid down till now, adorned the miniature parlour; while out of doors,becoming suddenly conscious that not a blossom would greet Phoebe’seyes, Will set about the manufacture of a flower-bed under the kitchenwindow, bound the plat with neat red tiles, and planted therein half a dozenlarkspurs—Phoebe’s favourite flower—with other happybeauties of early summer. The effort looked raw and unhappy, however, and asill luck would have it, these various plants did not take kindly to theirchanged life, and greeted Phoebe with hanging heads.

But the great morning came at last, and Will, rising, with the curiousthought that he would never sleep in the middle of his bed again, donned hisbest dark-brown velveteens and a new pair of leathern gaiters, then walkedout into the air, where Chown was milking the cows. The day dawned asbrightly as the events it heralded, and Will, knowing that his mother andChris would be early at Newtake, strolled out to meet them. Over against thefarm rose moorland crowned by stone, and from off their granite couches greymists blushing to red now rose with lazy deliberation and vanished under thesun’s kiss. A vast, sweet, diamond-twinkling freshness filled the Moor;blue shadows lay in the dewy coombs, and sun-fires gleamed along the heatherridges. No heath-bell as yet had budded, but the flame of the whins splashedmany undulations, and the tender foliage of the whortleberry, where it grewon exposed granite, was nearly scarlet and flashed jewel-bright in the richtexture of the waste. Will saw his cattle pass to their haunts, sniffed thesavour of them on the wind, and enjoyed the thought of being their possessor;then his eyes turned to the valley and the road which wound upwards from itunder great light. A speck at length appeared three parts of a mile distantand away started Blauchard, springing down the hillside to intercept it. Hisheart sang within him; here was a glorious day that could never come again,and he meant to live it gloriously.

“Marnin’, mother! Marnin’, Chris! Let me get in between’e. Breakfast will be most ready by time we’m home. I knawed youd keep your word such a rare fashion day!”

Will soon sat between the two women, while Mrs. Blanchard’s ponyregulated its own pace and three tongues chattered behind it. A dozen brownpaper parcels occupied the body of the little cart, for Damaris had insistedthat the wedding feast should be of her providing. It was proposed that Chrisand her mother should spend the day at Newtake and depart after drinking tea;while Phoebe was to arrive in a fly at one o’clock.

After breakfast Chris busied herself indoors and occupied her quickfingers in putting a dozen finishing touches; while Mrs. Blanchard walkedround the farm beside Will, viewed with outspoken approval or secret distrustthose evidences of success and failure spread about her, and passed theabandoned attempt to reclaim land without a word or sign that she remembered.Will crowed like a happy child; his mother poured advice into his unheedingears; and then a cart lumbered up with a great surprise in it. True to herintention Mrs. Blanchard had chosen the day of Phoebe ’s arrival tosend the old piano to Newtake, and now it was triumphantly trundled into theparlour, while Will protested and admired. It added not a little to the solidsplendour of the apartment, and Mrs. Blanchard viewed it with placid butgenuine satisfaction. Its tarnished veneer and red face looked like an oldhonest friend, so Will declared, and he doubted not that his wife wouldrejoice as he did.

Presently the cart destined to bring Phoebe’s boxes started forChagford under Ted Chown’s direction. It was a new cart, and the ownerhoped that sight of it, with “William Blanchard, Newtake,” noblydisplayed on the tail-board, would please his father-in-law.

Meantime, at Monks Barton the great day had likewise dawned, but Phoebe,from cowardice rather than philosophy, did not mention what was to happenuntil the appearance of Chown made it necessary to do so.

Mr. Blee was the first to stand bewildered before Ted’s bluntannouncement that he had come for Mrs. Blanchard’s luggage.

“What luggage? What the douce be talkin’ ’bout?”he asked.

“Why, everything, I s’pose. She ’m comin’ hometo-day—that’s knawn, ban’t it?”

“Gormed if ’tis! Not by me, anyways—nor Miller,neither.”

Then Phoebe appeared and Billy heard the truth.

“My! An’ to keep it that quiet! Theer’ll be a tidyupstore when Miller comes to hear tell—”

But Mr. Lyddon was at the door and Phoebe answered his questioningeyes.

“My birthday, dear faither. You must remember—why, you was thefirst to give me joy of it! Twenty-one to-day, an’ I must go—Imust—’tis my duty afore everything.”

The old man’s jaw fell and he looked the picture of sorrowfulsurprise.

“But—but to spring it like this! Why to-day? Why to-day?It’s madness and it’s cruelty to fly from your home the firstliving moment you’ve got the power. I’d counted on a merryevenin,’ tu, an’ axed more ’n wan to drink your gudehealth.”

“Many’s the merry evenings us’ll have, dear faither,please God; but a husband’s a husband. He’ve been that wonnerfulpatient, tu, for such as him. ’T was my fault for not remindin’you. An’ yet I did, now an’ again, but you wouldn’t see it.Yet you knawed in your heart, an’ I didn’t like to pain ’edwellin’ on it overmuch.”

“How did I knaw? I didn’t knaw nothin’ ’t all’bout it. How should I? Me grawin’ aulder an’ aulder,an’ leanin’ more an’ more ’pon ’e at everyturn. An’ him no friend to me—he ’s never sought to winme—he ’s—”

“Doan’t ’e taake on ’bout Will, dearie;you’ll come to knaw un better bimebye. I ban’t gwaine so fararter all; an’ it’s got to be.”

Then the miller worked himself into a passion, dared Chown to take hisdaughter’s boxes, and made a scene very painful to witness and quitefutile in its effect. Phoebe could be strong at times, and a life’sknowledge of her father helped her now. She told Chown to get the boxes andbade Billy help him; she then followed Mr. Lyddon, who was rambling away,according to his custom at moments of great sorrow, to pour his troubles intoany ear that would listen. She put her arm through his, drew him to theriverside and spoke words that showed she had developed mentally of late. Shewas a woman with her father, cooed pleasantly to him, foretold good things,and implored him to have greater care of his health and her love than tocourt illness by this display of passion. Such treatment had sufficed to calmthe miller in many of his moods, for she possessed great power to soothe him,and Mr. Lyddon now set increased store upon his daughter’s judgment;but to-day, before this dreadful calamity, every word and affectionate devicewas fruitless and only made the matter worse. He stormed on, andPhoebe’s superior manner vanished as he did so, for she could only playsuch a part if quite unopposed in it. Now her father silenced her, frightenedher, and dared her to leave him; but his tragic temper changed when theyreturned to the farm and he found his daughter’s goods were reallygone. Then the old man grew very silent, for the inexorable certainty of thething about to happen was brought home to him at last.

Before a closed hackney carriage from the hotel arrived to carry Phoebe toNewtake, Miller Lyddon passed through a variety of moods, and anotheroutburst succeeded his sentimental silence. When the vehicle was at the gate,however, his daughter found tears in his eyes upon entering the kitchensuddenly to wish him “good-by.” But he brushed them away at sightof her, and spoke roughly and told her to be gone and find the differencebetween a good father and a bad husband.

“Go to the misery of your awn choosin’; go to him an’the rubbish-heap he calls a farm! Thankless an’ontrue,—go,—an’ look to me in the future to keep you out ofthe poorhouse and no more. An’ that for your mother’ssake—not yourn.”

“Oh, Faither!” she cried, “doan’t let them be thelast words I hear ’pon your lips. ’T is cruel, for sureI’ve been a gude darter to ’e, or tried tobe—an’—an’—please, dear faither, just say youwish us well—me an’ my husband. Please say that much. Idoan’t ax more.”

But he rose and left her without any answer. It was then Phoebe’sturn to weep, and blinded with tears she slipped and hurt her knee gettinginto the coach. Billy thereupon offered his aid, helped her, handed herlittle white fox terrier m after her, and saw that the door was properlyclosed.

“Be o’ good cheer,” he said, “though Icaan’t offer ’e much prospects of easy life in double harnesswi’ Will Blanchard. But, as I used to say in my church-gwaine days,‘God tempers the wind to the shorn lamb.’ Be it as ’twill,I dare say theer ’s many peaceful years o’ calm,black-wearin’ widowhood afore ’e yet, for chaps like him doshorten theer days a deal by such a tearin’, high-coloured, passionateway of life.”

Mr. Blee opened the gate, the maids waved their handkerchiefs and wept,and not far distant, as he heard the vehicle containing his daughter depart,Mr. Lyddon would have given half that he had to recall the spoken word.Phoebe once gone, his anger vanished and his love for her won on him likesunshine after storm. Angry, indeed, he still was, but with himself.

For Phoebe, curiosity and love dried her tears as she passed upwardtowards the Moor. Then, the wild land reached, she put her head out of thewindow and saw Newtake beech trees in the distance. Already the foliage ofthem seemed a little tattered and thin, and their meagreness of vesture andsolitary appearance depressed the spectator again before she arrived atthem.

But the gate, thrown widely open, was reached at last, and there stoodWill and Mrs. Blanchard, Chris, Ted Chown, and the great bobtailed sheep-dog,“Ship,” to welcome her. With much emotion poor Phoebe alighted,tottered and fell into the bear-hug of her husband, while the women alsokissed her and murmured over her in their sweet, broad Devon tongue. Thensomething made Will laugh, and his merriment struck the right note; but Shipfell foul of Phoebe’s little terrier and there was a growl, then a yelpand a scuffling, dusty battle amid frightened fowls, whose protests added tothe tumult. Upon this conflict descended Will’s sapling with soundingthuds administered impartially, and from the skirmish the smaller beastemerged lame and crying, while the sheep-dog licked the blood off his noseand went to heel with a red light glimmering through his pale blue eyes.

Happiness returned indoors and Phoebe, all blushes and praises, inspectedher new home and the preparations made within it for her pleasure. Perhapsshe simulated more joy than the moment brought, for such a day, dreamed ofthrough years, was sure in its realisation to prove something of ananti-climax after the cruel nature of all such events. Despite Chris and herceaseless efforts to keep joy at the flood, a listlessness stole over thelittle party as the day wore on. Phoebe found her voice not to be relied uponand felt herself drifting into that state between laughter and tears whichcraves solitude for its exhibition. The cows came home to be milked, andthere seemed but few of them after the great procession at Monks Barton. YetWill demanded her separate praises for each beast. In the little garden hehad made, budding flowers, untimely transplanted, hung their heads. But sheadmired with extravagant adjectives, and picked a blossom and set it in herdress. Anon the sun set, with no soft lights and shadows amidst the valleytrees she knew, when sunset and twilight played hide-and-seek beside theriver, but slowly, solemnly, in hard, clean, illimitable glory upon horizonsof granite and heather. The peat glowed as though it were red-hot, and nightbrooded on the eastern face of every hill. Only a jangling bell broke thestartling stillness then, and, through long weeks afterwards the girl yearnedfor the song of the river, as one who has long slept by another’s sidesadly yearns for the sound of their breathing by night, when they are takenaway. Phoebe had little imagination, but she guessed already that the lifebefore her must differ widely from that spent under her father’s roof.Despite the sunshine of the time and the real joy of being united to herhusband at last, she saw on every side more evidences of practical life thanshe had before anticipated. But these braced her rather than not, and shetold herself truly that the sadness at bottom of her heart just then waswholly begotten of the past and her departure from home. Deep unrest cameupon her as she walked with her husband and listened to his glad voice. Shelonged greatly to be alone with him that her heart might be relieved. Shewanted his arms round her; she wanted to cry and let him kiss the tearsaway.

Damaris Blanchard very fully understood much that was passing through herdaugher-in-law’s mind, and she hastened her departure after an earlycup of tea. She took a last look at all the good things she had provided forthe wedding supper—a meal she declared must not be shared with Will andPhoebe—and so made ready to depart. It was then her turn, and her bosomthrobbed with just one dumb, fleeting shadow of fear that found words beforeher second thought had time to suppress them.

“You won’t love me no less, eh, Will?” she whispered,holding his hand between hers; and he saw her grey eyes almost frightened inthe gloaming.

“My God, no! No, mother; a man must have a dirty li’l heart inun if it ban’t big enough to hold mother an’ wife.”

She gripped his hand tighter.

“Ess fay, I knaw, I knaw; but doan’t ’e put your motherfirst now,—ban’t nature. God bless an’ keep the both of’e. ’Twill allus be my prayer.”

The cart rattled away, Chris driving, and such silence as Phoebe had neverknown held the darkening land. She noted a yellow star against the sombreridge of the world, felt Will’s arm round her and turned to him,seeking that comfort and support her nature cried out for.

Infinitely tender and loving was her husband then, and jubilant, too, atfirst; but a little later, when Chown had been packed off to his ownapartment, with not a few delicacies he had never bargained for, theconversation flagged and the banquet also.

The table was laden with two capons, a ham, a great sugared cake, a wholeDutch cheese, an old-fashioned cut-glass decanter containing brown sherry,and two green wine-glasses for its reception; yet these luxuries temptedneither husband nor wife to much enjoyment of them. Indeed Phoebe’sobvious lowness of spirits presently found its echo in Will. The silencesgrew longer and longer; then the husband set down his knife and fork, andleaving the head of the table went round to his wife’s side and tookher hand and squeezed it, but did not speak. She turned to him and he saw hershut her eyes and give a little shiver. Then a tear flashed upon her lashesand twinkled boldly down, followed by another.

“Phoebe! My awn li’l wummon! This be a wishthome-comin’! What the plague’s the matter wi’us?”

“Doan’t ’e mind, dear heart. I’m happy as a birdunder these silly tears. But ’twas the leavin’ o’ faither,an’ him so hard, an’ me lovin’ him so dear,an’—an’—”

“Doan’t ’e break your heart ’bout him. He’llcome round right enough. ’Twas awnly the pang o’ your gwaineaway, like the drawin’ of a tooth.”

“Everybody else in the world knaws I ought to be here,” sobbedPhoebe, “but faither, he won’t see it. An’ I caan’tget un out of my mind to-night, sitting that mournfui an’ desolate,wi’ his ear deaf to Billy’s noise an’ his thoughts uphere.”

“If he won’t onderstand the ways of marriage, blessed if I seehow we can make him. Surely to God, ’twas time I had my awn?”

“Ess, dear Will, but coming to-day, ’pon top of my gert joy,faither’s sorrow seemed so terrible-like.”

“He’ll get awver it, an’ so will you, bless you. Drinkup some of this braave stuff mother left. Sherry ’t is, real wine, aswill comfort ’e, my li’l love. ’Tis I be gwaine to makeyour happiness henceforward, mind; an’ as for Miller, he belongs to anauld-fashioned generation of mankind, and it’s our place to makeallowances. Auld folk doan’t knaw an’ won’t larn. Buthe’ll come to knaw wan solid thing, if no more; an’ that is ashis darter’ll have so gude a husband as she’ve got faither,though I sez it.”

“’Tis just what he said I shouldn’t, Will.”

“Nevermind, forgive un, an’ drink up your wine; ’twillhearten ’e.”

A dog barked, a gate clinked, and there came the sound of a horse’shoofs, then of a man dismounting.

Will told the rest of the story afterwards to Mrs. Blanchard.

“‘’Tis faither,’ cries Phoebe, an’ turns sopale as a whitewashed wall in moonlight. ‘Never!’ I sez. But sheknawed the step of un, an’ twinkled up from off her chair, an’’fore ever the auld man reached the door, ’t was awpen. In hecomed, like a lamb o’ gentleness, an’ said never a word for abit, then fetched out a little purse wi’ twenty gawld sovereigns in it.An’ us all had some fine talk for more’n an hour, an’ hewas proper faither to me, if you’ll credit it; an’ he drinked aglass o’ your wine, mother, an’ said he never tasted none betterand not much so gude. Then us seed un off, an’ Phoebe cried again, poortwoad, but for sheer happiness this time. So now the future’s clear assunlight, an’ we’m all friends—’cept here an’theer.”

CHAPTER XII
THROUGH ONE GREAT DAY

Just within the woods of Teign Valley, at a point not far distant fromthat where Will Blanchard met John Grimbal for the first time, and wrestledwith him beside the river, there rises a tall bank, covered with fern,shadowed by oak trees. A mossy bridle-path winds below, while beyond it, seenthrough a screen of wych-elms and hazel, extend the outlying meadows of MonksBarton.

Upon this bank, making “sunshine in a shady place,” reclinedChris, beneath a harmony of many greens, where the single, double, and tripleshadows of the manifold leaves above her created a complex play of light andshade all splashed and gemmed with little sun discs. Drowsy noon-day peacemarked the hour; Chris had some work in her hand, but was not engaged uponit; and Clement, who lolled beside her, likewise did nothing. His eyes wereupon a mare and foal in the meadow below. The matron proceeded slowly,grazing as she went, while her lanky youngster nibbled at this or thatinviting tuft, then raced joyously in wide circles and, returning, sought hismother’s milk with the selfish roughness of youth.

“Happy as birds, they be,” said Chris, referring to the youngpair at Newtake. “It do make me long for us to be man an’ wife,Clem, when I see ’em.”

“We’re that now, save for the hocus-pocus of the parsons youset such store by.”

“No, I’ll never believe it makes no difference.”

“A cumbrous, stupid, human contrivance like marriage! Was ever manand woman happier for being bound that way? Can free things feel their heartsbeat closer because they are chained to one another by an effetedogma?”

“I doan’t onderstand all that talk, sweetheart, an’ youknaw I don’t; but till some wise body invents a better-fashion way ofjoining man an’ maid than marriage, us must taake it as’tis.”

“There is a better way—Nature’s.”

She shook her head.

“If us could dwell in a hole at a tree-root, an’ eat rootsan’ berries; but we’m thinking creatures in a Christianland.”

She stretched herself out comfortably and smiled up at him where he satwith his chin in his hands. Then, looking down, he saw the delicious outlineof her and his eyes grew hot.

“God’s love! How long must it be?” he cried; then,before she could speak, he clipped her passionately to him and hugged herclosely.

“Dearie, you’m squeezin’ my breath out o’me!” cried Chris, well used to these sudden storms and not averse tothem. “We must bide patient an’ hold in our hearts,” shesaid, lying in his arms with her face close to his. “’Twill beall the more butivul when we’m mated. Ess fay! I love ’e allus,but I love ’e better in this fiery mood than on the ice-cold days whenyou won’t so much as hold my hand.”

“The cold mood’s the better notwithstanding, and colder yetwould be better yet, and clay-cold best of all.”

But he held her still, and pressed his beard against her brown neck. Thenthe sound of a trotting horse reached his ears, he started up, looked below,and saw John Grimbal passing by. Their eyes met, for the horseman chanced toglance up as Clement thrust his head above the fern; but Chris was invisibleand remained so.

Grimbal stopped and greeted the bee-keeper.

“Have you forgotten your undertaking to see my hives once amonth?”

“No, I meant coming next week.”

“Well, as it happens I want to speak with you, and the presenttime’s as good as another. I suppose you were only lying theredreaming?”

“That’s all. I’ll come and walk along beside yourhorse.”

He squeezed his sweetheart’s hand, whispered a promise to returnimmediately, then rose and stumbled down the bank, leaving Chris thronedaloft in the fern. For a considerable time John Grimbal said nothing, then hebegan suddenly,—

“I suppose you know the Applebirds are leaving my farm?”

“Yes, Mrs. Applebird told my mother. Going toSticklepath.”

“Not easy to get a tenant to take their place.”

“Is it not? Such a farm as yours? I should have thought there needbe no difficulty.”

“There are tenants and tenants. How would you like it—you andyour mother? Then you could marry and be comfortable. No doubt ChrisBlanchard would make a splendid farmer’s wife.”

“It would be like walking into paradise for me;but—”

“The rent needn’t bother you. My first care is a good tenant.Besides, rent may take other shapes than pounds, shillings, andpence.”

Hicks started.

“I see,” he said; “you can’t forget the chanceword I spoke in anger so long ago.”

“I can’t, because it happened to be just the word I wanted tohear. My quarrel with Will Blanchard’s no business of yours. Theman’s your enemy too; and you’re a fool to stand in your ownlight, You know something that I don’t know, concerning those weeksduring which he disappeared. Well, tell me. You can only live your life once.Why let it run to rot when the Red House Farm wants a tenant? A man youdespise, too.”

“No. I promised. Besides, you wouldn’t be contented with theknowledge; you’d act on it.”

Grimbal showed a lightning-quick perception of this admission; and Hicks,too late, saw that the other had realised its force. Then he made an effortto modify his assertion.

“When I say ‘you’d act on it,’ I mean that youmight try to, though I much doubt really if anything I could tell you woulddamage Blanchard.”

“If you think that, then there can be no conscientious objection totelling me. Besides, I don’t say I should act on the knowledge. Idon’t say I shall or I shall not. All you ve got to do is to saywhether you’ll take the Red House Farm at a nominal rent fromMichaelmas.”

“No, man, no. You’ve met me in a bad moment, too, if you onlyknew. But think of it—brother and sister; and I, in order to marry thewoman, betray the man. That’s what it comes to. Such things don’thappen.”

“You re speaking plainly, at any rate. We ought to understand eachother to-day, if ever. I’ll make you the same offer for less return.Tell me where he was during those weeks—that’s all. Youneedn’t tell what he was doing.”

“If you knew one, you’d find out the other. Once and for all,I’ll tell you nothing. By an accidental question you discovered that Iknew something. That was not my fault. But more you never will know fromme—farm or no farm.”

“You’re a fool for your pains. And the end will be the same.The information must reach me. You’re a coward at heart, for it’sfear, not any tomfoolery of morals, that keeps your mouth shut. Don’tdeceive yourself. I’ve often talked with you before to-day, and I knowyou think as I do.”

“What’s that to do with it?”

“Everything. ‘Good’ and ‘evil’ are only twowords, and what is man’s good and what is man’s evil takessomething cleverer than man to know. It’s no nonsense of‘right’ and ‘wrong’ that’s keeping you from ahappy home and a wife. What is it then?”

Hicks was silent a moment, then made answer.

“I don’t know. I don’t know any more than you do.Something has come over me; I can’t tell you what. I’m moresurprised than you are at my silence; but there it is. Why the devil Idon’t speak I don’t know. I only know I’m not going to. Ourcharacters are beyond our own power to understand.”

“If you don’t know, I’ll tell you. You’refrightened that he will find out. You’re afraid of him.”

“It’s vain trying to anger me into speaking,” answeredthe other, showing not a little anger the while; “I’m dumbhenceforward.”

“I hope you’ll let your brain influence you towards reason.’Tis a fool’s trick to turn your back on the chance of alifetime. Better think twice. And second thoughts are like to prove bestworth following. You know where to find me at any rate. I’ll give yousix weeks to decide about it.”

John Grimbal waited, hoping that Hicks might yet change his mind before hetook his leave; but the bee-keeper made no answer. His companion thereforebroke into a sharp trot and left him. Whereupon Clement stood still a moment,then he turned back and, forgetting all about Chris, proceeded slowlyhomewards to Chagford, deep in thought and heartily astonished at himself. Noone could have prompted his enemy to a more critical moment for this greatattack; no demon could have sent the master of the Red House with a moretempting proposal; and yet Hicks found himself resisting the lure without anyparticular effort or struggle. On the one side this man had offered him allthe things his blood and brain craved; on the other his life still stretcheddrearily forward, and nothing in it indicated he was nearer his ambition by ahair’s-breadth than a year before. Yet he refused to pay the price. Itamazed him to find his determination so fixed against betrayal of Will. Hehonestly wondered at himself. The decision was bred from a curious conditionof mind quite beyond his power to comprehend. He certainly recoiled fromexposure of Blanchard’s secret, yet coldly asked himself whatunsuspected strand of character held him back. It was not fear and it was notregard for his sweetheart’s brother; he did not know what it was. Hescoffed at the ideas of honour or conscience. These abstractions hadpossessed weight in earlier years, but not now. And yet, while he assuredhimself that no tie of temporal or eternal interest kept him silent, thetemptation to tell seemed much less on this occasion than in the past when hetook a swarm of John Grimbal’s bees. Then, indeed, his mind was aflamewith bitter provocation. He affected a cynical attitude to the position andlaughed without mirth at a theory that suddenly appeared in his mind.Perchance this steadfastness of purpose resulted, after all, from thatartificial thing, “conscience,” which men catch at theimpressionable age when they have infantile ailments and pray at amother’s knee. If so, surely reason must banish such folly beforeanother dawn and send him hot-foot at daybreak to the Red House. He wouldwait and watch himself and see.

His reflections were here cut short, for a shrill voice broke in uponthem, and Clement, now within a hundred yards of his own cottage door, sawMr. Lezzard before him.

“At last I’ve found ’e! Been huntin’ this longfultime, tu. The Missis wants ’e—your aunt I should say.”

“Wants me?”

“Ess. ’T is wan o’ her bad days, wi’ her liveran’ lights a bitin’ at her like savage creatures. She’m seton seein’ you, an’ if I go home-along without ’e,she’ll awnly cuss.”

“What can she want me for?”

“She ’s sick ’n’ taken a turn for the wuss, lastfew days. Doctor Parsons doan’t reckon she can hold out much longer.’Tis the drink—she’m soaked in it, like asponge.”

“I’ll come,” said Hicks, and half an hour later heapproached his aunt’s dwelling and entered it.

Mrs. Lezzard was now sunk into a condition of chronic crapulence whichcould only end in one way. Her husband had been ordered again and again tokeep all liquor from her, but, truth to tell, he made no very sustainedeffort to do so. The old man was sufficiently oppressed by his own physicaltroubles, and as the only happiness earth now held for him must depend on thedeparture of his wife, he watched her drinking herself to death withoutconcern and even smiled in secret at the possibility of some happy, quiet,and affluent years when she was gone.

Mrs. Lezzard lay on the sofa in her parlour, and a great peony-colouredface with coal-black eyes in it greeted Clement. She gave him her hand andbid her husband be gone. Then, when Gaffer had vanished, his wife turned toher nephew.

“I’ve sent for you, Clem Hicks, for more reasons than wan. Ibe gwaine down the hill fast, along o’ marryin’ this cursedmommet12 of a man, Lezzard. He lied about hismoney—him a pauper all the time; and now he waits and watches meo’ nights, when he thinks I’m drunk or dreamin’ an’ Iban’t neither. He watches, wi’ his auld, mangy pollshakin’, an’ the night-lamp flingin’ the black shadow of un’gainst the bed curtain an’ shawin’ wheer his wan fronttooth sticks up like a yellow stone in a charred field. Blast un to hell!He’m waitin’ for my money, an’ I’ve told unhe’s to have it. But ’twas only to make the sting bite deeperwhen the time comes. Not a penny—not a farthing—him or any of’em.”

“Don’t get angry with him. He’s not worth it. Tell me ifI can help you and how. You’ll be up and about again soon, Ihope.” “Never. Not me. Doctor Parsons be to blame. I hate thatman. He knawed it was weakness of heart that called for drink afterCoonistock died; an’ he let me go on an’ on—just to gainhis own dark ends. You’ll see, you’ll see. But that reminds me.Of all my relations you an’ your mother’s all I care for; becauseyou’m of my awn blood an’ you’ve let me bide, an’haven’t been allus watchin’ an’ waitin’ an’divin’ me to the bottle. An’ the man I was fule enough to take inhis dotage be worst of all.”

“Forget about these things. Anger’s bad for you.”

“Forget! Well, so I will forget, when I ve told ’e. I had theyoung man what does my business, since old Ford died, awver here last week,an’ what there is will be yourn—every stiver yourn. Not thebusiness, of course; that was sold when Coonistock died; but what I couldleave I have. You expected nothin,’ an’ by God! you shall haveall!”

She saw his face and hastened to lessen the force of the announcement insome degree.

“Ban’t much, mind, far less than you might think for—farless. Theer’s things I was driven to do—a lone woman wi’outa soul to care. An’ wan was—but you’ll hear in gude time,you’ll hear. It concerns Doctor Parsons.”

“I can’t believe my senses. If you only knew what happened tome this morning. And if you only knew what absolute paupers weare—mother and I. Not that I would confess it to any living soul butyou. And how can I thank you? Words are such vain things.”

“Ban’t no call to thank me. ’Tis more from hatred oft’ others than love of you, when all’s said. An’ itban’t no gert gold mine. But I’d like to be laid along wi’Coomstock; an’ doan’t, for God’s love, bury Lezzardwi’ me; an’ I want them words on auld George Mundy’s graaveset ’pon mine—not just writ, but cut in a slate or some suchlasting thing. ’Tis a tidy tomb he’ve got, wi’ a cherubangel, an’ I’d like the same. You’ll find a copy o’the words in the desk there. My maid took it down last Sunday. I minded thegeneral meaning, but couldn’t call home the rhymes. Read it out, will’e?”

Clement opened the desk, and found and read the paper. It contained averse not uncommon upon the tombstones of the last rural generation inDevon:

“Ye standers-by, the thread is spun;
All pomp and pride I e’er did shun;
Rich and poor alike must die;
Peasants and kings in dust must lie;
The best physicians cannot save
Themselves or patients from the Grave.”

“Them’s the words, an’ I’ve chose ’em so asDoctor Parsons shall have a smack in the faace when I’m gone. Not thathe’s wan o’ the ’best physicians’ by a mighty longway; but he’ll knaw I was thinking of him, an’ gnash his teeth, Ihope, every time he sees the stone. I owe him that—an’ more’n that, as you’ll see when I’m gone.”

“You mustn’t talk of going, aunt—not for many a day.You’re a young woman for these parts. You must takecare—that’s all.”

But he saw death in her face while he spoke, and could scarcely hide thefrantic jubilation her promise had awakened in him. The news swept him alongon a flood of novel thoughts. Coming as it did immediately upon his refusalto betray Will Blanchard, the circumstance looked, even in the eyes of Hicks,like a reward, an interposition of Providence on his behalf. He doubted notbut that the bulk of mankind would so regard it. There arose within himold-fashioned ideas concerning right and wrong—clear notions thatbrought a current of air through his mind and blew away much rotting foliageand evil fruit. This sun-dawn of prosperity transformed the man for a moment,even awoke some just ethical thoughts in him.

His reverie was interrupted, for, on the way from Mrs. Lezzard’shome, Clement met Doctor Parsons himself and asked concerning hisaunt’s true condition.

“She gave you the facts as they are,” declared the medicalman. “Nothing can save her. She’s had delirium tremensLord knows how often. A fortnight to a month—that’s all. Natureloves these forlorn hopes and tinkers away at them in a manner that oftencauses me to rub my eyes. But you can’t make bricks without straw.Nature will find the game ’s up in a few days; then she’ll wasteno more time, and your aunt will be gone.”

Home went Clement Hicks, placed his mother in a whirl of mental rejoicingat this tremendous news, then set out for Chris. Their compact of themorning—that she should await his return in the woods—he quiteforgot; but Mrs. Blanchard reminded him and added that Chris had returned inno very good humour, then trudged up to Newtake to see Phoebe. Cool and calmthe widow stood before Clement’s announcement, expressed hergratification, and gave him joy of the promised change in his life.

“Glad enough am I to hear tell of this. But you’ll actjust—eh? You won’t forget that poor auld blid, Lezzard? Ifshe’m gwaine to leave un out the account altogether, he’ll beworse off than the foxes. His son’s gone to foreign paarts an’his darter’s lyin’-in—not that her husband would spare acrust o’ bread for auld Lezzard, best o’ times.”

“Trust me to do what’s right. Now I’ll go and see afterChris.”

“An’ make it up with Will while sun shines on ’e.It’s so easy, come gude fortune, to feel your heart swellin’ outto others.”

“We are good friends now.”

“Do’e think I doan’t knaw better? Your quarrel’spatched for the sake of us women. Have a real make-up, I mean.”

“I will, then. I’ll be what I was to him, if he’ll letme. I’ll forgive everything that’s past—everything andevery body.”

“So do. An’ doan’t ’e tell no more of them hardsayings ’gainst powers an’ principalities an’ Providence.Us be all looked arter, ’cording to the unknawn planning of God.How’s Mrs. Lezzard?”

“She’ll be dead in a fortnight—perhaps less. As likelyas not I might marry Chris before the next new moon.”

“Doan’t think ’pon that yet. Be cool, an’ keepyour heart in bounds. ’T is allus the way wi’ such as you, whonever hope nothing. Theer comes a matter as takes ’em out ofthemselves, then they get drunk with hope, all of a sudden, an’ flieshigher than the most sanguine folks, an’ builds castles ’ponclouds. Theer’s the diggin’ of a graave between you and Chrisyet. Doan’t forget that.”

“You can’t evade solid facts.”

“No, but solid facts, seen close, often put on a differ’ntfaace to what they did far-ways off.”

“You won’t dishearten me, mother; I’m a happy man foronce.”

“Be you? God forbid I should cloud ’e then; awnly keep wise aswell as happy, an’ doan’t fill Chris with tu gert a shaw of pompsan’ splendours. Put it away till it comes. Our dreams ’bout thefuture ’s allus a long sight better or worse than the futureitself.”

“Don’t forbid dreaming. That’s the sole happinessI’ve ever had until now.”

“Happiness, you call it? ’T is awnly a painted tinsel o’the mind, and coming from it into reality is like waking arter tu much drink.So I’ve heard my husband say scores o’ times—himbein’ a man much given to overhopefulness in his youngerdays—same as Will is now.”

Clement departed, and presently found himself with the cooler breezes ofthe high lands upon his hot forehead. They put him in mind of Mrs. Blanchardagain, and their tendency, as hers had been, was to moderate his ardour; butthat seemed impossible just now. Magnificent sunshine spread over the greatwastes of the Moor; and through it, long before he reached Newtake, Clementsaw his sweetheart returning. For a little time he seemed intoxicated and nolonger his own master. The fires of the morning woke in him again at sight ofher. They met and kissed, and he promised her some terrific news, but did nottell it then. He lived in the butterfly fever of the moment, and presentlyimparted the fever to her. They left the road and got away into the lonelyheather; then he told her that they would be man and wife within afortnight.

They sat close together, far from every eye, in the shade of a thorn bushthat rose beside a lonely stone.

“Within the very shadow of marriage, and you are frightened of mestill! Frightened to let me pick an apple over the orchard wall when I amgoing through the gate for my own the next moment! Listen! I hear our weddingbells!”

Only the little lizard and the hovering hawk with gold eyes saw them.

“Our wedding bells!” said Chris. Towards set of sun Hicks sawhis sweetheart to her mother’s cottage. His ecstatic joys were soberednow, and his gratitude a little lessened.

“To think what marvels o’ happiness be in store for us, Clem,my awn!”

“Yes—not more than we deserve, either. God knows, if there’s any justice, it was your turn and mine to come by a little of thehappiness that falls to the lot of men and women.”

“I doan’t see how highest heaven’s gwaine to be betterthan our married life, so long as you love me.”

“Heaven! Don’t compare them. What’s eternity ifyou’re half a ghost, half a bird? That’s the bribe thrownout,—to be a cold-blooded, perfect thing, and passionless as a musicalbox. Give me hot blood that flows and throbs; give me love, and awoman’s breast to lean on. One great day on earth, such as this hasbeen, is better than a million ages of sexless perfection in heaven. A vainreward it was that Christ offered. It seemed highest perfection to Him,doubtless; but He judged the world by Himself. The Camel-driver was wiser. Hepromised actual, healthy flesh in paradise—flesh that should never knowan ache or pain—eternal flesh, and the joys of it. We can understandthat, but where’s the joy of being a spirit? I cling to the flesh Ihave, for I know that Nature will very soon want back the dust she has lentme.”

CHAPTER XIII
THE WILL

Agreeably to the prediction of Doctor Parsons, Mrs. Lezzard’sjourney was ended in less than three weeks of her conversation with ClementHicks. Then came a night when she made an ugly end; and with morning a groupof gossips stood about the drawn blinds, licked their lips over the details,and generally derived that satisfaction from death common to their class.Indeed, this ghoulish gusto is not restricted to humble folk alone. Theinstinct lies somewhere at the root of human nature, together with manyanother morbid vein and trait not readily to be analysed or understood. Onlyeducated persons conceal it.

“She had deliriums just at the end,” said Martha, her maid.“She called out in a voice as I never heard afore, an’ mistookher husband for the Dowl.”

“Poor sawl! Death’s such a struggle at the finish for thefull-blooded kind. Doctor tawld me that if she’d had the leastest bito’liver left, he could ’a’ saved her; but ’twas allsoaked up by neat brandy, leaving nought but a vacuum or some such fatalthing.”

“Her hadn’t the use of her innards for a full fortnight! Thinko’ that! Aw. dallybuttons! It do make me cream all awver to hear tellof!”

So they piled horror upon horror; then came Clement Hicks, as one havingauthority, and bade them begone. The ill-omened fowls hopped off; relationsbegan to collect; there was an atmosphere of suppressed electricity about theplace, and certain women openly criticised the prominent attitude Hicks sawfit to assume. This, however, did not trouble him. He wrote to the lawyer atNewton, fixed a day for the funeral, and then turned his attention to Mr.Lezzard. The ancient resented Clement’s interference not a little, butHicks speedily convinced him that his animosity mattered nothing. Thebee-keeper found this little taste of power not unpleasant. He knew thateverything was his own property, and he enjoyed the hate and suspicion in theeyes of those about him. The hungry crowd haunted him, but he refused it anyinformation. Mr. Lezzard picked a quarrel, but he speedily silenced the oldman, and told him frankly that upon his good behaviour must depend his futureposition. Crushed and mystified, the widower whispered to those interestedwith himself in his wife’s estate; and so, before the reading of thewill, there slowly grew a very deep suspicion and hearty hatred of ClementHicks. None had considered him in connection with Mrs. Lezzard’sfortune, for he always kept aloof from her; but women cannot easily shuttheir lips over such tremendous matters of news, and so it came about thatsome whisper from Chris or dark utterance from old Mrs. Hicks got wind, and arumour grew that the bee-keeper was the dead woman’s heir.

Facts contributed colour to the suspicion, for it was known that Clementhad of late given Chris one or two pretty presents, and a ring that costgold. His savings were suspected to justify 110 such luxuries; yet that aspeedy change in his manner of life might be expected was also manifest fromthe fact that he had been looking into the question of a new stone cottage,on the edge of the Moor, where the heather in high summer would ripple to thevery doors of his beehives.

The distrust created by these facts was quickly set at rest, for Mrs.Lezzard sank under ground within four days of her dissolution; then, afterthe eating of funeral baked meats, those interested assembled in the parlourto hear the will. The crowd whispered and growled, and looked gloomily acrossat Hicks and the little figure of his mother who had come in rusty black towitness his triumph. Then a young lawyer from Newton adjusted his spectacles,rustled his papers, and poured himself out a glass of grocer’s portbefore proceeding. But his task involved no strain upon him, and was indeedcompleted within five minutes. Black disappointment, dismay, and despair werethe seeds sown by that unimpassioned voice; and at his conclusion a silenceas blank as any that reigned in the ears of the dead fell upon those wholistened—on those who had hoped so much and were confronted with solittle.

“The will is remarkably concise. Mrs. Lezzard makes sundry bitterstatements which I think none will blame me for not repeating, though all maysee them here who desire so to do; she then constitutes Mr. Clement Hicks,her nephew, sole residuary legatee. There is no condition, no codicil; but Ihave regretfully to add that Mr. Hicks wins little but this barren expressionof good-will from the testatrix; for the sufficient reason that she hadnothing to leave. She laboured under various delusions, among others that herfinancial position was very different from what is the case. Upon her firsthusband’s death, Mrs. Coomstock, as she was then, made an arrangementwith my late senior partner, Mr. Joel Ford, and purchased an annuity. Thisabsorbed nearly all her capital; the rest she lost in an undesirablespeculation of her own choosing. I am amazed at the present extent of herobligations. This dwelling-house, for instance, is mortgaged to her medicalman, Doctor Parsons, of Chagford. There is barely money to meet the debts.Some fifty or sixty pounds in my hands will be absorbed by the calls of theestate. Mrs. Lezzard’s tastes—I sorrow to say it—wereexpensive in some directions. There is an item of ten pounds twelve shillingsfor—for brandy, if I may be pardoned for speaking plainly. The funeralalso appears to have been conducted on a scale more lavish than circumstanceswarranted. However, there should be sufficient to defray the cost, and I amsure nobody will blame Mr. Hicks for showing this last respect to an amiableif eccentric woman. There is nothing to add except that I shall be delightedto answer any questions—any questions at all.”

A few moments later, the lawyer mounted his dog-cart and rattled off toenjoy a pleasant drive homeward.

Then the company spoke its mind, and Mary Lezzard’s clay might wellhave turned under that bitter hornet-buzz of vituperation. Some said little,but had not strength or self-command to hide tears; some cursed and swore.Mr. Lezzard wept unheeded; Mrs. Hicks likewise wept. Clement sat staring intothe flushed faces and angry eyes, neither seeing the rage manifested beforehim, nor hearing the coarse volleys of reproach. Then in his turn heattracted attention; and hard words, wasted on the dead, hurtled like hailround his ears, with acid laughter, and bitter sneers at his own tremendousawakening. Stung to the quick, the lame wheelwright, Charles Coomstock,gloated on the spectacle of Clement’s dark hour, and heaped abuse uponhis round-eyed, miserable mother. The raw of his own wound found a sort ofsalve in this attack; and all the other poor, coarse creatures similarlyfound comfort in their disappointment from a sight of more terrificmortification than their own. Venomous utterances fell about Clement Hicks,but he neither heard nor heeded: his mind was far away with Chris, and thesmall shot of the Coomstocks and the thunder of the Chowns alike flewharmlessly past him. He saw his sweetheart’s sorrow, and her grief, asyet unborn, was the only fact that much hurt him now. The gall in his ownsoul only began to sicken him when his eye rested on his mother. Then he roseand departed to his home, while the little, snuffling woman ran at his heels,like a dog.

Not until he had escaped the tempest of voices, and was hidden from theworld, did the bee-keeper allow his own cruel disappointment to appear. Then,while his mother wept, he lifted up his voice and cursed God. As hisrelations had won comfort by swearing at him, so now he soothed his soulunconsciously in blasphemies. Then followed a silence, and his mother daredto blame him and remind him of an error.

“You wouldn’t turn the bee-butts when she died, though Ibegged and prayed of ’e. Oh, if you’d awnly done what an auldwoman, an’ she your mother, had told ’e! Not so much as a pieceof crape would ’e suffer me to tie ’pon ’em. An’ Iknawed all the while the hidden power o’ bees.”

Presently he left her, and went to tell Chris. She greeted him eagerly,then turned pale and even terrified as she saw the black news in hisface.

“Just a gull and laughing-stock for the gods again, that’sall, Chris. How easily they fool us from their thrones, don’t they? Andour pitiful hopes and ambitions and poor pathetic little plans for happinessshrivel and die, and strew their stinking corpses along the road that wasgoing to be so gorgeous. The time to spill the cup is when the lip begins totremble and water for it—not sooner—the gods know! And nowall’s changed—excepting only the memory of things done that hadbetter been left undone.”

“But—but we shall be married at once, Clem?”

He shook his head.

“How can you ask it? My poor little all—twenty pounds—isgone on twopenny-halfpenny presents during the past week or two. It seemed solittle compared to the fortune that was coming. It’s all over. Thegreat day is further off by twenty pounds than it was before that poordrunken old fool lied to me. Yet she didn’t lie either; she onlyforgot; you can’t swim in brandy for nothing.”

Fear, not disappointment, dominated the woman before him as she heard.Sheer terror made her grip his arm and scream to him hysterically. Then shewept wild, savage tears and called to God to kill her quickly. For a time sheparried every question, but an outburst so strangely unlike Chris Blanchardhad its roots deeper than the crushing temporary disaster which he hadbrought with him. Clement, suspecting, importuned for the truth, gathered itfrom her, then passed away into the dusk, faced with the greatest problemthat existence had as yet set him. Crushed, and crushed unutterably, hereturned home oppressed with a biting sense of his own damnable fate. Hemoved as one distracted, incoherent, savage, alone. The glorious palace hehad raised for his happiness crumbled into vast ruins; hope was dead andputrid; and only the results of wild actions, achieved on false assumptions,faced him. Now, rising out of his brief midsummer madness, the man saw aghost; and he greeted it with groan as bitter as ever wrung human heart.

Miller Lyddon sat that night alone until Mr. Blee returned to supper.

“Gert news! Gert news!” he shouted, while yet in the passage;“sweatin’ for joy an’ haste, I be!”

His eyes sparkled, his face shone, his words tripped each other up by theheels.

“Be gormed if ban’t a ’mazin’ world! She’veleft nought—dammy—less than nought, for the house be mortgagedsea-deep to Doctor, an’ theer’s other debts. Not a penny fornobody—nothin’ but empty bottles—an’ to think as Ithought so poor o’ God as to say theer weern’t none! What aramshackle plaace the world is!”

“No money at all? Mrs. Lezzard—it can’t be!”declared Mr. Lyddon.

“But it is, by gum! A braave tantara ’mongst the fam’ly,I tell ’e. Not a stiver—all ate up in a ’nuity, an’her—artful limb!—just died on the last penny o’ thequarter’s payment. An’ Lezzard left at the work’usdoor—poor auld zawk! An’ him fourscore an’ never beeneggicated an’ never larned nothin’!”

“To think it might have been your trouble, Blee!”

“That’s it, that’s it! That’s what I be full of!Awnly for the watchin’ Lard, I’d been fixed in the hole myself.Just picture it! Me a-cussin’ o’ Christ to blazes an’lettin’ on theer wasn’t no such Pusson; an’ Him, wideawake, a-keepin’ me out o’ harm’s way, even arter the bannswas called! Theer’s a God for ’e! Watchin’ day an’night to see as I comed by no harm! That’s what ’t is to havelaid by a tidy mort o’ righteousness ’gainst a evilhour!”

“You ’m well out of it, sure enough.”

“Ess, ’t is so. I misjudged the Lard shocking, an’I’m man enough to up and say it, thank God. He was right an’ Iwas wrong; an’ lookin’ back, I sees it. So I’ll come backto the fold, like the piece of silver what was lost; an’ theer’llbe joy in heaven, as well theer may be. Burnish it all! I’ll go alongto church ’fore all men’s eyes next Lard’s Day everis.”

“A gude thought, tu. Religion’s a sort of benefit society, ifyou look at it, an’ the church be the bank wheer us pays insubscriptions Sundays.”

“An’ blamed gude interest us gets for the money,”declared Mr. Blee. “Not but what I’ve drawed a bit heavy on mydraft of late, along o’ pretendin’ to heathen ways an’thoughts what I never really held with; but ’t is all wan now an’I lay I’ll soon set the account right, wi’ a balance in myfavour, tu. Seein’ how shameful I was used, ban’t likely no gertthings will be laid against me.”

“And auld Lezzard will go to the Union?”

“A very fittin’ plaace for un, come to think on ’t.Awver-balanced for sheer greed of gawld he was. My! what a wild-goose chase!An the things he’ve said to me! Not that I’d allowmyself—awuly from common humanity I must see un an’ let un knaw Ibear no more malice than a bird on a bough.”

They drank, Billy deeper than usual. He was marvellously excited andcheerful. He greeted God like an old friend returned to him from a journey;and that night before retiring he stood stiffly beside his bed and coveredhis face in his hands and prayed a prayer familiar among his generation.

“Matthew, Mark, Luke, and John,
Bless the bed that I lie on,
Four cornders to my bed,
Four angels overspread
Two tu foot an’ two tu head,
An’ all to carry me when I’m dead.
An’ when I’m dead an’ in my graave,
An’ all my bones be rotten.
The greedy worms my flaish shall ate,
An’ I shall be forgotten;
For Christ’s sake. Amen.”

Having sucked from repetition of this ancient twaddle exactly that sort ofsatisfaction the French or Roman peasant wins from a babble of a deadlanguage over beads, Billy retired with many a grunt and sigh ofsatisfaction.

“It do hearten the spirit to come direct to the Throne,” hereflected; “an’ the wonder is how ever I could fare for near twoyear wi’out my prayers. Yet, though I got my monkey up an’ letJehovah slide, He knawed of my past gudeness, all set down in the Booko’ Life. An’ now I’ve owned up as I was wrong; which is alleven the saints can do; ’cause Judgment Day, for the very best of us,will awnly be a matter o’ owning up.”

CHAPTER XIV
A HUNDRED POUNDS

The maddening recollection of things done wrought upon Clement Hicks untilit bred in him a distracted frenzy and blinded his judgment. He lost allsense of proportion in his endeavour to come at a right course of action, anda mind long inclined towards one road now readily drifted upon it. To recoverthe position had been quite possible, and there were not wanting those readyand eager to assist him; but at this crisis in his fortune the man lost allpower of reflection or self-control. The necessity for instant actionclamoured to him through daylight and darkness; delay drove him hourly into ahysterical condition approaching frenzy, and every road to escape save oneappeared bolted and barred against him. But, try as he might, his miseriescould not be hidden, and Will Blanchard, among others, sympathised veryheartily with the great disappointment that had now fallen upon Chris and hersweetheart. His sister’s attitude had astonished both him and hismother. They fancied that Blanchards were made of sterner stuff; but Chriswent down before the blow in a manner very unexpected. She seemed dazed andunable to recover from it. Her old elastic spirit was crushed, and a greatsorrow looked from her eyes.

Neither Will nor her mother could rouse her, and so it came about thatthinking how best he could play a brother’s part, the master of Newtakedecided on a notable deed and held that the hour for it must be delayed nolonger. He debated the circumstance from every point of view, examined hisaccounts, inspected the exact figures represented by the remainder of hisuncle’s legacy and then broke the matter to Phoebe. To his mother hehad already spoken concerning the intention, and she approved it, thoughwithout knowing particulars. Phoebe, however, happened to be quite asfamiliar with Will’s affairs as Will himself, and while hisdetermination to give Clement and Chris a hundred pounds was easily come atand most cheering to his heart, the necessity of breaking the news to hiswife appeared not so easy or pleasant. Indeed, Will approached the task withsome trepidation, for a recent event made it doubly difficult. They sattogether one night, after six weeks of married life, and he plunged into thematter.

“’Tis sad them two being kept apart like this,” he saidabruptly.

“’Tis so. Nobody feels it more’n me. Matters was hardwith us, and now they ’m all smooth and the future seems fairly bright,tu.”

“Very bright,” he said stoutly. “The hay’s bestever come off my ground, thanks to the manure from Monks Barton; and look atthe wurzels! Miller hisself said he’ve never seed a more promisingcrop, high or low. An’ the things be in prime kelter, tu; an’better than four hunderd pound of uncle’s money still left.”

“Long may it be left, I’m sure. ’Tis terrible workdipping into it, an’ I looks at both sides of a halfpenny ’fore Ispend it. Wish you would. You’m tu generous, Will. But accounts arethat difficult.”

This was not the spirit of the hour, however.

“I was gwaine to say that out of all our happiness an’ fortunewe might let a little bubble awver for Chris—eh? She’m such agude gal, an’ you love her so dearly as what I doa’most.”

Phoebe read the project in a flash, but yet invited her husband toexplain.

“What d’you mean?” she asked distrustfully andcoldly.

“I can see in your face you knaw well enough. That four-hunderd-oddpound. I’ve sometimes thought I should have given Chris a bit of thewindfall when first it comed. But now—well, theer’s this cruelcoil failed on ’em. You knaw the hardness of waiting. ’Twould bea butivul thing to let ’em marry an’ feel’t was thanks tous.”

“You want to go giving them money?”

“Not ’give’ ’zactly. Us’ll call it a loan,till the time they see their way clearer.”

Phoebe sighed and was silent for a while.

“Poor dears,” she said at length. “I feel for ’emin my heart, same as you do; yet somehow it doan’t lookright.”

“Not right, Phoebe?”

“Not wise, then. Remember what you say the winters be uphere—such dreary months with no money coming in and all gwaine out tokeep life in the things.”

“’Tis a black, bitin’ business on the highfarms—caan’t deny that.”

“Money flies so.”

“Then let some fly to a gude end. You knaw I’m a hard, keenman where other people be concerned, most times.”

His wife laughed frankly, and he grew red.

“Damn it, Phoebe, doan’t you take me like that elseyou’ll get the rough edge of my tongue. ’Tis for you to agreewith what I’m pleased to say, not contradict it. I be a hard,keen man, and knaws the value of money as well as another. But Chris is myawn sister, an’ the long an’ the short is, I’m gwaine togive Clem Hicks a hunderd pound.”

“Will! It’s not reasonable, it’s not fair—usworking so hard an’—an’—”

“They ’m to have it, anyway.”

Her breath caught in a little, helpless gasp. Without a word she picked upthe material in her hands, huddled it up, and thrust it across the tabletowards him. Then the passion faded out of his face, his eyes softened andgrew dreamy, he smiled, and rubbed his brown cheek with the flannel.

“My awn, li’l clever woman, as have set about the fashioningof a bairn so soon! God bless ’e, an’ bless ’e an’ begude to ’e, an’ the wee thing coming!”

He put his arm round her and patted her hair and purred softly to her;whereupon she relented and kissed him.

“You knaw best, Will, dearie; you nearly allus knaw best; but yourheart’s bigger ’n your pocket—an’ a li’l childdo call so loud for the spendin’ o’ money.”

“Aye, I knaw, I knaw; ’tis a parent’s plaace to stand upfor his offspring through fire an’ water; an’ I reckon Iwon’t be the worst faither as ever was, either. I can mind the timewhen I was young myself. Stern but kind’s the right rule. Us’llbring un up in the proper way, an’ teach un to use hisonderstandin’ an’ allus knuckle down ’fore his elders. Totell ’e truth, Phoebe, I’ve a notion I might train up a cheelbetter’n some men.”

“Yes, Will, I think so, tu. But ’tis food an’ clothesan’ li’l boots an’ such-like comes first. A hunderd poundsbe such a mort o’ money.”

“’Twill set ’em up in a fair way.”

“Fifty wouldn’t hardly do, p’r’aps?”

“Hardly. I like to carry a job through clean an’ vitty whileI’m on it.”

“You’ve got such a big spirit.”

“As to that, money so spent ban’t lost—’tis all inthe fam’ly.”

“Of course ’tis a gude advertisement for you. Folk’llthink you’m prosperin’ an’ look up to you more.”

“Well, some might, though I doan’t ’zactly mean it likethat. Yet the putting out o’ three figures o’ money must makeneighbours ope their eyes. Not that I want anybody to knaw either.”

So, against her judgment, Phoebe was won over, and presently she and herhusband made merry at prospect of the great thing contemplated. Will imitatedClement’s short, glum, and graceless manner before the gift; Phoebebegan to spend the money and plan the bee-keeper’s cottage when Chrisshould enter it as a bride; and thus, having enjoyed an hour of delight themost pure and perfect that can fall to human lot, the young coupleretired.

Elsewhere defeat and desolation marked the efforts of the luckless poet toimprove his position. All thoughts drifted towards the Red House, and when,struggling from this dark temptation, he turned to Martin Grimbal rather thanhis brother, Fate crushed this hope also. The antiquary was not in Chagford,and Clement recollected that Martin had told him he designed some visits tothe doom rings of Iceland, and other contemporary remains of primeval man inBrittany and in Ireland. To find him at present was impossible, for he hadleft no address, and his housekeeper only knew that he would be out ofEngland until the autumn.

Now the necessity for action gained gigantically upon Hicks, and spun anet of subtle sophistry that soon had the poor wretch enmeshed beyondpossibility of escape. He assured himself that the problem was reduced to amere question of justice to a woman. A sacrifice must be made between onewhom he loved better than anything in the world, and one for whom he carednot at all. That these two persons chanced to be brother and sister was anunfortunate accident, but could not be held a circumstance strong enough tomodify his determination. He had, indeed, solemnly sworn to Will to keep hissecret, but what mattered that before this more crushing, urgent duty toChris? His manhood cried out to him to protect her. Nothing else signified inthe least; the future—the best that he could hope for—might beashy and hopeless now; but it was with the immediate present and his dutythat he found himself concerned. There remained but one grim way; and,through such overwhelming, shattering storm and stress as falls to the lot offew, he finally took it. To marry at any cost and starve afterwards ifnecessary, had been the more simple plan; and that course of action mustfirst have occurred to any other man but this; to him, however, it did notoccur. The crying, shrieking need for money was the thing that stunned himand petrified him. Shattered and tossed to the brink of aberration, stretchedat frightful mental tension for a fortnight, he finally succumbed, and toldhimself that his defeat was victory.

He wrote to John Grimbal, explained that he desired to see him on themorrow, and the master of the Red House, familiar with recent affairs,rightly guessed that Hicks had changed his mind. Excited beyond measure, thevictor fixed a place for their conversation, and it was a strange one.

“Meet me at Oke Tor,” he wrote. “By an accident I shallbe in the Taw Marshes to-morrow, and will ride to you some time in theafternoon.—J.G.”

Thus, upon a day when Will Blanchard called at Mrs. Hicks’s cottage,Clement had already started for his remote destination on the Moor. With someunconscious patronage Will saluted Mrs. Hicks and called for Clement. Then heslapped down a flat envelope under the widow’s eyes.

“Us have thought a lot about this trouble, mother, an’Phoebe’s hit on as braave a notion as need be. You see, Clem’s myclose friend again now, an’ Chris be my sister; so what’s morefittin’ than that I should set up the young people? An’ so Ishall, an’ here’s a matter of Bank of England notes as will repaythe countin’. Give ’em to Clem wi’ my respects.”

Then Will suffered a surprise. The little woman before him swelled andexpanded, her narrow bosom rose, her thin lips tightened, and into her dimeyes there came pride and brightness. It was her hour of triumph, and shefelt a giantess as she stood regarding the envelope and Will. Him she hadnever liked since his difference with her son concerning Martin Grimbal, andnow, richer for certain news of that morning, she gloried to throw the giftback.

“Take your money again, bwoy. No Hicks ever wanted charity yet,least of all from a Blanchard. Pick it up; and it’s lucky Clementban’t home, for he’d have said some harsh words, I’mthinking. Keep it ’gainst the rainy days up to Newtake. And it maysurprise ’e to knaw that my son’s worth be getting found out atlast. It won’t be so long ’fore he takes awver SquireGrimbal’s farm to the Red House. What do ’e think o’ that?He’ve gone to see un this very day ’bout it.”

“Well, well! This be news, and no mistake—gude news, tu, Is’pose. Jan Grimbal! An’ what Clem doan’t knaw ’boutfarmin’, I’ll be mighty pleased to teach un, I’msure.”

“No call to worry yourself; Clem doan’t want no other rightarm than his awn.”

“Chris shall have the money, then; an’ gude luck to ’emboth, say I.”

He departed, with great astonishment the main emotion of his mind. Nothingcould well have happened to surprise him more, and now he felt that he shouldrejoice, but found it difficult to do so.

“Braave news, no doubt,” he reflected, “an’ yet,come to think on it, I’d so soon the devil had given him a job asGrimbal. Besides, to choose him! What do Clement knaw ’boutfarmin’? Just so much as I knaw ’bout verse-writin’,an’ no more.”

CHAPTER XV
“THE ANGEL OF THE DARKER DRINK”

Patches of mist all full of silver light moved like lonely living thingson the face of the high Moor. Here they dispersed and scattered, here theyapproached and mingled together, here they stretched forth pearly fingersabove the shining granite, and changed their shapes at the whim of everypassing breeze; but the tendency of each shining, protean mass was to rise tothe sun, and presently each valley and coomb lay clear, while the coolvapours wound in luminous and downy undulations along the highest points ofthe land before vanishing into air.

A solitary figure passed over the great waste. He took his way northwardand moved across Scorhill, leaving Wattern Tor to the left. Beneath itsragged ridges, in a vast granite amphitheatre, twinkled the coolbirth-springs of the little Wallabrook, and the water here looked leadenunder shade, here sparkled with silver at the margin of a cloud shadow, hereshone golden bright amid the dancing heads of the cotton-grass underunclouded sunlight. The mist wreaths had wholly departed before noon, andonly a few vast mountains of summer gold moved lazily along the upperchambers of the air. A huge and solitary shadow overtook the man and spreaditself directly about him, then swept onwards; infinite silence encompassedhim; once from a distant hillside a voice cried to him, where women andchildren moved like drab specks and gathered the ripe whortleberries that nowwove purple patterns into the fabric of the Moor; but he heeded not the cry;and other sound there was none save the occasional and mournful note of somelonely yellowhammer perched upon a whin. Into the prevalent olive-brown ofthe heath there had now stolen an indication of a magic change at hand, forinto the sober monotone crept a gauzy shadow, a tremor of wakeningflower-life, half pearl, half palest pink, yet more than either. Upon theimmediate foreground it rippled into defined points of blossom, which alreadytwinkled through all the dull foliage; in the middle distance it faded; afaroff it trembled as a palpable haze of light under the impalpable reeling ofthe summer air. A week or less would see the annual miracle peformed againand witness that spacious and solemn region in all the amethystine glories ofthe ling. Fiercely hot grew the day, and the distances, so distinct throughmist rifts and wreaths in the clearness of early morning, nowretreated—mountain upon mountain, wide waste on waste—as the sunclimbed to the zenith. Detail vanished, the Moor stretched shimmering to thehorizon; only now and again from some lofty point of his pilgrimage did thetraveller discover chance cultivation through a dip in the untamed region hetraversed. Then to the far east and north, the map of fertile Devon billowedand rolled in one enormous misty mosaic,—billowed and rolled allopalescent under the dancing atmosphere and July haze, rolled and swept tothe sky-line, where, huddled by perspective into the appearance of density,hung long silver tangles of infinitely remote and dazzling cloud against theblue.

From that distant sponge in the central waste, from Cranmere, mother ofmoorland rivers, the man presently noted wrinkles of pure gold trickling downa hillside two miles off. Here sunshine touched the river Taw, still aninfant thing not far advanced on the journey from its fount; but the play oflight upon the stream, invisible save for this finger of the sun, indicatedto the solitary that he approached his destination. Presently he stood on theside of lofty Steeperton and surveyed that vast valley known as Taw Marsh,which lies between the western foothills of Cosdon Beacon and the BelstoneTors to the north. The ragged manes of the latter hills wind through thevalley in one lengthy ridge, and extend to a tremendous castellated mass ofstone, by name Oke Tor.

This erection, with its battlements and embrasures, outlying scarps andcounterscarps, remarkably suggests the deliberate and calculated creation ofman. It stands upon a little solitary hill at the head of Taw Marsh, and winsits name from the East Okement River which runs through the valley on itswestern flank. Above wide fen and marsh it rises, yet seen fromSteeperton’s vaster altitude, Oke Tor looks no greater than somefantastic child-castle built by a Brobding-nagian baby with granite bricks.Below it on this July day the waste of bog-land was puckered with browntracts of naked soil, and seamed and scarred with peat-cuttings. Here andthere drying turfs were propped in pairs and dotted the hillsides; emeraldpatches of moss jewelled the prevailing sobriety of the valley, a singlecurlew, with rising and falling crescendos of sound, flew here and thereunder needless anxiety, and far away on White Hill and the enormous breast ofCosdon glimmered grey stone ghosts from the past,—track-lines andcircles and pounds,—the work of those children of the mist who labouredhere when the world was younger, whose duty now lay under the new-born lightof the budding heath. White specks dotted the undulations where flocks roamedfree; in the marsh, red cattle sought pasture, and now was heard thejingle-jangle of a sheep-bell, and now the cry of bellowing kine.

Like a dark incarnation of suffering over this expansive scene passedClement Hicks to the meeting with John Grimbal. His unrest was accentuated bythe extreme sunlit peace of the Moor, and as he sat on Steeperton and gazedwith dark eyes into the marshes below, there appeared in his face thebattlefield of past struggles, the graves of past hopes. A dead apathy ofmind and muscle succeeded his mental exertion and passion of thought.Increased age marked him, as though Time, thrusting all at once upon himbitter experiences usually spread over many years of a man’s life, hadweighed him down, humped his back, thinned his hair, and furrowed hisforehead under the load. Within his eyes, behind the reflected blue of thesky, as he raised them to it, sat mad misery; and an almost tetanic movementof limb, which rendered it impossible for him to keep motionless even in hispresent recumbent position, denoted the unnatural excitation of his nerves.The throb and spasm of the past still beat against his heart. Like a circularstorm in mid-ocean, he told himself that the tempest had not wholly ended,but might reawaken, overwhelm him, and sweep him back into the turmoil again.As he thought, and his eye roved for a rider on a brown horse, the poorwretch was fighting still. Yesterday fixed determination marked hismovements, and his mind was made up; to-day, after a night not devoid ofsleep, it seemed that everything that was best in him had awakened refreshed,and that each mile of the long tramp across Dartmoor had represented anotherbattle fought with his fate. Justice, Justice for himself and the woman heloved, was the cry raised more than once aloud in sharp agony on that greatsilence. And only the drone of the shining-winged things and the dry rustleof the grasshoppers answered him.

Like the rest of the sore-smitten and wounded world, he screamed to thesky for Justice, and, like the rest of the world, forgot or did not know thatJustice is only a part of Truth, and therefore as far beyond man’sreach as Truth itself. Justice can only be conceived by humanity, and thatman should even imagine any abstraction so glorious is wonderful, and to hiscredit. But Justice lies not only beyond our power to mete to our fellows; itforms no part of the Creator’s methods with us or this particular motein the beam of the Universe. Man has never received Justice, as heunderstands it, and never will; and his own poor, flagrant, fallible travestyof it, erected to save him from himself, and called Law, more nearlyapproximates to Justice than the treatment which has ever been apportioned tohumanity. Before this eternal spectacle of illogical austerity, therefore,man, in self-defence and to comfort his craving and his weakness, has clungto the cheerful conceit of immortality; has pathetically credited the FirstCause with a grand ultimate intention concerning each suffering atom; hasassured himself that eternity shall wipe away all tears and blood, shallreward the actors in this puppet-show with golden crowns and nobler parts ina nobler playhouse. Human dreams of justice are responsible for this yearningtowards another life, not the dogmas of religion; and the convictionundoubtedly has to be thanked for much individual right conduct. But ithappens that an increasing number of intellects can find solace in thesetheories no longer; it happens that the liberty of free thought (which is theonly liberty man may claim) will not longer be bound with these puny chains.Many detect no just argument for a future life; they admit that adequateestimate of abstract Justice is beyond them; they suspect that Justice is ahuman conceit; and they see no cause why its attributes should be credited tothe Creator in His dealings with the created, for the sufficient reason thatJustice has never been consistently exhibited by Him. The natural conclusionof such thought need not be pursued here. Suffice it that, taking their standon pure reason, such thinkers deny the least evidence of any life beyond thegrave; to them, therefore, this ephemeral progression is the beginning andthe end, and they live every precious moment with a yearning zest beyond thepower of conventional intellects to conceive.

Of such was Clement Hicks. And yet in this dark hour he cried for Justice,not knowing to whom or to what he cried. Right judgment was dead at last. Herose and shook his head in mute answer to the voices still clamouring to hisconsciousness. They moaned and reverberated and mingled with the distantmusic of the bellwether, but his mind was made up irrevocably now; he haddetermined to do the thing he had come to do. He told himself nothing muchmattered any more; he laughed as he rose and wiped the sweat off his face,and passed down Steeperton through debris of granite. “Life’sonly a breath and then—Nothing,” he thought; “but it willbe interesting to see how much more bitterness and agony those that pull thestrings can cram into my days. I shall watch from the outside now. A man isnever happy so long as he takes a personal interest in life. HenceforthI’ll stand outside and care no more, and laugh and laugh on through theyears. We’re greater than the Devil that made us; for we can laugh atall his cursed cruelty—we can laugh, and we can die laughing, and wecan die when we please. Yes, that’s one thing he can’tdo—torment us an hour more than we choose.”

Suicide was always a familiar thought with this man, but it had never beenfarther from his mind than of late. Cowardly in himself, his love for ChrisBlanchard was too great to suffer even the shadow of self-slaughter to tempthim at the present moment. What might happen in the future, he could nottell; but while her happiness was threatened and her life’s welfarehung in the balance, his place was by her side. Then he looked into WillBlanchard’s future and asked himself what was the worst that couldresult from his pending treachery. He did not know and wished time hadpermitted him to make inquiries. But his soul was too weary to care. He onlylooked for the ordeal to be ended; his aching eyes, now bent on his temporalenvironment, ranged widely for the spectacle of a rider on a brown horse.

A red flag flapped from a lofty pole at the foot of Steeperton, but Hicks,to whom the object and its significance were familiar, paid no heed andpassed on towards Oke Tor. On one side the mass rose gradually up by stepsand turrets; on the other, the granite beetled into a low cliff springingabruptly from the turf. Within its clefts and crannies there grew ferns, andto the north-east, sheltered under ledges from the hot sun, cattle and poniesusually stood or reclined upon such a summer day as this, and waited for theoncoming cool of evening before returning to pasture. On the presentoccasion, however, no stamp of hoof, snort of nostril, whisk of tail, and humof flies denoted the presence of beasts. For some reason they had been drivenelsewhere. Clement climbed the Tor, then stood upon its highest point, andturning his back to the sun, scanned the wide rolling distances over which hehad tramped, and sought fruitlessly for an approaching horseman. But noparticular hour had been specified, and he knew not and cared not how long hemight have to wait.

In a direction quite contrary to that on which the eyes of Hicks were set,sat John Grimbal upon his horse and talked with another man. They occupied aposition at the lower-most end of Taw Marsh, beneath the Belstones; and theywatched some seventy artillerymen busily preparing for certain operations ofa nature to specially interest the master of the Red House. Indeed thepending proceedings had usually occupied his mind, to total exclusion of allother affairs; but to-day even more momentous events awaited him in theimmediate future, and he looked from his companion along the great valley towhere Oke Tor appeared, shrunk to a mere grey stone at the farther end. OfJohn Grimbal’s life, it may now be said that it drifted into aconfirmed and bitter misogyny. He saw no women, spoke of the sex withdisrespect, and chose his few friends among men whose sporting and warlikeinstincts chimed with his own. Sport he pursued with dogged pertinacity, butthe greater part of his leisure was devoted to the formation of a yeomanrycorps at Chagford, and in this design he had made good progress. He stillkept his wrongs sternly before his mind, and when the old bitterness began togrow blunted, deliberately sharpened it again, strangling alike the good workof time and all emotions of rising contentment and returning peace. Where wasthe wife whose musical voice and bright eyes should welcome his dailyhome-coming? Where were the laughing and pattering-footed little ones? Ofthese priceless treasures the man on the Moor had robbed him. His great housewas empty and cheerless. Thus he could always blow the smouldering fires intoactive flame by a little musing on the past; but how long it might bepossible to sustain his passion for revenge under this artificial stimulationof memory remained to be seen. As yet, at any rate, the contemplation of WillBlanchard’s ruin was good to Grimbal, and the accident of his discoverythat Clement Hicks knew some secret facts to his enemy’s disadvantageserved vastly to quicken the lust for a great revenge. From the first he haddetermined to drag Clement’s secret out of him sooner or later, andhad, until his recent offer of the Red House Farm, practised remarkablepatience. Since then, however, a flicker of apparent prosperity whichovertook the bee-keeper appeared to diminish Grimbal’s chancesperceptibly; but with the sudden downfall of Clement’s hopes theother’s ends grew nearer again, and at the last it had scarcelysurprised him to receive the proposal of Hicks. So now he stood within anhour or two of the desired knowledge, and his mind was consequently a littleabstracted from the matter in hand.

The battery, consisting of four field-guns, was brought into action in thedirection of the upper end of the valley, while Major Tremayne, itscommanding officer and John Grimbal’s acquaintance, explained to theamateur all that he did not know. During the previous week the master of theRed House and other officers of the local yeomanry interested in militarymatters had dined at the mess of those artillery officers then encamped atOkehampton for the annual practice on Dartmoor; and the outcome of thatentertainment was an invitation to witness some shooting during theforthcoming week.

The gunners in their dark blue uniforms swarmed busily round four shiningsixteen-pounders, while Major Tremayne conversed with his friend. He was ahandsome, large-limbed man, with kindly eyes.

“Where’s your target?” asked Grimbal, as he scanned thedeep distance of the valley.

“Away there under that grey mass of rock. We’ve got to guessat the range as you know; then find it. I should judge the distance at abouttwo miles—an extreme limit. Take my glass and you’ll note a lineof earthworks thrown up on this side of the stone. That is intended torepresent a redoubt and we’re going to shell it and slay the dummy menposted inside.”

“I can see without the glass. The rock is called Oke Tor, andI’m going to meet a man there this afternoon.”

“Good; then you’ll be able to observe the results at closequarters. They’ll surprise you. Now we are going to begin. Is yourhorse all right? He looks shifty, and the guns make a devil of arow.”

“Steady as time. He’s smelt powder before to-day.”

Major Tremayne now adjusted his field-glasses, and carefully inspecteddistant earthworks stretched below the northern buttresses of Oke Tor. Heestimated the range, which he communicated to the battery; then after aslight delay came the roar and bellow of the guns as they were fired in slowsuccession.

But the Major’s estimate proved too liberal, for the ranging roundsfell far beyond the target, and dropped into the lofty side ofSteeperton.

The elevation of the guns was accordingly reduced, and Grimbal noted theprofound silence in the battery as each busy soldier performed his appointedtask.

At the next round shells burst a little too short of the earthworks, andagain a slight modification in the range was made. Now missiles began todescend in and around the distant redoubt, and each as it exploded dealt outshattering destruction to the dummy men which represented an enemy. Oneprojectile smashed against the side of Oke Tor, and sent back the ringingsound of its tremendous impact.

Subsequent practice, now that the range was found, produced results abovethe average in accuracy, and Major Tremayne’s good-humourincreased.

“Five running plump into the redoubt! That’s what we can dowhen we try,” he said to Grimbal, while the amateur awarded his meed ofpraise and admiration.

Anon the business was at an end; the battery limbered up; the guns, eachdrawn by six stout horses, disappeared with many a jolt over the unevenground, as the soldiers clinked and clashed away to their camp on the highland above Okehamptou.

Under the raw smell of burnt powder Major Tremayne took leave of Grimbaland the rest; each man went his way; and John, pursuing a bridle-path throughthe marshes of the Taw, proceeded slowly to his appointment.

An unexpected spring retarded Grimbal’s progress and made aconsiderable detour necessary. At length, however, he approached Oke Tor,marked the tremendous havoc of the firing, and noted a great grey splash uponthe granite, where one shell had abraded its weathered face.

John Grimbal dismounted, tied up his horse, then climbed to the top of theTor, and searched for an approaching pedestrian. Nobody was visible save oneman only; amounted soldier riding round to strike the red warning flagsposted widely about the ranges. Grimbal descended and approached the southernside, there to sit on the fine intermingled turf and moss and smoke a cigaruntil his man should arrive. But rounding the point of the low cliff, hefound that Hicks was already there.

Clement, his hat off, reclined upon his back with his face lifted to thesky. Where his head rested, the wild thyme grew, and one great, blackbumble-bee boomed at a deaf ear as it clumsily struggled in the purpleblossoms. He lay almost naturally, but some distortion of his neck and a filmupon his open eyes proclaimed that the man neither woke nor slept.

His lonely death was on this wise. Standing at the edge of the highestpoint of Oke Tor, with his back to the distant guns, he had crowned theartillerymen’s target, himself invisible. At that moment firing began,and the first shell, suddenly shrieking scarcely twenty yards above his head,had caused Hicks to start and turn abruptly. With this action he lost hisbalance; then a projection of the granite struck his back as he fell andbrought him heavily to the earth upon his head.

Now the sun, creeping westerly, already threw a ruddiness over the Moor,and this warm light touching the dead man’s cheek brought thither a huenever visible in life, and imparted to the features a placidity verystartling by contrast with the circumstances of his sudden and violentend.

CHAPTER XVI
BEFORE THE DAWN

It proclaims the attitude of John Grimbal to his enemy that thus suddenlyconfronted with the corpse of a man whom he believed in life, his firstemotion should have betokened bitter disappointment and even anger. WillBlanchard’s secret, great or small, was safe enough for the present;and the hand stretched eagerly for revenge clutched air.

Convincing himself that Hicks was dead, Grimbal galloped off towardsBelstone village, the nearest centre of civilisation. There he reported thefacts, directed police and labourers where to find the body and where tocarry it, and subsequently rode swiftly back to Chagford. Arrived at themarket-place, he acquainted Abraham Chown, the representative of the Devonconstabulary, with his news, and finally writing a brief statement at thepolice station before leaving it, Grimbal returned home.

Not until after dark was the impatient mother made aware of herson’s end, and she had scarcely received the intelligence before hecame home to her—with no triumphant news of the Red House Farm, butdead, on a sheep-hurdle. Like summer lightning Clement’s fate leaptthrough the length and breadth of Chagford. It penetrated to the vicarage; itreached outlying farms; it arrived at Monks Barton, was whispered near Mrs.Blanchard’s cottage by the Teign, and, in the early morning of thefollowing day, reached Newtake.

Then Will, galloping to the village while dawn was yet grey, met DoctorParsons, and heard the truth of these uncertain rumours which had reachedhim.

“It seems clear enough when Grimbal’s statement comes to beread,” explained the medical man. “He had arranged a meeting withpoor Hicks on Oke Tor, and, when he went to keep his appointment, found theunfortunate man lying under the rocks quite dead. The spot, I must tell you,was near a target of the soldiers at Okehampton, and John Grimbal firstsuspected that Hicks, heedless of the red warning flags, had wandered intothe line of fire and been actually slain by a projectile. But nothing of thatsort happened. I have seen him. The unfortunate man evidently slipped andfell from some considerable height upon his head. His neck is dislocated andthe base of the skull badly fractured.”

“Have you seen my poor sister?”

“I was called last night while at Mrs. Hicks’s cottage, andwent almost at once. It’s very terrible—very. She’ll getbrain fever if we’re not careful. Such a shock! She was walking alone,down in the croft by the river—all in a tremendously heavy dew too. Shewas dry-eyed and raved, poor girl. I may say she was insane at that sadmoment. ‘Weep for yourself!’ she said to me. ‘Let thisplace weep for itself, for there’s a great man has died. He was hereand lived here and nobody knew—nobody but his mother and I knew what hewas. He had to beg his bread almost, and God let him; but the sin of it is onthose around him—you and the rest.’ So she spoke, poor child.These are not exactly her words, but something like them. I got her indoorsto her mother and sent her a draught. I’ve just come from confiningMrs. Woods, and I’ll walk down and see your sister now before I go homeif you like. I hope she may be sleeping.”

Will readily agreed to this suggestion; and together the two men proceededto the valley.

But many things had happened since the night. When Doctor Parsons leftMrs. Blanchard, she had prevailed upon Chris to go to bed, and then herselfdeparted to the village and sat with Mrs. Hicks for an hour. Returning, shefound her daughter apparently asleep, and, rather than wake her, left thedoctor’s draught unopened; yet Chris had only simulated slumber, and assoon as her mother retreated to her own bed, she rose, dressed, crept fromthe house, and hastened through the night to where her lover lay.

The first awful stroke had fallen, but the elasticity of the human mindwhich at first throws off and off such terrible shocks, and only after thelength of many hours finally accepts them as fact, saved Chris Blanchard fromgoing mad. Happily she could not thus soon realise the truth. It recurred,like the blows of a sledge, upon her brain, but between these cruel remindersof the catastrophe, the knowledge of Clement’s death escaped her memoryentirely, and more than once, while roaming the dew alone, she asked herselfsuddenly what she was doing and why she was there. Then the mournful answerknelled to her heart, and the recurrent spasms of that first agony slowly,surely settled into one dead pain, as the truth was seared into herknowledge. A frenzied burst of anger succeeded, and under its influence shespoke to Doctor Parsons, who approached her beside the river and with tactand patience at length prevailed upon her to enter her home. She cursed theland that had borne him, the hamlet wherein he had dwelt; and her mother, notamazed at her fierce grief, found each convulsive ebullition of sorrownatural to the dark hour, and soothed her as best she could. Then the elderwoman departed a while, not knowing the truth and feeling such a courseembraced the deeper wisdom.

Left alone, her future rose before Chris, as she sat upon her bed and sawthe time to come glimmer out of the night in colours more ashy than themoonbeams on the cotton blind. Yet, as she looked her face burned, and oneflame, vivid enough, flickered through all the future; the light on her owncheeks. Her position as it faced her from various points of view acted uponher physical being—suffocated her and brought a scream to her lips.There was nobody to hear it, nobody to see the girl tear her hair, rise fromher couch, fall quivering, face downward, on the little strip of carpetbeside her bed. Who could know even a little of what this meant to her? Womenhad often lost the men they loved, but never, never like this. So she assuredherself. Past sorrows and fears dwindled to mere shadows now; for the awfulfuture—the crushing months to come, rose grim and horrible on thehorizon of Time, laden with greater terrors than she could face and live.

Alone, Chris told herself she might have withstood the oncomingtribulation—struggled through the storms of suffering and kept herbroken heart company as other women had done before and must again; but shewould not be alone. A little hand was stretching out of the loneliness sheyearned for; a little voice was crying out of the solitude she craved. Theshadows that might have sheltered her were full of hard eyes; the secretplaces would only echo a world’s cruel laughter now—that worldwhich had let her loved one die uncared for, that world so pitiless to suchas she. Her thoughts were alternately defiant and fearful; then, before thepicture of her mother and Will, her emotions dwindled from the tragic andbecame of a sort that weeping could relieve. Tears, now mercifully releasedfrom their fountains, softened her bruised soul for a time and moderated thephysical strain of her agony. She lay long, half-naked, sobbing her heartout. Then came the mad desire to be back with Clement at any cost, andprofound pity for him overwhelmed her mind to the exclusion of further sorrowfor herself. She forgot herself wholly in grief that he was gone. She wouldnever hear him speak or laugh again; never again kiss the trouble from hiseyes; never feel the warm breath of him, the hand-grip of him. He was dead;and she saw him lying straight and cold in a padded coffin, with his handscrossed and cerecloth stiffly tying up his jaws. He would sink into thesilence that dwelt under the roots of the green grass; while she must go onand fight the world, and in fighting it, bring down upon his grave bitterwords and sharp censures from the lips of those who did not understand.

Before which reflection Death came closer and looked kind; and the thoughtof his hand was cool and comforting, as the hand of a grey moor mist sweepingover the heath after fiery days of cloudless sun. Death stood very near andbeckoned at the dark portals of her thought. Behind him there shone a greatlight, and in the light stood Clem; but the Shadow filled all the foreground.To go to her loved one, to die quickly and take their mutual secret with her,seemed a right and a precious thought just then; to go, to die, while yet helay above the earth, was a determination that had even a little power tosolace her agony. She thought of meeting him standing alone, strange,friendless on the other side of the grave; she told herself that actual duty,if not the vast love she bore him, pointed along the unknown road he had sorecently followed. It was but justice to him. Then she could laugh at Timeand Fate and the juggling unseen Controller who had played with him and her,had wrecked their little lives, forced their little passions under a shamsecurity, then snapped the thread on which she hung for everything, killedthe better part of herself, and left her all alone without a hand to shieldor a heart to pity. In the darkness, as the moon stole away and her chamberwindow blackened, she sounded all sorrow’s wide and solemn diapason;and the living sank into shadows before her mind’s accentuated andvivid picture of the dead. Future life loomed along one desolate pathway thatled to pain and shame and griefs as yet untasted. The rocks beside the wayhid shadowy shapes of the unfriendly; for no mother’s kindly hand wouldsupport her, no brother’s stout arm would be lifted for her when theyknew. No pure, noble, fellow-creature might be asked for aid, not one mightbe expected to succour and cherish in the great strait sweeping towards her.Some indeed there were to look to for the moment, but their voices and theireyes would harden presently, when they knew.

She told herself they must never know; and the solution to the problem ofhow to keep her secret appeared upon the threshold of the unknown road herlover had already travelled. Now, at the echo of the lowest notes, while shelay with uneven pulses and shaking limbs, it seemed that she was faced withthe parting of the ways and must make instant choice. Time would not wait forher and cared nothing whether she chose life or death for her road. Shestruggled with red thoughts, and fever burnt her lips and stabbed herforehead. Clement was gone. In this supreme hour no fellow-creature couldfortify her courage or direct her tottering judgment. Once she thought ofprayer and turned from it shuddering with a passionate determination to prayno more. Then the vision of Death shadowed her and she felt his brief stingwould be nothing beside the endless torment of living. Dangerous thoughtsdeveloped quickly in her and grew to giants. Something clamoured to her andcried that delay, even of hours, was impossible and must be fatal to secrecy.A feverish yearning to get it over, and that quickly, mastered her, and shebegan huddling on some clothes.

Then it was that the sudden sound of the cottage door being shut andbolted reached her ear. Mrs. Blanchard had returned and knowing that shewould approach in a moment, Chris flung herself on the bed and pretended tobe sleeping soundly. It was not until her mother withdrew and herselfslumbered half an hour later that the distracted woman arose, dressedherself, and silently left the house as we have said.

She heard the river calling to her, and through its murmur sounded thevoice of her loved one from afar. The moon shone clear and the valley wasfull of vapoury gauze. A wild longing to see him once more in the fleshbefore she followed him in the spirit gained upon Chris, and she moved slowlyup the hill to the village. Then, as she went, born of the mists upon themeadows, and the great light and the moony gossamers diamonded with dew,there rose his dear shape and moved with her along the way. But his face washidden, and he vanished at the first outposts of the hamlet as she passedinto Chagford alone. The cottage shadows fell velvety black in a shiningsilence; their thatches were streaked, their slates meshed with silver; theirwhitewashed walls looked strangely awake and alert and surrounded the womanwith a sort of blind, hushed stare. One solitary patch of light peered like aweary eye from that side of the street which lay in shadow, and Chris,passing through the unbolted cottage door, walked up the narrow passagewithin and softly entered.

Condolence and tears and buzz of sorrowful friends had passed away withthe stroke of midnight. Now Mrs. Hicks sat alone with her dead and gazed uponhis calm features and vaguely wondered how, after a life of suchdisappointment and failure and bitter discontent, he could look so peaceful.She knew every line that thought and trouble had ruled upon his face; sheremembered their coming; and now, between her fits of grief, she scanned himclose and saw that Death had wiped away the furrows here and there, andsmoothed his forehead and rolled back the years from off him until his facereminded her of the strange, wayward child who was wont to live a life apartfrom his fellows, like some wild wood creature, and who had passed almostfriendless through his boyhood. Fully he had filled her widowed life, andbeen at least a loving child, a good son. On him her withered hopes haddepended, and, even in their darkest hours, he had laughed at her dread ofthe workhouse, and assured her that while head and hands remained to him sheneed not fear, but should enjoy the independence of a home. Now this soleprop and stay was gone—gone, just as the black cloud had broken andFate relented.

The old woman sat beside him stricken, shrivelled, almost reptilian in herred-eyed, motionless misery. Only her eyes moved in her wrinkled, brown face,and reflected the candle standing on the mantelpiece above his head. She satwith her hands crooked over one another in her lap, like some image wroughtof ebony and dark oak. Once a large house-spider suddenly and silentlyappeared upon the sheet that covered the breast of the dead. It flashed alongfor a foot or two, then sat motionless; and she, whose inclination was toloathe such things unutterably, put forth her hand and caught it without atremor and crushed it while its hairy legs wriggled between her fingers.

To the robbed mother came Chris, silent as a ghost. Only the oldwoman’s eyes moved as the girl entered, fell down by the bier, andburied her face in the pillow that supported her lover’s head. Thus, inprofound silence, both remained awhile, until Chris lifted herself and lookedin the dead face and almost started to see the strange content stamped onit.

Then Mrs. Hicks began to speak in a high-pitched voice which broke now andagain as her bosom heaved after past tears.

“The awnly son of his mother, an’ she a widow wummon;an’ theer ’s no Christ now to work for the love of the poor. I beshattered wi’ many groans an’ tears, Chris Blanchard, same as yoube. You knawed him—awnly you an’ me; but you ’m young yet,an’ memory’s so weak in young brains that you’ll outlive itall an’ forget.”

“Never, never, mother! Theer ’s no more life for me—nothere. He’s callin’ to me—callin’ an’callin’ from yonder.”

“You’ll outlive an’ forget,” repeated the other.“I cannot, bein’ as I am. An’, mind this, when you pray toHeaven, ax for gold an’ diamonds, ax for houses an’ lands, ax forthe fat of the airth; an’ ax loud. No harm in axin’. Awnlydoan’t pitch your prayers tu dirt low, for ban’t the hardness ofa thing stops God. You ’m as likely or onlikely to get a big answer asa little. See the blessin’ flowin’ in streams for some folks!They do live braave an’ happy, with gude health, an’ gude wives,an’ money, an’ the fruits of the land; they do get butivulchilder, as graws up like the corners of the temple; an’ when they cometo die, they shut their eyes ’pon kind faaces an’ lie in leadan’ oak under polished marble. All that be theers; an’ what washis—my son’s?”

“God forgot him,” sobbed Chris, “an’ the worldforgot him—all but you an’ me.”

The old woman shifted her hands wearily.

“Theer’s a mort for God to bear in mind, but ’t is hard,here an’ there, wheer He slips awver some lowly party an’ missesa humble whisper. Clamour if you want to be heard; doan’t go with batedbreath same as I done. ’T was awnly a li’l thing I axed,an’ axed it twice a day on my knees, ever since my man diedtwenty-three year agone. An’ often as not thrice Sundays, so you maycount up the number of times I axed if you mind to. Awnly a li’lrubbishy thing you might have thought: just to bring his fair share o’prosperity to Clem an’ keep my bones out the poorhouse at the end. Butmy bwoy ’s brawk his neck by a cruel death, an’ I must wear theblue cotton.”

“No, no, mother.”

“Ess. Not that it looks so hard as it did. This makes iteasy—” and she put her hand on her son’s forehead and leftit there a moment.

Presently she continued:

“I axed Clem to turn the bee-butts at my sister’spassing—Mrs. Lezzard. But he wouldn’t; an’ nowthey’ll be turned for him. Wise though the man was, he set no store onthe dark, hidden meaning of honey-bees at times of death. Now the creaturesbe masterless, same as you an’ me; an’ they’ll knaw it;an’ you’ll see many an’ many a-murmuring on his graave’fore the grass graws green theer; for they see more ’n what wecan.”

She relapsed into motionless silence and, herself now wholly tearless,watched the tears of Chris, who had sunk down on the floor between the motherand son.

“Why for do you cry an’ wring your hands sohard?” she asked suddenly. “You’m awnly a girlyet—young an’ soft-cheeked wi’ braave bonny eyes.Theer’ll be many a man’s breast for you to comfort your head on.But me! Think o’ what’s tearin’ my auld heart totatters—me, so bleared an’ ugly an’ lonely. God knawsGod’s self couldn’t bring no balm to me—none, till I huddleunder the airth arter un; but you—your wound won’t show by timethe snaw comes again.”

“You forget when you loved a man first if you says such a thing asthat.”

“Theer’s no eternal, lasting fashion o’ love but amother’s to her awn male childer,” croaked the other.“Sweethearts’ love is a thing o’ the blood—a tricko’ Nature to tickle us poor human things into breeding ’gainstour better wisdom; but what a mother feels doan’t hang on no suchbroken reed. It’s deeper down; it’s hell an’ heaven both towance; it’s life; an’ to lose it is death. See! EssterdayI’d ’a’ fought an’ screamed an’ took on like agude un to be fetched away to the Union; but come they put him in the ground,I’ll go so quiet as a lamb.”

Another silence followed; then the aged widow pursued her theme, at firstin the same dreary, cracked monotone, then deepening to passion.

“I tell you a gude wife will do ’most anything for a husbandan’ give her body an’ soul to un; but she expects summat inreturn. She wants his love an’ worship for hers; but a mother do giveall—all—all—an’ never axes nothin’ for it. Justa kiss maybe, an’ a brightening eye, or a kind word. That’s herpay, an’ better’n gawld, tu. She’m purty nigh satisfiedwi’ what would satisfy a dog, come to think on it. ’T is her joyto fret an’ fume an’ pine o’ nights for un, an’ tirethe A’mighty’s ear wi’ plans an’ suggestions for un;aye, think an’ sweat an’ starve for un all times. ’T is herjoy, I tell ’e, to smooth his road, an’ catch the brambles by hisway an’ let ’em bury their thorns in her flesh so heshaa’n’t feel ’em; ’t is her joy to hear him babbleof all his hopes an’ delights; an’ when the time comesshe’ll taake the maid of his heart to her awn, though maybe ’t isbreakin’ wi’ fear that he’ll forget her in the light of theyoung eyes. Ax your awn mother if what I sez ban’t God’s truth.We as got the bwoys be content wi’ that little. We awnly want to helptheer young shoulders wi’ our auld wans, to fight for ’em to thelast. We’ll let theer wives have the love, we will, an’ ax noquestions an’—an’ we’ll break our hearts when thecheel ’s took out o’ his turn—break our hearts byinches—same as I be doin’ now.”

“An’ doan’t I love, tu? Weern’t he all the worldto me, tu? Isn’t my heart broken so well as yours?” sobbedChris.

“Hear this, you wummon as talks of a broken heart,” answeredthe elder almost harshly. “Wait—wait till you ’m the motherof a li’l man-cheel, an’ see the shining eyes of una-lookin’ into yourn while your nipple’s bein’ squeezed byhis naked gums, an’ you laugh at what you suffered for un, an’hug un to you. Wait till he’m grawed from baby to bwoy, from bwoy toman; wait till he’m all you’ve got left in the cold, starvedwinter of a sorrowful life; an’ wait till he’m brought home to’e like this here, while you’ve been sittin’ laughin’to yourself an’ countin’ dream gawld. Then turn about to find thetears that’ll comfort ’e, an’ the prayers that’llsoothe ’e, and the God that’ll lift ’e up; but youwon’t find ’em, Chris Blanchard.”

The girl listened to this utterance, and it filled her with a sort ofweird wonder as at a revelation of heredity. Mrs. Hicks had ever beentaciturn before her, and now this rapid outpouring of thoughts and phrasesechoed like the very speech of the dead. Thus had Clement talked, and thegirl dimly marvelled without understanding. The impression passed, and thereawoke in Chris a sudden determination to whisper to this bereaved woman whatshe could not even tell her own mother. A second thought had probably changedher intention, but she did not wait for any second thought. She acted onimpulse, rose, put her arms round the widow, and murmured her secret. Theother started violently and broke her motionless posture before thisintelligence.

“Christ! And he knawed—my son?”

“He knawed.”

“Then you needn’t whisper it. There’s awnly us threehere.”

“An’ no others must knaw. You’ll never tell—never?You swear that?”

“Me tell! No, no. To think! Then theer’s real sorrow for you,tu, poor soul—real, grawin’ sorrow tu. Differ’nt from mine,but real enough. Yet—”

She relapsed into a stone-like repose. No facial muscle moved, but theexpression of her mind appeared in her eyes and there gradually grew a hungrylook in them—as of a starving thing confronted with food. Therealisation of these new facts took a long time. No action accompanied it; nowrinkle deepened; no line of the dejected figure lifted; but when she spokeagain her voice had greatly changed and become softer and very tremulous.

“O my dear God! ’t will be a bit of Clement! Had ’ethought o’ that?”

Then she rose suddenly to her feet and expression came to her face—avery wonderful expression wherein were blended fear, awe, and something ofvague but violent joy—as though one suddenly beheld a loved ghost fromthe dead.

“’T is as if all of un weern’t quite lost! A li’lleft—a cheel of his! Wummon! You’m a holy thing to me—aholy thing evermore! You’m bearin’ sunshine for your summertimeand my winter—if God so wills!”

Then she lifted up her voice and cried to Chris with a strange cry, andknelt down at her feet and kissed her hands and stroked them.

“Go to un,” she said, leaping up; “go to Clem, an’tell un, in his ear, that I knaw. It’ll reach him if you whisper it.His soul ban’t so very far aways yet. Tell un I knaw, tu—youan’ me. He’d glory that I knawed. An’ pray henceforrard, asI shall, for a bwoy. Ax God for a bwoy—ax wi’out ceasin’for a son full o’ Clem. Our sorrows might win to the Everlasting Earthis wance. But, for Christ’s sake, ax like wan who has a right to, notfawning an’ humble.”

The woman was transfigured as the significance of this news filled hermind. She wept before a splendid possibility. It fired her eyes andstraightened her shrivelled stature. For a while her frantic utterancesalmost inspired Chris with the shadow of similar emotions; but another sideof the picture knew no dawn. This the widow ignored—indeed it had notentered her head since her first comment on the confession. Now, however, thegirl reminded her,—

“You forget a little what this must be to me, mother.”

“Light in darkness.”

“I hadn’t thought that; an the gert world won’t pity me,as you did when I first told you.”

“You ban’t feared o’ the world, be you? The world forgotun. ’T was your awn word. What’s the world to you, knawin’what you knaw? Do ’e want to be treated soft by what was allushell-hard to him? Four-and-thirty short years he lived, then the worldbeginned to ope its eyes to his paarts, an’ awnly then—tu late,when the thread of his days was spun. What’s the world to you and whyshould you care for its word, Chris Blanchard?”

“Because I am Chris Blanchard,” she said. “I was gwaineto kill myself, but thought to see his dear face wance more before I done it.Now—”

“Kill yourself! God’s mercy! ’T will be killing Clemagain if you do! You caan’t; you wouldn’t dare; theer’sblack damnation in it an’ flat murder now. Hear me, for Christ’ssake, if that’s the awful thought in you: you’m God’schosen tool in this—chosen to suffer an’ bring a bwoy in theworld—Clem’s bwoy. Doan’t you see how’t is?’Kill yourself’! How can ’e dream it? You’ve got tobring a bwoy, I tell ’e, to keep us from both gwaine stark mad.’T was foreordained he should leave his holy likeness. God’struth! You should be proud ’stead o’ fearful—such a man ashe was. Hold your head high an’ pray when none’s lookin’,pray through every wakin’ hour an’ watch yourself as you’dwatch the case of a golden jewel. What wise brain will think hard of you forfollowin’ the chosen path? What odds if a babe’s got ringlessunder the stars or in a lawful four-post bed? Who married Adam an’ Eve?You was the wife of un ’cordin’ to the first plan o’ thelivin’ God; an’ if He changed His lofty mind when’t was tulate, blame doan’t fall on you or the dead. Think of a baaby—hisbaaby—under your breast! Think of meetin’ him in time to come,wi’ another soul got in sheer love! Better to faace the peoplean’ let the bairn come to fulness o’ life than fly them an’cut your days short an’ go into the next world empty-handed.Caan’t you see it? What would Clem say? He’d judge youhard—such a lover o’ li’l childer as him. ’T is thefirst framework of an immortal soul you’ve got unfoldin’, like arosebud hid in the green, an’ ban’t for you to nip that life foryour awn whim an’ let the angels in heaven be fewer by wan. You mustlive. An’ the bwoy’ll graw into a tower of strength for’e—a tower of strength an’ a glass belike wheeryou’ll see Clem rose again.”

“The shame of it. My mother and Will—Will who’s a hardjudge, an’ such a clean man.”

“‘Clean’! Christ A’mighty! You’d madden asaint of heaven! Weern’t Clem clean, tu? If God sends fire-fire breaksout—sweet, livin’ fire. You must go through with it—aye,an’ call the bwoy Clem, tu. Be you shamed of him as he lies here? Beyou feared of anything the airth can do to you when you look at him? Do’e think Heaven’s allus hard? No, I tell ’e, not to theyoung—not to the young. The wind’s mostly tempered to the shornlamb, though the auld ewe do oftentimes sting for it, an’ get the seedso’ death arter shearing. Wait, and be strong, till you feelClem’s baaby in your arms. That’ll be reward enough, an’you won’t care no more for the world then. His son, mind; who be you totake life, an’ break the buds of Clem’s plantin’? Worsethan to go in another’s garden an’ tear down greenfruit.”

So she pleaded volubly, with an electric increase of vitality, andcontinued to pour out a torrent of words, until Chris solemnly promised,before God and the dead, that she would not take her life. Having done so,some new design informed her.

“I must go,” she said; “the moon has set and dawn isnear. Dying be so easy; living so hard. But live I will; I swear it, thoughtheer’s awnly my poor mad brain to shaw how.”

“Clem’s son, mind. An’ let me be the first to see it,for I feel’t will be the gude pleasure of God I should.”

“An’ you promise to say no word, whatever betides, an’whatever you hear?”

“Dumb I’ll be, as him theer—dumb, countin’ theweeks an’ months.”

“Day’s broke, an’ I must go home-along,” saidChris. She repeated the words mechanically, then moved away without anyformal farewell. At the door she turned, hastened back, kissed the deadman’s face again, and then departed, while the other woman looked ather but spoke no more.

Alone, with the struggle over and her object won, the mother shrank anddwindled again and grew older momentarily. Then she relapsed into the sameposture as before, and anon, tears bred of new thoughts began to tricklepainfully from their parched fountains. She did not move, but let them rollunwiped away. Presently her head sank back, her cap fell off and white hairdropped about her face.

Fingers of light seemed lifting the edges of the blind. They gainedstrength as the candle waned, and presently at cock-crow, when unnumberedclarions proclaimed morning, grey dawn with golden eyes brightened upon adead man and an ancient woman fast asleep beside him.

CHAPTER XVII
MISSING

John Grimbal, actuated by some whim, or else conscious that under thecircumstances decorum demanded his attendance, was present at the funeral ofClement Hicks. Some cynic interest he derived from the spectacle of youngBlanchard among the bearers; and indeed, as may be supposed, few had feltthis tragic termination of his friend’s life more than Will. Verygenuine remorse darkened his days, and he blamed himself bitterly enough forall past differences with the dead. It was in a mood at once contrite andsorrowful that he listened to the echo of falling clod, and during thatsolemn sound mentally traversed the whole course of his relations with hissister’s lover. Of himself he thought not at all, and no shadowysuspicion of relief crossed his mind upon the reflection that the knowledgeof those fateful weeks long past was now unshared. In all his quarrels withClement, no possibility of the man breaking his oath once troubledWill’s mind; and now profound sorrow at his friend’s death anddeep sympathy with Chris were the emotions that entirely filled the youngfarmer’s heart.

Grimbal watched his enemy as the service beside the grave proceeded. Oncea malignant thought darkened his face, and he mused on what the result mightbe if he hinted to Blanchard the nature of his frustrated business with Hicksat Oke Tor. All Chagford had heard was that the master of the Red Houseintended to accept Clement Hicks as tenant of his home farm. The factsurprised many, but none looked behind it for any mystery, and Will least ofall. Grimbal’s thoughts developed upon his first idea; and he askedhimself the consequence if, instead of telling Blanchard that he had gone tolearn his secret, he should pretend that it was already in his possession.The notion shone for a moment only, then went out. First it showed itselfabsolutely futile, for he could do no more than threaten, and the other mustspeedily discover that in reality he knew nothing; and secondly, some shadowof feeling made Grimbal hesitate. His desire for revenge was now developingon new lines, and while his purpose remained unshaken, his last defeat hadtaught him patience. Partly from motives of policy, partly, strange as it mayseem, from his instincts as a sportsman, he determined to let the matter ofHicks lie buried. For the dead man’s good name he cared nothing,however, and victory over Will was only the more desired for thispostponement. His black tenacity of purpose won strength from the repulse,but the problem for the time being was removed from its former sphere ofactive hatred towards his foe. How long this attitude would last, and whatidiosyncrasy of character led to it, matters little. The fact remained thatGrimbal’s mental posture towards Blanchard now more nearly resembledthat which he wore to his other interests in life. The circumstance stillstood first, but partook of the nature of his emotions towards matters ofsport. When a heavy trout had beaten him more than once, Grimbal would repairagain and again to its particular haunt and leave no legitimate plan for itsdestruction untried. But any unsportsmanlike method of capturing or slayingbird, beast, or fish enraged him. So he left the churchyard with a sullendetermination to pursue his sinister purpose straightforwardly.

All interested in Clement Hicks attended the funeral, including his motherand Chris. The last had yielded to Mrs. Blanchard’s desire and promisedto stop at home; but she changed her mind and conducted herself at theceremony with a stoic fortitude. This she achieved only by an effort of willwhich separated her consciousness entirely from her environment and alikeblinded her eyes and deafened her ears to the mournful sights and soundsaround her. With her own future every fibre of her mind was occupied; and asthey lowered her lover’s coffin into the earth a line of action leaptinto her brain.

Less than four-and-twenty hours later it seemed that the last act of thetragedy had begun. Then, hoarse as the raven that croaked Duncan’scoming, Mr. Blee returned to Monks Barton from an early visit to the village.Phoebe was staying with her father for a fortnight, and it was she who metthe old man as he paddled breathlessly home.

“More gert news!” he gasped; “if it ban’t too muchfor wan in your way o’ health.”

“Nothing wrong at Newtake?” cried Phoebe, turning pale.

“No, no; but family news for all that.”

The girl raised her hand to her heart, and Miller Lyddon, attracted byBilly’s excited voice, hastened to his daughter and put his arm roundher.

“Out with it,” he said. “I see news in ’e.What’s the worst or best?”

“Bad, bad as heart can wish. A peck o’ trouble, by the looksof it. Chris Blanchard be gone—vanished like a dream! Mother Blanchardcalled her this marnin’, an’ found her bed not so much ascreased. She’ve flown, an’ there’s a braave upstore’bout it, for every Blanchard’s wrong in the head more or less,beggin’ your pardon, missis, as be awnly wan by marriage.”

“But no sign? No word or anything left?”

“Nothing; an’ theer’s a purty strong faith she’min the river, poor lamb. Theer’s draggin’ gwaine to be done inthe ugly bits. I heard tell of it to the village, wheer I’d juststepped up to see auld Lezzard moved to the work’ouse. A wonnerfulcoorious, rackety world, sure ’nough! Do make me giddy.”

“Does Will know?” asked Mr. Lyddon.

“His mother’s sent post-haste for un. I doubt he ’m tothe cottage by now. Such a gude, purty gal as she was, tu! An’ so muteas a twoad at the buryin’, wi’ never a tear to soften the graavedust. For why? She knawed she’d be alongside her man again ’forethe moon waned. An’ I hope she may be. But ’t was cross-roadsan’ a hawthorn stake in my young days. Them barbarous ancient fashionsbe awver, thank God, though whether us lives in more religious times is aquestion, when you see the things what happens every hour on thetwenty-four.”

“I must go to them,” cried Phoebe.

“I’ll go; you stop at home quietly, and don’t fret yourmind,” answered her father.

“Us must all do what us can—every manjack. I be gwainecorpse-searchin’ down valley wi’ Chapple, an’ that’mazin’ water-dog of hisn; an’ if ’t is my handbrings her out the Teign, ’t will be done in a kind, Christian manner,for she’s in God’s image yet, same as us; an’ ugly though adrownin’ be, it won’t turn me from my duty.”

BOOK III
HIS GRANITE CROSS

CHAPTER I
BABY

Succeeding upon the tumultuous incidents of Clement’s death andChris Blanchard’s disappearance, there followed a period of calm in thelives of those from whom this narrative is gleaned. Such transient peaceproved the greater in so far as Damaris and her son were concerned, by reasonof an incident which befell Will on the evening of his sister’sdeparture. Dead she certainly was not, nor did she mean to die; for, uponreturning to Newtake after hours of fruitless searching, Blanchard found acommunication awaiting him there, though no shadow of evidence wasforthcoming to show how it had reached the farm. Upon the ledge of the windowhe discovered it when he returned, and read the message at a glance:

“Don’t you nor mother fear nothing for me, nor seek me out,for it would be vain. I’m well, and I’m so happy as ever I shallbe, and perhaps I’ll come home-along some day.—CHRIS.”

On this challenge Will acted, ignored his sister’s entreaty toattempt no such thing, and set out upon a resolute search of nearly twomonths’ duration. He toiled amain into the late autumn, but no hint orshadow of her rewarded the quest, and sustained failure in an enterprisewhere his heart was set, for his mother’s sake and his own, acted uponthe man’s character, and indeed wrought marked changes in him. Despitethe letter of Chris, hope died in Will, and he openly held his sister dead;but Mrs. Blanchard, while sufficiently distressed before her daughter’sflight, never feared for her life, and doubted not that she would return insuch time as it pleased her to do so.

“Her nature be same as yours an’ your faither’s aforeyou. When he’d got the black monkey on his shoulder he’doftentimes leave the vans for a week and tramp the very heart o’ theMoor alone. Fatigue of body often salves a sore mind. He loved thundero’ dark nights—my husband did—and was better for itseemin’ly. Chris be safe, I do think, though it’s a heart-deepstroke this for me, ’cause I judge she caan’t ’zactly loveme as I thought, or else she’d never have left me. Still, the coldworld, what she knaws so little ’bout, will drive her back to them aslove her, come presently.”

So, with greater philosophy than her son could muster, Damaris practisedpatience; while Will, after a perambulation of the country from north tosouth, from west to east, after weeks on the lonely heaths and hiding-placesof the ultimate Moor, after visits to remote hamlets and inquiries at ahundred separate farmhouses, returned to Newtake, worn, disappointed, andgloomy to a degree beyond the experience of those who knew him. Neither didthe cloud speedily evaporate, as was most usual with his transient phases ofdepression. Circumstances combined to deepen it, and as the winter crowdeddown more quickly than usual, its leaden months of scanty daylight and coldrains left their mark on Will as time had never done before.

During those few and sombre days which represented the epact of the dyingyear, Martin Grimbal returned to Chagford. He had extended his investigationsbeyond the time originally allotted to them, and now came back to his homewith plenty of fresh material, and even one or two new theories for his book.He had received no communications during his absence, and the news of thebee-keeper’s death and his sweetheart’s disappearance, suddenlydelivered by his housekeeper, went far to overwhelm him. It danced joy upagain through the grey granite. For a brief hour splendid vistas of happinessreopened, and his laborious life swept suddenly into a bright region that hehad gazed into longingly aforetime and lost for ever. He fought with himselfto keep down this rosy-fledged hope; but it leapt in him, a young giant bornat a word. The significance of the freedom of Chris staggered him. To findher was the cry of his heart, and, as Will had done before him, hestraightway set out upon a systematic attempt to discover the missing girl.Of such uncertain temper was Blanchard’s mind at this season, however,that he picked a quarrel out of Martin’s design, and questioned theantiquary’s right to busy himself upon an undertaking which the brotherof Chris had already failed to accomplish.

“She belonged to me, not to you,” he said, “an’ Idone all a man could do to find her. See her again we sha’n’t,that’s my feelin’, despite what she wrote to me and left somysterious on the window. Madness comed awver her, I reckon, an’she’ve taken her life, an’ theer ban’t no call for you orany other man to rip up the matter again. Let it bide as ’t is. Suchblack doin’s be best set to rest.”

But, while Martin did not seek or desire Will’s advice in thematter, he was surprised at the young farmer’s attitude, and itextracted something in the nature of a confession from him, for there waslittle, he told himself, that need longer be hidden from the woman’sbrother.

“I can speak now, at least to you, Will,” he said. “Ican tell you, at any rate. Chris was all the world to me—all the world,and accident kept me from knowing she belonged to another man until too late.Now that he has gone, poor fellow, she almost seems within reach again. Youknow what it is to love. I can’t and won’t believe she has takenher life. Something tells me she lives, and I am not going to take anyman’s word about it. I must satisfy myself.”

Thereupon Blanchard became more reasonable, withdrew his objections andexpressed a very heartfelt hope that Martin might succeed where he hadfailed. The lover entered methodically upon his quest and conducted theinquiry with a rigorous closeness and scrupulous patience quite beyondWill’s power despite his equally earnest intentions. For six monthsMartin pursued his hope, and few saw or heard anything of him during thatperiod.

Once, during the early summer, Will chanced upon John Grimbal at the firstmeeting of the otter hounds in Teign Vale; but though the younger purposelyedged near his enemy where he stood, and hoped that some word might fall toindicate their ancient enmity dead, John said nothing, and his blue eyes werehard and as devoid of all emotion as turquoise beads when they met thefarmer’s face for one fraction of time.

Before this incident, however, there had arisen upon Will’s life thesplendour of paternity. A time came when, through one endless night andsilver April morning, he had tramped his kitchen floor as a tiger its cage,and left a scratched pathway on the stones. Then his mother hasted from aloftand reported the arrival of a rare baby boy.

“Phoebe ’s doin’ braave, an’ she prays of ’eto go downlong fust thing an’ tell Miller all ’s well. DoctorParsons hisself says ’t is a ’mazing fine cheel, so itban’t any mere word of mine as wouldn’t weigh, me bein’ thegran’mother.”

They talked a little while of the newcomer, then, thankful for anopportunity to be active after his long suspense, the father hurried away,mounted a horse, and soon rattled down the valleys into Chagford, at a pacewhich found his beast dead lame on the following day. Mighty was theexhilaration of that wild gallop as he sped past cot and farm under morningsunshine with his great news. Labouring men and chance wayfarers wereovertaken from time to time. Some Will knew, some he had never seen, but tothe ear of each and all without discrimination he shouted his intelligence.Not a few waved their hats and nodded and remembered the great day in theirown lives; one laughed and cried “Bravo!” sundry, who knew himnot, marvelled and took him for a lunatic.

Arrived at Chagford, familiar forms greeted Will in the market-place, andagain he bawled his information without dismounting.

“A son ’tis, Chapple—comed an hour ago—a braveli’l bwoy, so they tell!”

“Gude luck to it, then! An’ now you’m a parent, youmust—”

But Will was out of earshot, and Mr. Chapple wasted no more breath.

Into Monks Barton the farmer presently clattered, threw himself off hishorse, tramped indoors, and shouted for his father-in-law in tones that madethe oak beams ring. Then the miller, with Mr. Blee behind him, hastened tohear what Will had come to tell.

“All right, all right with Phoebe?” were Mr. Lyddon’sfirst words, and he was white and shaking as he put the question.

“Right as ninepence, faither—gran’faither, I should say.A butivul li’l man she’ve got—out o’ the common fine,Parsons says, as ought to knaw—fat as a slug wi’’mazin’ dark curls on his wee head, though my mother says’tis awnly a sort o’ catch-crop, an’ not the lasting hairas’ll come arter.”

“A bwoy! Glory be!” said Mr. Blee. “If theer’sawnly a bit o’ the gracious gudeness of his gran’faither in un,’twill prove a prosperous infant.”

“Thank God for a happy end to all my prayers,” said Mr.Lyddon. “Billy, get Will something to eat an’ drink. I guesshe’s hungry an’ starved.”

“Caan’t eat, Miller; but I’ll have a drop of the best,if it’s all the same to you. Us must drink their healths, both of’em. As for me ’tis a gert thing to be the faither of a cheelas’ll graw into a man some day, an’ may even be a historicalcharacter, awnly give un time.”

“So ’tis a gert thing. Sit down; doan’t tramp about. Ilay you’ve been on your feet enough these late hours.”

Will obeyed, but proceeded with his theme, and though his feet were stillhis hands were not.

“Us be faced wi’ the upbringing an’ edication of un. Imean him to be brought up to a power o’ knowledge, for theer’snothin’ like it. Doan’t you think I be gwaine to shirkdoin’ the right thing by un’, Miller, ’cause it aint so. If’twas my last fi’-pun’ note was called up for larnin’him, he’d have it.”

“Theer’s no gert hurry yet,” declared Billy.“Awnly you’m right to look in the future and weigh the debt everyman owes to the cheel he gets. He’ll never cost you less thought orhalfpence than he do to-day, an’, wi’out croakin’ at such agay time, I will say he’ll graw into a greater care an’ trouble,every breath he draws.”

“Not him! Not the way I’m gwaine to bring un up. Sternan’ strict an’ no nonsense, I promise ’e”

“That’s right. Tame un from the breast. I’d like for mypaart to think as the very sapling be grawin’ now as’ll give hisli’l behind its fust lesson in the ways o’ duty,” declaredMr. Blee. “Theer ’s certain things you must be flint-hard about,an’ fust comes lying. Doan’t let un lie; flog it out of un;an’ mind, ’tis better for your arm to ache than for his soul toburn.”

“You leave me to do right by un. You caan’t teach me, Billy,not bein’ a parent; though I allow what you say is trueenough.”

“An’ set un to work early; get un into ways o’ work sosoon as he’s able to wear corduroys. An’ doan’t never letun be cruel to beastes; an’ doan’t let un—”

“Theer, theer!” cried Mr. Lyddon. “Have done with’e! You speak as fules both, settin’ out rules o’ life foran hour-old babe. You talk to his mother about taming of un an’ grawingsaplings for his better bringing-up. She’ll tell ’e a thing ortwo. Just mind the slowness o’ growth in the human young. ’T willbe years before theer’s enough of un to beat.”

“They do come very gradual to fulness o’ body an’reason,” admitted Billy; “and ’t is gude it should be so;’t is well all men an’ women ’s got to be childer fust, forthey brings brightness an’ joy ’pon the earth as babies, though’t is mostly changed when they ’m grawed up. If us could awnlyforetell the turnin’ out o’ childern, an’ knaw which’t was best to drown an’ which to save in tender youth, what adiffer’nt world this would be!”

“They ’m poor li’l twoads at fust, no doubt,” saidWill to his father-in-law.

“Ess, indeed they be. ’T is a coorious circumstance, butgenerally allowed, that humans are the awnly creatures o’ God wi’understandin’, an’ yet they comes into the world more helplessan’ brainless, an’ bides longer helpless an’ brainless thanany other beast knawn.”

“Shouldn’t call ’em ‘beastes’ ’zactly,seem’ they’ve got the Holy Ghost from the church font everafter,” objected Billy. “’T is the differ’nce betweena babe an’ a pup or a kitten. The wan gets God into un atchristenin’, t’ other wouldn’t have no Holy Ghost in un ifyou baptised un over a hunderd times. For why? They ’m not built in theImage.”

“When all’s said, you caan’t look tu far ahead or be tuforehanded wi’ bwoys,” resumed Will. “Gallopin’down-long I said to myself, ‘Theer’s things he may do an’things he may not do. He shall choose his awn road in reason, but he must beguided by me in the choice.’ I won’t let un go for asailor—never. I’ll cut un off wi’ a shillin’ if hethinks of it.”

“Time enough when he can walk an’ talk, I reckon,” saidBilly, who, seeing how his master viewed the matter, now caught Mr.Lyddon’s manner.

“Ess, that’s very well,” continued Will, “but timeflies that fast wi’ childer. Then I thought, ‘He’ll come tomarry some day, sure’s Fate.’ Myself, I believe in tolerableearly marryin’s.”

“By God! I knaw it!” retorted Mr. Lyddon, with an expressionwherein appeared mingled feelings not a few; “Ess, fay! You’mright theer. I should take Time by the forelock if I was you, an’ seeif you can find a maiden as’ll suit un while you go back-along throughthe village.”

“Awnly, as ’tis better for the man to number more years thanthe wummon,” added Billy, “it might be wise to bide a week ortwo, so’s he shall have a bit start of his lady.”

“Now, you’m fulin me! An’ I caan’t stay no morewhether or no, ’cause I was promised to see Phoebe an’ my son inthe arternoon. Us be gwaine to call un Vincent William Blanchard, arter youan’ me, Miller; an’ if it had been a gal, us meant to call unarter mother; an’ I do thank God ’bout the wee bwoy in all solemnsoberness, ’cause ’tis the fust real gude thing as have falled tous since the gwaine of poor Chris. ’Twill be a joy to my motheran’ a gude gran’son to you, I hope.”

“Go home, go home,” said Mr. Lyddon. “Get along with’e this minute, an’ tell your wife I’m greatly pleased,an’ shall come to see her mighty soon. Let us knaw every day how shefares—an’—an’—I’m glad as you called theladdie arter me. ’Twas a seemly thought.”

Will departed, and his mind roamed over various splendid futures for hisbaby. Already he saw it a tall, straight, splendid man, not a hair shorterthan his own six feet two inches. He hoped that it would possess his naturalwisdom, augmented by Phoebe’s marvellous management of figures andaccounts. He also desired for it a measure of his mother’s calm andstately self-possession before the problems of life, and he had no objectionthat his son should reflect Miller Lyddon’s many and amiablevirtues.

He returned home, and his mother presently bid him come to see Phoebe.Then a sudden nervousness overtook Will, tough though he was. The door shut,and husband and wife were alone together, for Damaris disappeared. But wherewere all those great and splendid pictures of the future? Vanished, vanishedin a mist. Will’s breast heaved; he saw Phoebe’s star-bright eyespeeping at him, and he touched the treasure beside her—oh, so small itwas!

He bent his head low over them, kissed his wife shyly, and peeped withproper timidity under the flannel.

“Look, look, Will, dearie! Did ’e ever see aught like un?An’ come evenin’, he ’m gwaine to have his fust li’ldrink!”

CHAPTER II
THE KNIGHT OF FORLORN HOPES

The child brought all a child should bring to Newtake, though it could nothide the fact that Will Blanchard drifted daily a little nearer to the end ofhis resources. But occasional success still flattered his ambition, and heworked hard and honestly. In this respect at least the man proved variousfears unfounded, yet the result of his work rarely took shape of sovereigns.He marvelled at the extraordinary steadiness with which ill-fortune clung toNewtake and cursed when, on two quarter-days out of the annual four, anotherdip had to be made into the dwindling residue of his uncle’s bequest.Some three hundred pounds yet remained when young Blanchard entered upon afurther stage of his career,—that most fitly recorded as happeningwithin the shadow of a granite cross.

After long months of absence from home, Martin Grimbal returned, silent,unsuccessful, and sad. Upon the foundations of facts he had built manytentative dwelling-places for hope; but all had crumbled, failure crowned hislabours, and as far from the reach of his discovery seemed the secret ofChris as the secrets of the sacred circles, stone avenues, and empty,hypaethral chambers of the Moor. Spiritless and bitterly discouraged, hereturned after such labours as Will had dreamed not of; and his life,succeeding upon this deep disappointment, seemed far advanced towards its endin Martin’s eyes—a journey whose brightest incidents, happiestplaces of rest, most precious companions were all left behind. This seconddeath of hope aged the man in truth and sowed his hair with grey. Now only amelancholy memory of one very beautiful and very sad remained to him. Chrisindeed promised to return, but he told himself that such a woman had neverleft an unhappy mother for such period of time if power to come home stillbelonged to her. Then, surveying the past, he taxed himself heavily with adeliberate and cruel share in it. Why had he taken the advice of Blanchardand delayed his offer of work to Hicks? He told himself that it was becausehe knew such a step would definitely deprive him of Chris for ever; andtherein he charged himself with offences that his nature was abovecommitting. Then he burst into bitter blame of Will, and at a weakmoment—for nothing is weaker than the rare weakness of a strongman—he childishly upbraided the farmer with that fateful adviceconcerning Clement, and called down upon his head deep censure for thesubsequent catastrophe. Will, as may be imagined, proved not slow to resentsuch an attack with heart and voice. A great heat of vain recriminationfollowed, and the men broke into open strife.

Sick with himself at this pitiable lapse, shaken in his self-respect,desolate, unsettled, and uncertain of the very foundations on which he hadhitherto planted his life, the elder man existed through a black month, thenbraced himself again, looked out into the world, set his dusty desk in order,and sought once more amidst the relics of the past for comfort andconsolation. He threw himself upon his book and told himself that it mustsurely reward his pains; he toiled mightily at his lonely task, and added alittle to man’s knowledge.

Once it happened that the Rev. Shorto-Champernowne met Martin. Riding overthe Moor after a visit to his clerical colleague of Gidleigh, the clergymantrotted through Scorhill Circle, above northern Teign, and seeing awell-known parishioner, drew up a while.

“How prosper your profound studies?” he inquired. “Dothese evidences of aboriginal races lead you to any conclusions of note? Formy part, I am not wholly devoid of suspicion that a man might better employhis time, though I should not presume to make any such suggestion toyou.”

“You may be right; but one is generally unwise to stamp on hisruling passion if it takes him along an intellectual road. These crypticstones are my life. I want to get the secret of them or find at least alittle of it. What are these lonely rings? Where are we standing now? In aplace of worship, where men prayed to the thunder and the sun and stars? Or acouncil chamber? Or a court of justice, that has seen many a doom pronounced,much red blood flow? Or is it a grave? ’T is the fashion to reject thenotion that they represent any religious purpose; yet I cannot see anyargument against the theory. I go on peeping and prying after a spark oftruth. I probe here, and in the fallen circle yonder towards Cosdon; I followthe stone rows to Fernworthy; I trudge again and again to the GreyWethers—that shattered double ring on Sittaford Tor. I eat them up withmy eyes and repeople the heath with those who raised them. Some clay a gleamof light may come. And if it does, it will reach me through deep study onthose stone men of old. It is along the human side of my investigations Ishall learn, if I learn anything at all.”

“I hope you may achieve your purpose, though the memoranda and dataare scanty. Your name is mentioned in the Western Morning News as apainstaking inquirer.”

“Yet when theories demand proof—that’s therub!”

“Yes, indeed. You are a knight of forlorn hopes, Grimbal,”answered the Vicar, alluding to Martin’s past search for Chris as muchas to his present archaeologic ambitions. Then he trotted on over the river,and the pedestrian remained as before seated upon a recumbent stone in themidst of the circle of Scorhill. Silent he sat and gazed into the lichens ofgrey and gold that crowned each rude pillar of the lonely ring. These, as itseemed, were the very eyes of the granite, but to Martin they represented butthe cloak of yesterday, beneath which centuries of secrets were hidden. Onlythe stones and the eternal west wind, that had seen them set up and stillblew over them, could tell him anything he sought to know.

“A Knight of Forlorn Hopes,” mused the man. “So it is,so it is. The grasshopper, rattling his little kettledrum there, knows nearlyas much of this hoary secret as I do; and the bird, that prunes his wing onthe porphyry, and is gone again. Not till some Damnonian spirit rises fromthe barrow, not till some chieftain of these vanished hosts shall take shapeout of the mists and speak, may we glean a grain of this buried knowledge.And who to-day would believe ten thousand Damnonian ghosts, if they stirredhere once again and thronged the Moor and the moss and the ruined stonevillages with their moonbeam shapes?

“Gone for ever; and she—my Chris—my dear—is she todwell in the darkness for all time, too? O God, I would rather hear onewhisper of her voice, feel one touch of her brown hand, than learn the primaltruth of every dumb stone wonder in the world!”

CHAPTER III
CONCERNING THE GATE-POST

So that good store of roots and hay continue for the cattle during thosemonths of early spring while yet the Moor is barren; so that the potato-patchprospers and the oats ripen well; so that neither pony nor bullock is lost inthe shaking bogs, and late summer is dry enough to allow of amplepeat-storing—when all these conditions prevail, your moorman counts hisyear a fat one. The upland farmers of Devon are in great measure armedagainst the bolts of chance by the nature of their lives, the grey characterof even their most cheerful experiences and the poverty of their highestambitions. Their aspirations, becoming speedily cowed by ill-requited toiland eternal hardship, quickly dwarf and shrink, until even the most sanguineseldom extend hope much beyond necessity.

Will grumbled, growled, and fought on, while Phoebe, who knew how noblythe valleys repaid husbandry, mourned in secret that his energetic labourshere could but produce such meagre results. Very gradually their environmentstamped its frosty seal on man and woman; and by the time that little Willwas two years old his parents viewed life, its good and its evil, much asother Moor folks contemplated it. Phoebe’s heart was still sweetenough, but she grew more selfish for herself and her own, more self-centredin great Will and little Will. They filled her existence to the gradualexclusion of wider sympathies. Miller Lyddon had given his grandson a silvermug on the day he was baptised, though since that time the old man held morealoof from the life of Newtake than Phoebe understood. Sometimes she wonderedthat he had never offered to assist her husband practically, but Will muchresented the suggestion when Phoebe submitted it to him. There was no needfor any such thing, he declared. As for him, transitory ambitions and hopesgleamed up in his career as formerly, though less often. So man and wifefound their larger natures somewhat crushed by the various immediate problemsthat each day brought along with it. Beyond the narrow horizon of their ownconcerns they rarely looked, and Chagford people, noting the change, declaredthat life at Newtake was tying their tongues and lining their foreheads. Willcertainly grew more taciturn, less free of advice, perhaps less frank thanformerly. A sort of strangeness shadowed him, and only his mother or his soncould dispel it. The latter soon learnt to understand his father’s manymoods, and would laugh or cry, show joy or fear, according to the tune of theman’s voice.

There came an evening in mid-September when Will sat at the open hearthand smoked, with his eyes fixed on a fire of scads.13 He remainedvery silent, and Phoebe, busy about a small coat of red cloth, to keep thecold from her little son’s bones during the coming winter, knew that itwas not one of her husband’s happiest evenings. His eyes were lookingthrough the fire and the wall behind it, through the wastes and wildernessesbeyond, through the granite hills to the far-away edge of the world, whereFate sat spinning the threads of the lives of his loved ones. Threads theylooked, in his gloomy survey of that night, much deformed with knot andtangle, for the Spinner cared nothing at all about them. She suffered each towind heedlessly away; she minded not that they were ugly; she spared nostrand of gold or silver from her skein of human happiness to brighten thegrey fabric of them. So it seemed to Will, and his temper chimed with therough night. The wind howled and growled down the chimney, uttered many asudden yell and ghostly moan, struck with claws invisible at the glowingheart of the peat fire, and sent red sparks dancing from a corona of faintblue flame.

“Winter’s comin’ quick,” said Phoebe, biting herthread.

“Ess, winter’s allus comin’ up here. The fight beginsagain so soon as ever ’t is awver—again and again and again,’cordin’ to the workin’ years of a man’s life. Thenhe turns on his back for gude an’ all, an’ takes his rest, wheertheer’s no more seasons, nor frost, nor sunshine, in the worldunder.”

“You’m glumpy, dear heart. What’s amiss? What’scrossed ’e? Tell me, an’ I lay I’ll find a word to smoothit away. Nothin’ contrary happened to market?”

“No, no—awnly my nature. When the wind’s spelling winterin the chimbley, an’ the yether’s dead again, ’t is wishtlookin’ forrard. The airth ’s allus dyin’, an’ thelife of her be that short, an’ grubbing of bare food an’ rent outof her is sour work after many years. Thank God I’m a hopeful,far-seem’ chap, an’ sound as a bell; but I doan’t makemoney for all my sweat, that’s the mystery.”

“You will some day. Luck be gwaine to turn ’fore long, I hope.An’ us have got what’s better ’n money, what caan’tbe bought.”

“The li’l bwoy?”

“Aye; if us hadn’t nothin’ but him, theer’s manywould envy our lot.”

“Childer’s no such gert blessin’, neither.”

“Will! How can you say it?”

“I do say it. We ’m awnly used to keep up the breed, thenthrawed o’ wan side. I’m sick o’ men an’ women folks.Theer’s too many of ’em.”

“But childer—our li’l Will. The moosic of un be sweeterthan song o’ birds all times, an’ you’d be fust to say soif you wasn’t out of yourself.”

“He ’m a braave, small lad enough; but theer again! Why shouldhe have been pitched into this here home? He might have been put in a palacejust as easy, an’ born of a royal queen mother, ’stead o’you; he might have opened his eyes ’pon marble walls an’ jewelsan’ precious stones, ’stead of whitewash an’ a peat fire.Be that baaby gwaine to thank us for bringing him in the world, come he grawup? Not him! Why should he?”

“But he will. We ’m his faither an’ mother. Do ’elove your mother less for bearin’ you in a gypsy van? Li’lWill’s to pay us noble for all our toil some day, an’ be a joy toour grey hairs an’ a prop to our auld age, please God.”

“Ha, ha!—story-books! Gi’ me a cup o’ milk; thenus’ll go to bed.”

She obeyed; he piled turf upon the hearth, to keep the fire alight untilmorning, then took up the candle and followed Phoebe through another chamber,half-scullery, half-storehouse, into which descended the staircase fromabove. Here hung the pale carcase of a newly slain pig, suspended by its hindlegs from a loop in the ceiling; and Phoebe, many of whose little delicaciesof manner had vanished of late, patted the carcase lovingly, like the goodfarmer’s wife she was.

“Wish theer was more so big in the sties,” she said.

Arrived at her bedside, the woman prayed before sinking to rest withinreach of her child’s cot; while Will, troubling Heaven with no petitionor thanksgiving, was in bed five minutes sooner than his wife.

“Gude-night, lad,” said Phoebe, as she put the candle out, buther husband only returned an inarticulate grunt for answer, being alreadywithin the portal of sleep.

A fair morning followed on the tempestuous night, and Winter, who hadsurely whispered her coming under the darkness, vanished again at dawn. TheMoor still provided forage, but all light was gone out of the heather, thoughthe standing fern shone yellow under the sun, and the recumbent bracken sheda rich russet in broad patches over the dewy green where Will had chopped itdown and left it to dry for winter fodder. He was very late this year instacking the fern, and designed that labour for his morning’soccupation.

Ted Chown chanced to be away for a week’s holiday, so Will enteredhis farmyard early. The variable weather of his mind rarely stood for long atstorm, but, unlike the morning, he had awakened in no happy mood.

A child’s voice served for a time to smooth his brow, now cloudedfrom survey of a broken spring in his market-cart; then came the lesser Willwith a small china mug for his morning drink. Phoebe watched him sturdilytramp across the yard, and the greater Will laughed to see his son’salarm before the sudden stampede of a belated heifer, which now hastenedthrough the open gate to join its companions on the hillside.

“Cooshey, cooshey won’t hurt ’e, my li’lbud!” cried Phoebe, as Ship jumped and barked at the lumbering beast.Then the child doubled round a dung-heap and fled to his father’s arms.From the byre a cow with a full udder softly lowed, and now small Will had acup of warm milk; then, with his red mouth like a rosebud in mist and hisfather’s smile magically and laughably reproduced upon his little face,he trotted back to his mother.

A moment later Will, still milking, heard himself loudly called from thegate. The voice he knew well enough, but it was pitched unusually high, anddenoted a condition of excitement and impatience very seldom to be met within its possessor. Martin Grimbal, for it was he, did not observe Blanchard,as the farmer emerged from the byre. His eye was bent in startled andcritical scrutiny of a granite post, to which the front gate of Newtakelatched, and he continued shouting aloud until Will stood beside him. Then heappeared on his hands and knees beside the gate-post. He had flung down hisstick and satchel; his mouth was slightly open; his cap rested on the side ofhis head; his face seemed transfigured before some overwhelmingdiscovery.

Relations were still strained between these men; and Will did not forgetthe fact, though it had evidently escaped Martin in his presentexcitement.

“What the deuce be doin’ now?” asked Blanchardabruptly.

“Man alive! A marvel! Look here—to think I have passed thisstone a hundred times and never noticed!”

He rose, brushed his muddy knees, still gazing at the gate-post, then tooka trowel from his bag and began to cut away the turf about the base ofit.

“Let that bide!” called out the master sharply. “What be’bout, delving theer?”

“I forgot you didn’t know. I was coming to see you on my wayto the Moor. I wanted a drink and a handshake. We mustn’t be enemies,and I’m heartily sorry for what I said—heartily. But here’sa fitting object to build new friendship on. I just caught sight of theincisions through a fortunate gleam of early morning light. Come this sideand see for yourself. To think you had what a moorman would reckon goodfortune at your gate and never guessed it!”

“Fortune at my gate? Wheer to? I aint heard nothin’ ofit.”

“Here, man, here! D’ you see this post?”

“Not bein’ blind, I do.”

“Yet you were blind, and so was I. There ’s excuse foryou—none for me. It’s a cross! Yes, a priceless old Christiancross, buried here head downward by some profane soul in the distant past,who found it of size and shape to make a gate-post. They are common enough inCornwall, but very rare in Devon. It’s a great—a remarkablediscovery in fact, and I’m right glad I found it on your threshold; forwe may be friends again beside this symbol fittingly enough—eh,Will?”

“Bother your rot,” answered the other coldly, and quiteunimpassioned before Martin’s eloquence. “You doubted my judgmentnot long since and said hard things and bad things; now I take leave to doubtyours. How do ’e knaw this here ’s a cross any more than t’other post the gate hangs on?”

Martin, recalled to reality and the presence of a man till thenunfriendly, blushed and shrank into himself a little. His voice showed thathe suffered pain.

“I read granite as you read sheep and soil and a crop ripening aboveground or below—it’s my business,” he explained, notwithout constraint, while the enthusiasm died away out of his voice and thefire from his face. “See now, Will, try and follow me. Note these veryfaint lines, where the green moss takes the place of the lichen. These arefretted grooves—you can trace them to the earth, and on a‘rubbing,’ as we call it, they would be plainer still. Theyindicate to me incisions down the sides of a cross-shaft. They are all thatmany years of weathering have left. Look at the shape too: the stone growsslightly thinner every way towards the ground. What is hidden we can’tsay yet, but I pray that the arms may be at least still indicated. You see itis the base sticking into the air, and more’s the pity, a part hasgone, for I can trace the incisions to the top. God knows the past history ofit, but—”

“Perhaps He do and perhaps He doan’t,” interrupted thefarmer. “Perhaps it weer a cross an’ perhaps it weern’t;anyway it’s my gate-post now, an’ as to diggin’ it up, youmay be surprised to knaw it, Martin Grimbal, but I’ll see you damnedfust! I’m weary of all this bunkum ’bout auld stones an’circles an’ the rest; I’m sick an’ tired o’leavin’ my work a hunderd times in summer months to shaw gaping fulesfrom Lunnon an’ Lard knaws wheer, them roundy-poundies ’pon myland. ’Tis all rot, as every moorman knaws; yet you an’ such asyou screams if us dares to put a finger to the stone nowadays. Ban’tthe granite ours under Venwell? You knaw it is; an’ becausedead-an’-gone folk, half-monkeys belike, fashioned their homesan’ holes out of it, be that any cause why it shouldn’t behandled to-day? They’ve had their use of it; now ’tis our turn;an ’tis awnly such as you be, as comes here in shining summer, when theland puts on a lying faace, as though it didn’t knaw weather an’winter—’tis awnly such as you must cry out against us of the soilif we dares to set wan stone ’pon another to make a wall or to keep theblasted rabbits out the young wheat.”

“Your attitude is one-sided, Will,” said Martin Grimbalgently; “besides, remember this is a cross. We’re dealing with arelic of our faith, take my word for it.”

“Faith be damned! What’s a cross to me? ’Tisdoin’more gude wheer’t is than ever it done afore, I’llswear.”

“I hope you’ll live to see you’re wrong, Blanchard.I’ve met you in an evil hour it seems. You’re not yourself. Thinkabout it. There’s no hurry. You pride yourself on your common sense asa rule. I’m sure it will come to your rescue. Granted this discovery isnothing to you, yet think what it means to me. If I’d found a diamondmine I couldn’t be better pleased—not half so pleased asnow.”

Will reflected a moment; but the other had not knowledge of character toobserve or realise that he was slowly becoming reasonable.

“So I do pride myself on my common sense, an’ I’ve someright to. A cross is a cross—I allow that—and whatever I maythink, I ban’t so small-minded as to fall foul of them as thinkdiffer’nt. My awn mother be a church-goer for that matter, an’you’ll look far ways for her equal. But of coourse I knaw what I knaw.Me an’ Hicks talked out matters of religion so dry as chaff.”

“Yet a cross means much to many, and always will while the landcontinues to call itself Christian.”

“I knaw, I knaw. ’Twill call itself Christian long arter yourtime an’ mine; as to bein’ Christian—that’s anotherstory. Clem Hicks lightened such matters to me—fule though he was inthe ordering of his awn life. But s’pose you digs the post up, forargeyment’s sake. What about me, as have to go out ’pon the Mooran’ blast another new wan out the virgin granite wi’ gunpowder?Do’e think I’ve nothin’ better to do with my time thanthat?”

Here, in his supreme anxiety and eagerness, forgetting the manner of manhe argued with, Martin made a fatal mistake.

“That’s reasonable and business-like,” he said. “Iwouldn’t have you suffer for lost time, which is part of your living.I’ll give you ten pounds for the stone, Will, and that should more thanpay for your time and for the new post.”

He glanced into the other’s face and instantly saw his error. Thefarmer’s countenance clouded and his features darkened until he lookedlike an angry Redskin. His eyes glinted steel-bright under a ferocious frown;the squareness of his jaw became much marked.

“You dare to say that, do’e? An’ me as good a man,an’ better, than you or your brother either! Money—you remind meI’m—Theer! You can go to blue, blazin’ hell for yourgranite crosses—that’s wheer you can go—you or any otherpoking, prying pelican! Offer money to me, would ’e? Who be you, or anyother man, to offer me money for wasted time? As if I was a road scavenger oranother man’s servant! God’s truth! you forget who you’mtalkin’ to!”

“This is to purposely misunderstand me, Blanchard. I never, never,meant any such thing. Am I one to gratuitously insult or offend another?Typical this! Your cursed temper it is that keeps you back in the world andmakes a failure of you,” answered the student of stones, his own tempernearly lost under exceptional provocation.

“Who says I be a failure?” roared Will in return. “Whatdo you know, you grey, dreamin’ fule, as to whether I’msuccessful or not so? Get you gone off my land or—”

“I’ll go, and readily enough. I believe you’re mad.That’s the conclusion I’m reluctantly driven to—mad. Butdon’t for an instant imagine your lunatic stupidity is going to standbetween the world and this discovery, because it isn’t.”

He strapped on his satchel, picked up his stick, put his hat on straight,and prepared to depart, breathing hard.

“Go,” snorted Will; “go to your auld stones—they’m the awnly fit comp’ny for ’e. Bruise your silly shinsagainst ’em, an’ ax ’em if a moorman’s in the rightor wrong to paart wi’ his gate-post to the fust fule as wantsit!”

Martin Grimbal strode off without replying, and Will, in a sort of grimgood-humour at this victory, returned to milking his cows. The encounter, forsome obscure reason, restored him to amiability. He reviewed his own dismalpart in it with considerable satisfaction, and, after going indoors andeating a remarkably good breakfast, he lighted his pipe and, in the mostbenignant of moods, went out with a horse and cart to gather witheredfern.

CHAPTER IV
MARTIN’S RAID

Mrs. Blanchard now dwelt alone, and all her remaining interests in lifewere clustered about Will. She perceived that his enterprise by no meanspromised to fulfil the hopes of those who loved him, and realised too latethat the qualities which enabled her father to wrest a living from themoorland farm were lacking in her son. He, of course, explained it otherwise,and pointed to the changes of the times and an universal fall in the price ofagricultural produce. His mother cast about in secret how to help him, but nomeans appeared until, upon an evening some ten days after Blanchard’squarrel with Grimbal over the gate-post, she suddenly determined to visitMonks Barton and discuss the position with Miller Lyddon.

“I want to have a bit of a tell with ’e,” she said,“’pon a matter so near to your heart as mine. Awnly you’vegot power an’ I haven’t.”

“I knaw what you’m come about before you speak,”answered the other.“ Sit you down an’ us’ll have a gudeairing of ideas. But I’m sorry we won’t get the value o’Billy Blee’s thoughts ’pon the point, for he’s awayto-night.”

Damaris rather rejoiced than sorrowed in this circumstance, but she wastoo wise to say so.

“A far-thinkin’ man, no doubt,” she admitted.

“He is; an’ ’t is straange your comin’ just thisnight, for Blee’s away on a matter touching Will more or less,an’ doan’t reckon to be home ’fore light.”

“What coorious-fashion job be that then?”

“Caan’t tell ’e the facts. I’m under a promise notto open my mouth, but theer’s no gert harm. Martin Grimbal’sforemost in the thing so you may judge it ban’t no wrong act, and heaxed Billy to help him at my advice. You see it’s necessary to forceyour son’s hand sometimes. He’m that stubborn when hismind’s fixed.”

“A firm man, an’ loves his mother out the common well. A gudeson, a gude husband, a gude faither, a hard worker. How many men’s allthat to wance, Miller?”

“He is so—all—an’ yet—the man have got hisfaults, speaking generally.”

“That’s awnly to say he be a man; an’ if youcaan’t find words for the faults, ’t is clear they ban’tworth namin’.”

“I can find words easy enough, I assure ’e; but a man’sa fule to waste breath criticising the ways of a son to his mother—ifso be he’s a gude son.”

“What fault theer is belongs to me. I was set on his gwaine toNewtake as master, like his gran’faither afore him. I urged the stephot, and I liked the thought of it.”

“So did he—else he wouldn’t have gone.”

“You caan’t say that. He might have done different but forlove of me. ’T is I as have stood in his way in this thing.”

“Doan’t fret yourself with such a thought, Mrs. Blanchard;Will’s the sort as steers his awn ship. Theer’s no blame’pon you. An’ for that matter, if your faither saved gude moneyat Newtake, why caan’t Will?”

“Times be changed. You’ve got to make two blades o’grass graw wheer wan did use, if you wants to live nowadays.”

“Hard work won’t hurt him.”

“But it will if he reckons’t is all wasted work. What’smore bitter than toiling to no account, an’ knawin all the whileyou be?”

“Not all wasted work, surely?”

“They wouldn’t allow it for the world. He’s that gayafore me, an’ Phoebe keeps a stiff upper lip, tu; but I go upunexpected now an’ again an’ pop in unawares an’ sees thetruth. You with your letter or message aforehand, doan’t find outnothing, an’ won’t.”

“He’m out o’ luck, I allow. What’s the exactreason?”

“You’ll find it in the Book, same as I done. I knaw you setgert store ’pon the Word. Well, then, ’them the Lard loveth Hechasteneth.’ That’s why Will’s languishin’ like.’T won’t last for ever.”

“Ah! But theer’s other texts to other purpose. Not that I want’e to dream my Phoebe’s less to me than your son to you.I’ve got my eye on ’em, an’ that’s the truth;an’ on my li’l grandson, tu.”

“Theer’s gert things buddin’ in that bwoy.”

“I hope so. I set much store on him. Doan’t you worrit,mother, for the party to Newtake be bound up very close wi’ myhappiness, an’ if they was wisht, ban’t me as would long bemerry. I be gwaine to give Master Will rope enough to hang himself, having agrudge or two against him yet; then, when the job’s done, an’he’s learnt the hard lesson to the dregs, I’ll cut un down ingude time an’ preach a sarmon to him while he’s in a mood to larnwisdom. He’s picking up plenty of information, you be sure—thingsthat will be useful bimebye: the value of money, the shortness o’ thedistance it travels, the hardness o’ Moor ground, an’ men’shearts, an’ such-like branches of larning. Let him bide, an’trust me.”

The mother was rendered at once uneasy and elated by this speech. That, ifonly for his wife and son’s sake, Will would never be allowed to failentirely seemed good to know; but she feared, and, before the patronisingmanner of the old man, felt alarm for the future. She well knew how Willwould receive any offer of assistance tendered in this spirit.

“Like your gude self so to promise; but remember he ’m of alofty mind and fiery.”

“Stiff-necked he be, for certain; but he may graw quiet ’foreyou think it. Nothing tames a man so quick as to see his woman and childerfolk hungry—eh? An’ specially if ’t is thanks to his awnmistakes.”

Mrs. Blanchard flushed and felt a wave of anger surging through herbreast. But she choked it down.

“You ’m hard in the grain, Lyddon—so them often bewho’ve lived over long as widow men. Theer ’s a power o’gude in my Will, an’ your eyes will be opened to see it some day. He’m young an’ hopeful by nature; an’ such as him, as alluslooks up to gert things, feels a come down worse than others who be contentto crawl. He ’m changing, an’ I knaw it, an’ I’veshed more ’n wan tear awver it, bein’ on the edge of age myselfnow, an’ not so strong-minded as I was ’fore Chris went. He’m changing, an’ the gert Moor have made his blood beat slower, Ireckon, an’ froze his young hope a bit.”

“He ’s grawiug aulder, that’s all. ’T is right ashe should chatter less an’ think more.”

“I suppose so; yet a mother feels a cold cloud come awver her heartto watch a cheel fighting the battle an’ not winning it. Specially whenshe can awnly look on an’ do nothin’.”

“Doan’t you fear. You ’m low in spirit, else you’dnever have spoke so open; but I thank you for tellin’ me that things betighter to Newtake than I guessed. You leave the rest to me. I knaw how farto let ’em go; an’ if we doan’t agree ’pon thatquestion, you must credit me with the best judgment, an’ not think noworse of me for helpin’ in my awn way an’ awn time.”

With which promise Mrs. Blanchard was contented. Surveying the position inthe solitude of her home, she felt there was much to be thankful for. Yet shepuzzled her heart and head to find schemes by which the miller’scharity might be escaped. She considered her own means, and pictured her fewpossessions sold at auction; she had already offered to go and dwell atNewtake and dispose of her cottage. But Will exploded so violently when thesuggestion reached his ears that she never repeated it.

While the widow thus bent her thoughts upon her son, and gradually sank tosleep with the problems of the moment unsolved, a remarkable series ofincidents made the night strange at Newtake Farm.

Roused suddenly a little after twelve o’clock by an unusual sound,Phoebe woke with a start and cried to her husband:

“Will—Will, do hark to Ship! He ’m barkin’ thatsavage!”

Will turned and growled sleepily that it was nothing, but the barkcontinued, so he left his bed and looked out of the window. A waning moon hadjust thrust one glimmering point above the sombre flank of the hill. Itascended as he watched, dispensed a sinister illumination, and like someremote bale-fire hung above the bosom of the nocturnal Moor. His dog stillbarked, and in the silence Will could hear a clink and thud as it leapt tothe limit of its chain. Then out of the night a lantern danced at Newtakegate, and Blanchard, his eyes now trained to the gloom, discovered severalfigures moving about it.

“Baggered if it bau’t that damned Grimbal come arter mygate-post,” he gasped, launched instantly to high wakefulness by thesuspicion. Then, dragging on his trousers, and thrusting the tail of hisnightshirt inside them, he tumbled down-stairs, with passion trulyformidable, and hastened naked footed through the farmyard.

Four men blankly awaited him. Ignoring their leader—none other thanMartin himself—he turned upon Mr. Blee, who chanced to be nearest, andstruck from his hand a pick.

“What be these blasted hookem-snivey dealings, then?” Willthundered out, “an’ who be you, you auld twisted thorn, to comehere stealin’ my stone in the dead o’ night?”

Billy’s little eyes danced in the lantern fire, and he answeredhastily before Martin had time to speak.

“Well, to be plain, the moon and the dog’s played us false,an’ you’d best to knaw the truth fust as last. Mr.Grimbal’s writ you two straight, fair letters ’bout this job, sohe’ve explained to me, an’ you never so much as answered neither;so, seem’ this here’s a right Christian cross, ban’t decentit should bide head down’ards for all time. An’ Mr. Grimbal havebrought up a flam-new granite post, hasp an’ allcomplete—’t is in the cart theer—an’ he called on meas a discreet, aged man to help un, an’ so I did; an’ PeterBassett an’ Sam Bonus here corned likewise, by my engagement, to do theheavy work an’ aid in a gude deed.”

“Dig an inch, wan of ’e, and I’ll shaw what’s agude deed! I doan’t want no talk with you or them hulking gert fules.’T is you I’d ax, Martin Grimbal, by what right you’mhere.”

“You wouldn’t answer my letters, and I couldn’t find itin my heart to leave an important matter like this. I know I wasn’twise, but you don’t understand what a priceless thing this is. Ithought you’d find the new one in the morning and laugh at it. ForGod’s sake be reasonable and sensible, Blanchard, and let me take itaway. There’s a new post I’ll have set up. It’s herewaiting. I can’t do more.”

“But you’ll do a darned sight less. Right’s right,an’ stealin’s stealin’. You wasn’t wise, as yousay—far from it. You’m in the wrong now, an’ you knaw it,whatever you was before. A nice bobbery! Why doan’t he take my ploughor wan of the bullocks? Damned thieves, the lot of’e!”

“Doan’t cock your nose so high, Farmer,” said Bonus, whohad never spoken to Will since he left Newtake; “’t is veryonhandsome of ’e to be tellin’ like this togentle-folks.”

“Gentlefolks! Gentlefolks would ax your help, wouldn’t they?You, as be no better than a common poacher since I turned ’e off! Youshut your mouth and go home-long, an’ mind your awn business, an’keep out o’ the game preserves. Law’s law, as you’m like tofind sooner’n most folks.”

This pointed allusion to certain rumours concerning the labourer’spresent way of life angered Bonus not a little, but it also silenced him.

“Law’s law, as you truly say, Will Blanchard,” answeredMr. Blee, “an’ theer it do lie in a nutshell. A man’sgate-post is his awn as a common, natural gate-post; but bein’ asainted cross o’ the Lard sticked in the airth upsy-down by someancient devilry, ’t is no gate-post, nor yet every-day moor-stone, butjust the common property of all Christian souls.”

“You’m out o’ bias to harden your heart, Mr. Blanchard,when this gentleman sez ’t is what ’t is,” ventured the manPeter Bassett, slowly.

“An’ so you be, Blanchard, an’ ’t is a awful deedevery ways, an’ you’ll larn it some day. You did ought to bemerry an’ glad to hear such a thing ’s been found ’ponNewtake. Think o’ the fortune a cross o’ Christ brings to’e!”

“An’ how much has it brought, you auld fule?”

“Gude or bad, you’ll be a sight wuss off it you leave it wheer’t is, now you knaw. Theer’ll be hell to pay if it’s letbide now, sure as eggs is eggs an’ winter, winter. You’ll rue it;you’ll gnash awver it; ’t will turn against ’e an’rot the root an’ blight the ear an’ starve the things an’break your heart. Mark me, you’m doin’ a cutthroat deed an’killin’ all your awn luck by leavin’ it here an hourlonger.”

But Will showed no alarm at Mr. Blee’s predictions.

“Be it as ’t will, you doan’t touch my stone—crossor no cross. Damn the cross! An’ you tu, every wan of ’e, dirtynight birds!”

Then Martin, who had waited, half hoping that Billy’s argument mightcarry weight, spoke and ended the scene.

“We’ll talk no more and we’ll do no more,” hesaid. “You’re wrong in a hundred ways to leave this preciousstone to shut a gate and keep in cows, Blanchard. But if you wouldn’theed my letters, I suppose you won’t heed my voice.”

“Why the devil should I heed your letters? I told ’e wance forall, didn’t I? Be I a man as changes my mind like a cheel?”

“Crooked words won’t help ’e, Farmer,” said thestolid Bassett. “You ’m wrong, an’ you knaw right well you’m wrong, an’ theer’ll come a day of reckoning for’e, sure ’s we ’m in a Christian land.”

“Let it come, an’ leave me to meet it. An’ now, clearout o’ this, every wan, or I’ll loose the dog ’pon’e!”

He turned hurriedly as he spoke and fetched the bobtailed sheep-dog on itschain. This he fastened to the stone, then watched the defeated raidersdepart. Grimbal had already walked away alone, after directing that a postwhich he had brought to supersede the cross, should be left at the side ofthe road. Now, having obeyed his command, Mr. Blee, Bonus, and Bassettclimbed into the cart and slowly passed away homewards. The moon had risenclear of earth and threw light sufficient to show Bassett’s white smockstill gleaming through the night as Will beheld his enemies depart.

Ten minutes later, while he washed his feet, the farmer told Phoebe of thewhole matter, including his earlier meeting with Martin, and theantiquary’s offer of money. Upon this subject his wife found herself incomplete disagreement with Blanchard, and did not hesitate to say so.

“Martin Grimbal ’s so gude a friend as any man could have,an’ you did n’t ought to have bullyragged him that way,”she declared.

“You say that! Ban’t a man to speak his mind to thievesan’ robbers?”

“No such thing. ’T is a sacred stone an’ not yourproperty at all. To refuse ten pound for it!”

“Hold your noise, then, an’ let me mind my business my awnway,” he answered roughly, getting back to bed; but Phoebe was rousedand had no intention of speaking less than her mind.

“You ’m a knaw-nought gert fule,” she said,“an’ so full of silly pride as a turkey-cock. What ’s thestone to you if Grimbal wants it? An’ him taking such a mint of troubleto come by it. What right have you to fling away ten pounds like that,an’ what ’s the harm to earn gude money honest? Wonder youban’t shamed to sell anything. ’T is enough these times for abody to say wan thing for you to say t’other.”

This rebuke from a tongue that scarcely ever uttered a harsh word startledWill not a little. He was silent for half a minute, then made reply.

“You can speak like that—you, my awn wife—you, as oughtto be heart an’ soul with me in everything I do? An’ the husbandI am to ’e. Then I should reckon I be fairly alone in the world,an’ no mistake—’cept for mother.”

Phoebe did not answer him. Her spark of anger was gone and she was passingquickly from temper to tears.

“’T is queer to me how short of friends I ’pear to begettin’,” confessed Will gloomily. “I must bediffer’nt to what I fancied for I allus felt I could do with awaggon-load of friends. Yet they ’m droppin’ off. Coourse I knawwhy well enough, tu. They’ve had wind o’ tight times to Newtake,though how they should I caan’t say, for the farm ’s got aprosperous look to my eye, an’ them as drops in dinnertime most oftenfinds meat on the table. Straange a man what takes such level views as meshould fall out wi’ his elders so much.”

“’T is theer fault as often as yours; an’ you’vegot me as well as your mother, Will; an’ you’ve got your son.Childern knaw the gude from the bad, same as dogs, in a way hid from grawnfolks. Look how the li’l thing do run to ’e ’fore anybodyin the world.”

“So he do; an’ if you ’m wise enough to see that, youought to be wise enough to see I’m right ’bout the gate-post. Who’s Martin Grimbal to offer me money? A self-made man, same as me. Yethe might have had it, an’ welcome if he’d axed proper.”

“Of course, if you put it so, Will.”

“Theer ’s no ways else to put it as I can see.”

“But for your awn peace of mind it might be wisest to dig the crossup. I listened by the window an’ heard Billy Blee tellin’ ofawful cusses, an’ he ’s wise wi’out knawin’ itsometimes.”

“That’s all witchcraft an’ stuff an’ nonsense,an’ you ought to knaw better, Phoebe. ’T is as bad as settingstore on the flight o’ magpies, or gettin’ a dead tooth from thechurchyard to cure toothache, an’ such-like folly.”

“Ban’t folly allus, Will; theer ’s auld tried wisdom insome ancient sayings.”

“Well, you guide your road by my light if you want to be happy.’T is for you I uses all my thinking brain day an’night—for your gude an’ the li’l man’s.”

“I knaw—I knaw right well ’t is so, dear Will, an’I’m sorry I spoke so quick.”

“I’ll forgive ’e before you axes me, sweetheart. Awnlyyou must larn to trust me, an’ theer ’s no call for you to fear.Us must speak out sometimes, an’ I did just now, an’ ’t isodds but some of them chaps, Grimbal included, may have got a penn’ortho’ wisdom from me.”

“So ’t is, then,” she said, cuddling to him;“an’ you’ll do well to sleep now; an’—an’never tell again, Will, you’ve got nobody but your mother whileI’m above ground, ’cause it’s against justice an’truth an’ very terrible for me to hear.”

“’T was a thoughtless speech,” admitted Will,“an’ I’m sorry I spake it. ’T was a hasty wordan’ not to be took serious.”

They slept, while the moon wove wan harmonies of ebony and silver intoNewtake. A wind woke, proclaiming morning, as yet invisible; and when itrustled dead leaves or turned a chimney-cowl, the dog at the gate stirred andgrowled and grated his chain against the granite cross.

CHAPTER V
WINTER

As Christmas again approached, adverse conditions of weather brought likeanxieties to a hundred moormen besides Will Blanchard, but the widespreadnature of the trouble by no means diminished his individual concern. A summerof unusual splendour had passed unblessed away, for the sustained droughtrepresented scanty hay and an aftermath of meagre description. Cereals werepoor, with very little straw, and the heavy rains of November arrived toolate to save acres of starved roots on high grounds. Thus the year becameresponsible for one prosperous product alone: rarely was it possible to dryso well those stores gathered from the peat beds. Huge fires, indeed, glowedupon many a hearth, but the glory of them served only to illumine anxiousfaces. A hard winter was threatened, and the succeeding spring alreadyappeared as no vision to welcome, but a hungry spectre to dread.

Then, with the last week of the old year, winter swept westerly onhyperborean winds, and when these were passed a tremendous frost won upon theworld. Day followed day of weak, clear sunshine and low temperature. The sun,upon his shortest journeys, showed a fiery face as he sulked along the stonyridges of the Moor, and gazed over the ice-chained wilderness, the frozenwaters, and the dark mosses that never froze, but lowered black, like woundson a white skin. Dartmoor slept insensible under granite and ice; nosheep-bell made music; no flocks wandered at will; only the wind moaned inthe dead bells of the heather; only the foxes slunk round cot and farm; onlythe shaggy ponies stamped and snorted under the lee of the tors and thrusttheir smoking muzzles into sheltered clefts and crannies for the witheredgreen stuff that kept life in them. Snow presently softened the outlines ofthe hills, set silver caps on the granite, and brought the distant horizonnearer to the eye under crystal-clear atmosphere. Many a wanderer, thusdeceived, plodded hopefully forward at sight of smoke above a roof-tree, onlyto find his bourne, that seemed so near, still weary miles away. The highMoors were a throne for death. Cold below freezing-point endured throughoutthe hours of light and grew into a giant when the sun and his winter gloryhad huddled below the hills.

Newtake squatted like a toad upon this weary waste. Its crofts were bareand frozen two feet deep; its sycamores were naked save for snow in thelarger forks, and one shivering concourse of dead leaves, where a bough hadbeen broken untimely, and thus held the foliage. Suffering almost animatepeered from its leaded windows; the building scowled; cattle lowed throughthe hours of day, and a steam arose from their red hides as they crowdedtogether for warmth. Often it gleamed mistily in the light of Will’slantern when at the dead icy hour before dawn he went out to his beasts. Thenhe would rub their noses, and speak to them cheerfully, and note theircongealed vapours where these had ascended and frozen in shining spideryhands of ice upon the walls and rafters of the byre. Fowls, silver-spangledand black, scratched at the earth from habit, fought for the daily grain witha ferocity the summer never saw, stalked spiritless in puffed plumage aboutthe farmyard and collected with subdued clucking upon their roosts in a barnabove the farmyard carts as soon as the sun had dipped behind the hills.Ducks complained vocally, and as they slipped on the glassy pond they quackedout a mournful protest against the times.

The snow which fell did not melt, but shone under the red sunshine,powdered into dust beneath hoof and heel; every cart-rut was full of thinwhite ice, like ground window-glass, that cracked drily and split and tinkledto hobnails or iron-shod wheel. The snow from the house-top, thawed by thewarmth within, ran dribbling from the eaves and froze into icicles as thickas a man’s arm. These glittered almost to the ground and refracted thesunshine in their prisms.

Warm-blooded life suffered for the most part silently, but the inanimatefabric of the farm complained with many a creak and crack and groan in thenight watches, while Time’s servant the frost gnawed busily at oldtimbers and thrust steel fingers into brick and mortar. Only the hut-circles,grey glimmering through the snow on Metherill, laughed at those cruel nights,as the Neolithic men who built them may have laughed at the desperate weatherof their day; and the cross beside Blanchard’s gate, though an infantin age beside them, being fashioned of like material, similarly endured. Ofmore lasting substance was this stone than an iron tongue stuck into it tolatch the gate, for the metal fretted fast and shed rust in an orange streakupon the granite.

Where first this relic had risen, when yet its craftsman’s work wasperfect and before the centuries had diminished its just proportions, noliving man might say. Martin Grimbal suspected that it had marked ameeting-place, indicated some Cistercian way, commemorated a notable deed, orserved to direct the moorland pilgrim upon his road to that trinity of greatmonasteries which flourished aforetime at Plympton, at Tavistock, and atBuckland of the Monks; but between its first uprising and its last, aduration of many years doubtless extended.

The antiquary’s purpose had been to rescue the relic, judge, byclose study of the hidden part, to what date it might be assigned, theninvestigate the history of Newtake Farm, and endeavour to trace the cross ifpossible. After his second repulse, however, and following upon aconversation with Phoebe, whom he met at Chagford, Martin permitted thematter to remain in abeyance. Now he set about regaining Will’sfriendship’in a gradual and natural manner. That done, he trusted todisinter the coveted granite at some future date and set it up on sanctifiedground in Chagford churchyard, if the true nature of the relic justified thatcourse. For the present, however, he designed no step, for his purpose was tovisit the Channel Islands early in the new year, that he might study theirtestimony to prehistoric times.

A winter, to cite whose parallel men looked back full twenty years, stillheld the land, though February had nearly run. Blanchard daily debated theutmost possibility of his resources with Phoebe, and fought the inclementweather for his early lambs. Such light as came into life at Newtake wasfurnished by little Will, who danced merrily through ice and snow, like ascarlet flower in his brilliant coat. The cold pleased him; he trod theslippery duck pond in triumph, his bread-and-milk never failed. To Phoebe hermaternal right in the infant seemed recompense sufficient for all thosetribulations existence just now brought with it; from which convictionresulted her steady courage and cheerfulness. Her husband’s nebulousrationalism clouded Phoebe’s religious views not at all. She dailyprayed to Christ for her child’s welfare, and went to church whenevershe could, at the express command of her father. A flash of folly from Willhad combined with hard weather to keep the miller from any visit to Newtake.Mr. Lyddon, on the beginning of the great frost, had sent two pairs of thickblankets from the Monks Barton stores to Phoebe, and Will, opening the parcelduring his wife’s absence, resented the gift exceedingly, and returnedit by the bearer with a curt message of thanks and the information that hedid not need them. Much hurt, the donor turned his face from Newtake for sixweeks after this incident, and Phoebe, who knew nothing of the matter,marvelled at her father’s lengthy and unusual silence.

As for Will, during these black days, the steadfast good temper of hiswife almost irritated him; but he saw the prime source of her courage, andhimself loved their small son dearly. Once a stray journal fell into hishands, and upon an article dealing with emigration he built secret castles inthe air, and grew more happy for the space of a week. His mother ailed alittle through the winter, and he often visited her. But in her presence heresolutely put off gloom, spoke with sanguine tongue of the prosperity heforesaw during the coming spring, and always foretold the frost must breakwithin four-and-twenty-hours. Damaris Blanchard was therefore deceived insome measure, and when Will spent five shillings upon a photograph of hisson, she felt that the Newtake prospects must at least be more favourablethan she feared, and let the circumstance of the picture be generallyknown.

Not until the middle of March came a thaw, and then unchained waters andmelted snows roared and tumbled from the hills through every coomb andvalley. Each gorge, each declivity contributed an unwonted torrent; thequaking bogs shivered as though beneath them monsters turned in sleep orwrithed in agony; the hoarse cry of Teign betokened new tribulations to theears of those who understood; and over the Moor there rolled and crowded downa sodden mantle of mist, within whose chilly heart every elevation of notevanished for days together. Wrapped in impenetrable folds were the highlands, and the gigantic vapour stretched a million dripping tentacles overforests and wastes into the valleys beneath. Now it crept even to the heartof the woods; now it stealthily dislimned in lonely places; now it redoubledits density and dominated all things. The soil steamed and exuded vapour as asoaked sponge, and upon its surcharged surface splashes and streaks andsheets of water shone pallid and ash-coloured, like blind eyes, under theeternal mists and rains. These accumulations threw back the last glimmer oftwilight and caught the first grey signal of approaching dawn; while theland, contrariwise, had welcomed night while yet wan sunsets struggled withthe rain, and continued to cherish darkness long after morning was in thesky. Every rut and hollow, every scooped cup on the tors was brimming now;springs unnumbered and unknown had burst their secret places; the waterfloods tumbled and thundered until their rough laughter rang like a knell inthe ears of the husbandmen; and beneath crocketed pinnacles of half a hundredchurch towers rose the mournful murmur of prayer for fair weather.

There came an afternoon in late March when Mr. Blee returned to MonksBarton from Chagford, stamped the mud off his boots and leggings, shook hisbrown umbrella, and entered the kitchen to find his master reading theBible.

“’Tis all set down, Blee,” exclaimed Mr. Lyddon with thetriumphant voice of a discoverer. “These latter rains be displayed inthe Book, according to my theory that everything ’s theer!”

“Pity you didn’t find ’em out afore they comed; then usmight have bought the tarpaulins cheap in autumn, ’stead ofpayin’ through the nose for ’em last month. Now ’t is fancyfigures for everything built to keep out rain. Rabbit that umberella!It’s springed a leak, an’ the water’s got down myneck.”

“Have some hot spirits, then, an’ listen to this—all setout in Isaiah forty-one—eighteen: ‘I will open rivers in highplaces and fountains in the midst of the valleys; I will make the wildernessa pool of water and the dry land springs of water.’ Theer! If thatban’t a picter of the present plague o’ rain, what shouldbe?”

“So ’t is; an’ the fountains in the midst of the valleysbe the awfullest part. Burnish it all! The high land had the worst of thewinter, but we in the low coombs be gwaine to get the worst o’ thespring—safe as water allus runs down-long.”

“’T will find its awn level, which the prophetknawed.”

“I wish he knawed how soon.”

“’T is in the Word, I’ll wager. I may come upon ityet.”

“The airth be damn near drowned, an’ the air’s thicklike a washin’-day everywheers, an’ a terrible braave sighto’ rain unshed in the elements yet.”

“’T will pass, sure as Noah seed a rainbow.”

“Ess, ’t will pass; but Monks Barton’s like to be washedto Fingle Bridge fust. Oceans o’ work waitin’, but what can us beat? Theer ban’t a bit o’ land you couldn’t most swimacross.”

“Widespread trouble, sure ’nough—all awver the SouthHams, high an’ low.”

“By the same token, I met Will Blanchard an hour agone. Gwaine inthe dispensary, he was. The li’l bwoy’s queer—no gert ill,but a bit of a tisseck on the lungs. He got playin’ ’bout, busyas a rook, in the dirt, and catched cold.”

Miller Lyddon was much concerned at this bad news.

“Oh, my gude God!” he exclaimed, “that’s worsehearin’ than all or any you could have fetched down. What do Doctorsay?”

“Wasn’t worth while to call un up, so Will thought.Ban’t nothin’ to kill a beetle, or I lay the mother of un wouldhave Doctor mighty soon. Will reckoned to get un a dose ofphysic—an’ a few sweeties. Nature’s all for the young buds.He won’t come to no hurt.”

“Fust thing morning send a lad riding to Newtake,” ordered Mr.Lyddon. “Theer’s no sleep for me to-night, no, nor any more atall till I hear tell the dear tibby-lamb’s well again. ’Pon mysoul, I wonder that headstrong man doan’t doctor the cheelhisself.”

“Maybe he will. Ban’t nothin ’s beyond him.”

“I’ll go silly now. If awnly Mrs. Blanchard was up theerwi’ Phoebe.”

“Doan’t you grizzle about it. The bwoy be gwaine to make auldbones yet—hard as a nut he be. Give un years an’ he’ll helpcarry you to the graave in the fulness of time, I promise ’e,”said Billy, in his comforting way.

CHAPTER VI
THE CROSS UPREARED

Mr. Blee had but reported Will correctly, and it was not until some hourslater that the child at Newtake caused his parents any alarm. Then he awokein evident suffering, and Will, at Phoebe’s frantic entreaty, arose andwas soon galloping down through the night for Doctor Parsons.

His thundering knock fell upon the physician’s door, and a momentlater a window above him was opened.

“Why can’t you ring the bell instead of making that fiendishnoise, and waking the whole house? Who is it?”

“Blanchard, from Newtake.”

“What’s wrong?”

“’T is my bwoy. He’ve got something amiss with hisbreathing parts by the looks of it.”

“Ah.”

“Doan’t delay. Gert fear comed to his mother under thedarkness, ’cause he seemed nicely when he went to sleep, then woke upworse. So I felt us had better not wait till morning.”

“I’ll be with you in five minutes.”

Soon the Doctor appeared down a lane from the rear of the house. He wasleading his horse by the bridle.

“I’m better mounted than you,” he said, “soI’ll push forward. Every minute saved is gained.”

Will thanked him, and Doctor Parsons disappeared. When the father reachedhome, it was to hear that his child was seriously ill, though nothing of afinal nature could be done to combat the sickness until it assumed a moredefinite form.

“It’s a grave case,” said the physician, drearily in thedawn, as he pulled on his gloves and discussed the matter with Will beforedeparting. “I’ll be up again to-night. We mustn’t overlookthe proverbial vitality of the young, but if you are wise you will schoolyour mind and your wife’s to be resigned. You understand.”

He stroked his peaked naval beard, shook his head, then mounted his horseand was gone.

From that day forward life stood still at Newtake, in so far as it ispossible for life to do so, and a long-drawn weariness of many words draggeddully of a hundred pages would be necessary to reflect that tale of nocturalterrors and daylight respites, of intermittent fears, of nerve-shatteringsuspense, and of the ebb and flow of hope through a fortnight of time.Overtaxed and overwrought, Phoebe ceased to be of much service in thesick-room after a week without sleep; Will did all that he could, which waslittle enough; but his mother took her place in the house unquestioned atthis juncture, and ruled under Doctor Parsons. The struggle seemed to makeher younger again, to rub off the slow-gathering rust of age and charm up allher stores of sense and energy.

So they battled for that young life. More than once a shriek from Phoebewould echo to the farm that little Will was gone; and yet he lived; many atime the child’s father in his strength surveyed the perishing atom,and prayed to take the burden, all too heavy for a baby’s shoulders. Inone mood he supplicated, in another cursed Heaven for its cruelty.

There came a morning in early April when their physician, visiting Newtakebefore noon, broke it to husband and wife that the child could scarcelysurvive another day. He promised to return in the evening, and left them totheir despair. Mrs. Blanchard, however, refused to credit this assurance, andcried to them to be hopeful still.

In the afternoon Mr. Blee rode up from Monks Barton. Daily a messengervisited Newtake for Mr. Lyddon’s satisfaction, but it was not oftenthat Billy came. Now he arrived, however, entered the kitchen, and set down abasket laden with good things. The apartment lacked its old polish andcleanliness. The whitewash was very dirty; the little eight-day clock on themantelpiece had run down; the begonias in pots on the window-ledge were atdeath’s door for water. Between two of them a lean cat stretched in thesun and licked its paws; beside the fire lay Ship with his nose on theground; and Will sat close by, a fortnight’s beard upon his chin. Helooked listlessly up as Mr. Blee entered and nodded but did not speak.

“Well, what ’s the best news? I’ve brought ’efair-fashioned weather at any rate. The air ’s so soft as milk, even uphere, an’ you can see the green things grawin’ to make up forlost time. Sun was proper hot on my face as I travelled along. How be thepoor little lad?”

“Alive, that’s all. Doctor’s thrawed un awvernow.”

“Never! Yet I’ve knawed even Parsons to make mistakes.I’ve brought ’e a braave bunch o’ berries, got by thegracious gudeness of Miller from Newton Abbot; also a jelly; also a bottleo’ brandy—the auld stuff from down cellar—I brushed theDartmoor dew, as ’t is called, off the bottle myself; also a fowl forthe missis.”

“No call to have come. ’T is all awver bar the end.”

“Never say it while the child’s livin’! They ’mmagical li’l twoads for givin’ a doctor the lie. You ’mwisht an’ weary along o’ night watchings.”

“Us must faace it. Ban’t no oncommon thing. Hope’s deadin me these many days; an’ dying now in Phoebe—dying cruel byinches. She caan’t bring herself to say ‘gude-by’ to theli’l darling bwoy.”

“What mother could? What do Mrs. Blanchard the elder say?”

“She plucks up ’bout it. She ’m awverhopeful.”

“Doan’t say so! A very wise woman her.”

Phoebe entered at this moment, and Mr. Blee turned from where he wasstanding by his basket.

“I be cheerin’ your gude man up,” he said.

She sighed, and sat down wearily near Will.

“I’ve brought ’e a chick for your awn eatin’an’—”

Here a scuffle and snarling and spitting interrupted Billy. The hungrycat, finding a fowl almost under its nose, had leapt to the ground with it,and the dog observed the action. Might is right in hungry communities; Shipasserted himself, and almost before the visitor realised what had happened,poor Phoebe’s chicken was gone.

“Out on the blamed thieves!” cried Billy, astounded at suchmanners. He was going to strike the dog, but Will stopped him.

“Let un bide,” he said. “He didn’t take it,an’ since it weern’t for Phoebe, better him had it than the cat.He works for his livin’, she doan’t.”

“Such gwaines-on ’mongst dumb beasts o’ the field Inever seen!” protested Billy; “an’ chickens worth what theybe this spring!”

Presently conversation drifted into a channel that enabled the desperate,powerless man to use his brains and employ his muscles; while for the motherit furnished a fresh gleam of hope built upon faith. Billy it was who broughtabout this consummation. Led by Phoebe he ascended to the sick-room and bidMrs. Blanchard “good-day.” She sat with the insensible child onher lap by the fire, where a long-spouted kettle sent forth jets ofsteam.

“This here jelly what I’ve brought would put life in a corpseI do b’lieve; an’ them butivul grapes, tu,—they’llcool his fever to rights, I should judge.”

“He ’m past all that,” said Phoebe.

“Never!” cried the other woman. “He’m a bit easierto my thinkin’.”

“Let me take un then,” said the mother. “You’mmost blind for sleep.”

“Not a bit of it. I’ll have forty winks later, afterDoctor’s been again.”

Will here entered, sat down by his mother, and stroked the child’slittle limp hand.

“He ban’t fightin’ so hard, by the looks of it,”he said.

“No more he is. Come he sleep like this till dark, I lay he’lldo braave.”

Nobody spoke for some minutes, then Billy, having pondered the point insilence, suddenly relieved his mind and attacked Will, to the astonishment ofall present.

“’Tis a black thought for you to knaw this trouble’s ofyour awn wicked hatching, Farmer,” he said abruptly; “though itban’t a very likely time to say so, perhaps. Yet theer’s lifestill, so I speak.”

Will glared speechless; but Billy knew himself too puny and too venerableto fear rough handling. He regarded the angry man before him without fear,and explained his allusion.

“You may glaze ’pon me, an’ stick your savage eyes outyour head; but that doan’t alter truth. ’T ’as awnly a bitago in the fall as I told un what would awvertake un,” he continued,turning to the women. “He left the cross what Mr. Grimbal foundupsy-down in the airth; he stood up afore the company an’ damned theglory of all Christian men. Ess fay, he done that fearful thing, an’ if’t weern’t enough to turn the Lard’s hand from un, whatwas? Snug an’ vitty he weer afore that, so far as anybody knawed;an’ since—why, troubles have tumbled ’pon eachother’s tails like apple-dranes out of a nest.”

The face of Phoebe was lighted with some eagerness, some deep anxiety, andnot a little passion as she listened to this harangue.

“You mean that gate-stone brought this upon us?” sheasked.

“No, no, never,” declared Damaris; “’t is contraryto all reason.”

“’T is true, whether or no; an’ any fule, let alone aman as knaws like I do, would tell ’e the same. ’T is commonsense if you axes me. Your man was told ’t was a blessed cross,an’ he flouted the lot of us an’ left it wheer ’t was.’T is a challenge, if you come to think of it, a scoffin’ of theA’mighty to the very face of Un. I wouldn’t stand it myself if Iwas Him.”

“Will, do ’e hear Mr. Blee?” asked Phoebe.

“I hear un. ’T is tu late now, even if what he said was true,which it ban’t.”

“Never tu late to do a gude deed,” declared Billy;“an’ you’ll have to come to it, or you’ll get theskin cussed off your back afore you ’m done with. Gormed if ever I seedsich a man as you! Theer be some gude points about ’e, as everythingmust have from God A’mighty’s workshop, down to poisonousvarmints. But certain sure am I that you don’t ought to think twice’pon this job.”

“Do ’e mean it might even make the differ’nee betweenlife an’ death to the bwoy?” asked Phoebe breathlessly.

“I do. Just all that.”

“Will—for God’s love, Will!”

“What do ’e say, mother?”

“It may be truth. Strange things fall out. Yet it never hurted myparents in the past.”

“For why?” asked Billy. “’Cause they didn’tknaw ’t was theer, so allowance was made by the Watching Eye. Now’t is differ’nt, an’ His rage be waxing.”

“Your blessed God ’s got no common sense, then—an’that’s all I’ve got to say ’bout it. What would you have medo?”

Will put the question to Mr. Blee, but his wife it was who answered, beingnow worked up to a pitch of frenzy at the delay.

“Go! Dig—dig as you never digged afore! Dig the holy stone outthe ground direckly minute! Now, now, Will, ’fore the life’s outof his li’l flutterin’ body. Lay bare the cross, an’ dragun out for God in heaven to see! Doan’t stand clackin’ theer,when every moment’s worth more’n gawld.”

“So like’s not He’ll forgive ’e if ’edo,” argued Mr. Blee. “Allowed the Lard o’ Hosts graws abit short in His temper now an’ again, as with them gormed Israelites,an’ sich like, an’ small blame to Him; but He’s all formercy at heart, ’cordin’ to the opinion of these times, soyou’d best to dig.”

“Why doan’t he strike me down if I’ve angeredHim—not this innocent cheel?”

“The sins of the fathers be visited—” began Mr. Bleeglibly, when Mrs. Blanchard interrupted.

“Ban’t the time to argue, Will. Do it, an’ do it sharp,if’t will add wan grain o’ hope to the baaby’schance.”

The younger woman’s sufferings rose to a frantic half-hushed screamat the protracted delay.

“O Christ, why for do ’e hold back? Ban’t anything worthtryin’ for your awn son? I’d scratch the stone out wi’ myraw, bleedin’ finger-bones if I was a man. Do ’e want to send memad? Do ’e want to make me hate the sight of ’e? Go—go forlove of your mother, if not of me!”

“An’ I’ll help,” said Billy, “an’ thatchap messin’ about in the yard can lend a hand likewise. I be a crackedvessel myself for strength, an’ past heavy work, but my best is yoursto call ’pon in this pass.”

Will turned and left the sick-room without more words, while Billyfollowed him.

The farmer fetched two picks and a shovel, called Ted Chown and a minutelater had struck the first blow towards restoration of his granite cross. Alllaboured with their utmost power, and Will, who had flung off his coat andwaistcoat, bared his arms, tightened his belt, and did the work of two men.The manual labour sweetened his mind a little, and scoured it of somebitterness. While Mr. Blee, with many a grunt and groan, removed the soil asthe others broke it away, Blanchard, during these moments of enforcedidleness, looked hungrily at the little window of the upper chamber where allhis hopes and interests were centred. Then he swung his pick again.

Presently a ray of sunlight brightened Newtake, and contributed to soothethe toiling father. He read promise into it, and when three feet below thesurface indications of cross-arms appeared upon the stone, Will felt stillmore heartened. Grimbal’s prediction was now verified; and it remainedonly to prove Billy’s prophecy also true. His tremendous physicalexertions, the bright setting sunshine, and the discovery of the crossaffected Will strangely. His mind swung round from frank irreligion, to asort of superstitious credulity, awestricken yet joyful, that made him clingto the saving virtue of the stone. Because Martin had been right in hisassertion concerning the gate-post, Blanchard felt a hazy conviction thatBlee’s estimate of the stone’s virtue must also prove correct. Hesaw his wife at the window, and waved to her, and cried aloud that the crosswas uncovered.

“A poor thing in holy relics, sure ’nough,” said Billy,wiping his forehead.

“But a cross—a clear cross? Keep workin’, Chown, will’e? You still think ’twill serve, doan’t ’e,Blee?”

“No room for doubt, though woful out o’ repair,”answered Billy, occupied with the ancient monument. “Just the stumpso’ the arms left, but more’n enough to swear by.”

All laboured on; then the stone suddenly subsided and fell in such amanner that with some sloping of one side of the excavated pit they were ableto drag it out.

“Something’s talking to me as us have done the wan thingneedful,” murmured Will, in a subdued voice, but with more light thanthe sunset on his face. “Something’s hurting me bad that I saidwhat I said in the chamber, an’ thought what I thought. God’snigher than us might think, minding what small creatures we be. I hopeHe’ll forgive them words.”

“He’s a peacock for eyes, as be well knawn,” declaredMr. Blee. “An’ He’ve got His various manners an’customs o’ handlin’ the human race. Some He softens wi’gude things an’ gude fortune till they be bound to turn to Him forsheer shame; others He breaks ’pon the rocks of His wrath till theyfalls on their knees an’ squeals for forgiveness. I’ve seed itboth ways scores o’ times; an’ if your little lad ’s sparedto ’e, you’ll be brought to the Lard by a easier way than youdeserve, Blanchard.”

“I knaw, I knaw, Mr. Blee. He ’m surely gwaine to let us keepli’l Willy, an’ win us to heaven for all time.”

The cross now lay at their feet, and Billy was about to return to thehouse and see how matters prospered, when Will bade him stay a littlelonger.

“Not yet,” he said.

“What more’s to do?”

“I feel a kind o’ message like to set it plumb-true under thesky. Us caan’t lift it, but if I pull a plank or two out o’ thepig’s house an’ put a harrow chain round ’em, we could getthe cross on an’ let a horse pull un up theer to the hill, and set unup. Then us would have done all man can.”

He pointed to the bosom of the adjacent hill, now glowing in great sunsetlight.

“Starve me! but you ’m wise. Us’ll set the thing upunder the A’mighty’s eye. ’Twill serve—mark my words.’Twill turn the purpose of the Lard o’ Hosts, or I’m noprophet.”

“’Tis in my head you ’m right. I be lifted up in a way Inever was.”

“The Lard ’s found ’e by the looks of it,” saidBilly critically, “either that, or you ’m light-headed for wantof sleep. But truly I think He’ve called ’e. Now ’t is foryou to answer.”

They cleaned the cross with a bucket or two of water, then dragged ithalf-way up the hill, and, where a rabbit burrow lessened labour, raisedtheir venerable monument under the afterglow.

“It do look as if it had been part o’ the view for alltime,” declared Ted Chown, as the party retreated a few paces; and,indeed, the stone rose harmoniously upon its new site, and might have stoodan immemorial feature of the scene.

Blanchard stayed not a moment when the work was done but strode to Newtakelike a jubilant giant, while Mr. Blee and Chown, with the horse, tools, andrough sledge, followed more slowly.

The father proceeded homewards at tremendous speed; a glorious hope filledhis heart, sharing the same with sorrow and repentance. He mumbled shamefacedprayers as he went, speaking half to himself, half to Heaven. He rambled onfrom a petition for forgiveness into a broken thanksgiving for the mercy healready regarded as granted. His labours, the glamour of the presentachievement, and the previous long strain upon his mind and body, united tosmother reason for one feverish hour. Will walked blindly forward, now withhis eyes upon the window under Newtake’s dark roof below him, nowturning to catch sight of the grey cross uplifted on the hill above. A greatsweeping sea of change was tumbling through his intellect, and oldconvictions with scraps of assured wisdom suffered shipwreck in it. His mindwas exalted before the certainty of unutterable blessing; his soul clung tothe splendid assurance of a Personal God who had wrought actively upon hisbehalf, and received his belated atonement.

Far behind, Mr. Blee was improving the occasion for benefit of young TedChown.

“See how he do stride the hill wi’ his head held high, same asMoses when he went down-long from the Mount. Look at un an’ dolikewise, Teddy; for theer goes a man as have grasped God! ’Tis a gert,gay day in human life when it comes.”

Will Blanchard hurried through the farm gate, where it swung idly with itssacred support gone forever; then he drew a great breath and glanced upwardsbefore proceeding into the darkness of the unlighted house. As he did sowheels grated at the entrance, and he knew that Doctor Parsons must be justbehind him. Above stairs the sick-room was still unlighted, the long-neckedkettle still puffed steam, but the fire had shrunk, and Will’s firstword was a protest that it had been allowed to sink so low. Then he lookedround, and the rainbow in his heart faded and died. Damaris sat like a stonewoman by the window; Phoebe lay upon the bed and hugged a little body in ablanket. Her hair had fallen down; out of the great shadows he saw the whiteblur on her face, and heard her voice sound strange as she criedmonotonously, in a tone from which the first passion had vanished through anhour of iteration.

“O God, give un back to me; O God, spare un; O kind God, give myli’l bwoy back.”

CHAPTER VII
GREY TWILIGHT

In the soft earth they laid him, “the little child whose heart hadfallen asleep,” and from piling of a miniature mound, from a smallbrown tumulus, now quite hid under primroses, violets, and the white anemonesof the woods, Will Blanchard and his mother slowly returned to Newtake. Hewore his black coat; she was also dressed in black; the solitary mourningcoach dragged slowly up the hill to the Moor, and elsewhere another like itconveyed Mr. Lyddon homeward.

Neither mother nor son had any heart to speak. The man’s soul was upin arms; he had rebelled against his life, and since the death of his boy,while Phoebe remained inert in her desolation and languished under a mentaland bodily paralysis wherein she had starved to death but for those abouther, he, on the contrary, found muscle and mind clamouring for heroicmovement. He was feverishly busy upon the farm, and ranged in thought with asavage activity among the great concerns of men. His ill-regulated mind,smarting under the blows of Chance, whirled from that past transient wave ofsuperstitious emotion into an opposite extreme. Now he was ashamed of hisweakness, and suffered convictions proper to the narrowness of an immatureintellect to overwhelm him. He assured himself that his tribulations were notcompatible with the existence of a Supreme Being. Like poor humanity the wideworld over, his judgment became vitiated, his views distorted under thestroke of personal sorrow, and, beneath the pressure of that gigantic egotismwhich ever palsies the mind of man at sudden loss of what he holds dearestupon earth, poor Blanchard cried in his heart there was no God.

Here we are faced with a curious parallel, offered within the limits ofthis narrative. As the old labourer, Blee, had arrived at the sameconclusion, then modified it and returned to a creed in the light ofsubsequent events, so now Will had found himself, on the evening of hischild’s funeral, with fresh interests aroused and recent convictionsshaken. An incipient negation of Deity, built upon the trumpery basis of hispersonal misfortunes, was almost shattered within the week that saw its firstexistence. A mystery developed in his path, and startling incidents awoke anew train of credulity akin to that already manifested over the ancientcross. The man’s uneven mind was tossed from one extreme of opinion tothe other, and that element of superstition, from which no untutoredintellect in the lap of Nature is free, now found fresh food and put forth astrong root within him.

Returning home, Will approached Phoebe with a purpose to detail the sad,short scene in Chagford churchyard, but his voice rendered her hysterical, sohe left her with his mother, put on his working clothes, and wandered outinto the farmyard. Presently he found himself idly regarding a new gate-post:that which Martin Grimbal formerly brought and left hard by the farm. TedChown had occupied himself in erecting it during the morning.

The spectacle reminded Will of another, and he lifted his eyes to thecross on the undulation spread before him. As he did so some object appearedto flutter out of sight not far above it, among the rocks and loose‘clatters’ beneath the summit of the tor. This incident did nothold Will’s mind, but, prompted to motion, restless, and in the powerof dark thoughts, he wandered up the Moor, tramped through the heather, andunwittingly passed within a yard of the monument he had raised upon the hill.He stood a moment and looked at the cross, then cursed and spat upon it. Theaction spoke definitely of a mental chaos unexampled in one who, until thattime, had never lacked abundant self-respect. His deed done, it struck WillBlanchard like a blow; he marvelled bitterly at himself, he knew such an actwas pitiful, and remembered that the brain responsible for it was his own.Then he clenched his hands and turned away, and stood and stared out over theworld.

A wild, south-west wind blew, and fitful rain-storms sped separatelyacross the waste. Over the horizon clouds massed darkly, and the wildernessesspread beneath them were of an inflamed purple. The seat of the sun washeavily obscured at this moment, and the highest illumination cast from skyto earth broke from the north. The effect thus imparted to the scene, thoughin reality no more than usual, affected the mind as unnatural, and evensinister in its operation of unwonted chiaro-oscuro. Presently the sullenclearness of the distance was swept and softened by a storm. Another, fallingsome miles nearer, became superimposed upon it. Immediately the darkness ofthe horizon lifted and light generally increased, though every outline of thehills themselves vanished under falling rain. The turmoil of the cloudsproceeded, and after another squall had passed there followed an aerialbattle amid towers and pinnacles and tottering precipices of sheer gloom. Thecentre of illumination wheeled swiftly round to the sun as the stormtravelled north, then a few huge silver spokes of wan sunshine turnedirregularly upon the stone-strewn desert.

Will watched this elemental unrest, and it served to soothe that greaterstorm of sorrows and self-condemnation then raging within him. His naturefound consolation here, the cool hand of the Mother touched his forehead asshe passed in her robe of rain, and for the first time since childhood theman hid his face and wept.

Presently he moved forward again, walked to the valleys and wanderedtowards southern Teign, unconsciously calmed by his own random movements andthe river’s song. Anon, he entered the lands of Metherill, and soonafterwards, without deliberate intention, moved through that Damnonianvillage which lies there. A moment later and he stood in the hut-circle wherehe himself had been born. Its double stone courses spread around him, hidingthe burrows of the rabbits; and sprung from between two granite blocks, bravein spring verdure, with the rain twinkling in little nests of flower buds asyet invisible, there rose a hawthorn. Within the stones a ewe stood andsuckled its young, but there was no other sign of life. Then Blanchard,sitting here to rest and turning his eyes whither he had come, again noticedsome sudden movement, but, looking intently at the spot, he saw nothing andreturned to his own thoughts. Sitting motionless Will retraced the briefcourse of his career through long hours of thought; and though his spiritbubbled to white heat more than once during the survey, yet subdued currentsof sense wound amid his later reflections. Crushed for a moment under theheavy load of life and its lessons, he presented a picture familiar enough,desirable enough, necessary enough to all humanity, yet pathetic asexemplified in the young and unintelligent and hopeful. It was the picture ofthe dawn of patience—a patience sprung from no religious inspiration,but representing Will’s tacit acknowledgment of defeat in his earlierbattles with the world. The emotion did not banish his present rebellionagainst Fate and evil fortune undeserved; but it caused him to look upon lifefrom a man’s standpoint rather than a child’s, and did him apriceless service by shaking to their foundations his self-confidence andself-esteem. Selfish at least he was not from a masculine standard, and nowhis thoughts returned to Phoebe in her misery, and he rose and retraced hissteps with a purpose to comfort her if he could.

The day began to draw in. Unshed rains massed on the high tors, buttowards the west one great band of primrose sky rolled out above the vanishedsun and lighted a million little amber lamps in the hanging crystals of therain. They twinkled on thorns and briars, on the grass, the silver crosiersof uncurling ferns, and all the rusty-red young heather.

Then it was that rising from his meditations and turning homeward, the mandistinctly heard himself called from some distance. A voice repeated his nametwice—in clear tones that might have belonged to a boy or a woman.

“Will! Will!”

Turning sharply upon a challenge thus ringing through absolute lonelinessand silence, Blanchard endeavoured, without success, to ascertain from whencethe summons came. He thought of his mother, then of his wife, yet neither wasvisible, and nobody appeared. Only the old time village spread about him withits hoary granite peering from under caps of heather and furze, ivy andupspringing thorn. And each stock and stone seemed listening with him for therepetition of a voice. The sheep had moved elsewhere, and he stoodcompanionless in that theatre of vanished life. Trackways and circles woundgrey around him, and the spring vegetation above which they rose all swaminto one dim shade, yet moved with shadows under oncoming darkness.Attributing the voice to his own unsettled spirit, Blanchard proceeded uponhis road to where the skeleton of a dead horse stared through the gloamingbeside a quaking bog. Its bones were scattered by ravens, and Will used thebleached skull as a stepping stone. Presently he thought of the flame-tonguesthat here were wont to dance through warm summer nights. This memory recalledhis own nickname inChagford—“Jack-o’-Lantern”—and, for the firsttime in his life, he began to appreciate its significance. Then, being ahundred yards from his starting-place in the hut-circle, he heard the hiddenvoice again. Clear and low, it stole over the intervening wilderness, andbetween two utterances was an interval of some seconds.

“Will! Will!”

For one instant the crepitation of fear passed over Blanchard’sscalp and skin. He made an involuntary stride away from the voice; then heshook himself free of all alarm, and, not desirous to lose more self-respectthat day, turned resolutely and shouted back,—

“I hear ’e. What’s the business? I be comin’ to’e if you’ll bide wheer you be.”

That some eyes were watching him out of the gathering darkness he did notdoubt, and soon pushing back, he stood once more in the ruined citadel of oldstones, mounted one, steadied himself by a young ash that rose beside it, andraised his voice again,—

“Now, then! I be here. What’s to do? Who’s callin’me?”

An answer came, but of a sort widely different from what he expected.There arose, within twenty yards of him, a sound that might have been the cryof a child or the scream of a trapped animal. Assuming it to be the latter,Will again hesitated. Often enough he had laughed at the folk-tales of witchhares as among the most fantastic fables of the old; yet at this presentmoment mystic legends won point from the circumstances in which he foundhimself. He hurried forward to the edge of a circle from which the soundproceeded. Then, looking before him, he started violently, sank to his kneesbehind a rock, and so remained, glaring into the ring of stones.

In less than half an hour Blanchard, with his coat wrapped round someobject that he carried, returned to Newtake and summoned assistance with aloud voice.

Presently his wife and mother entered the kitchen, whereupon Willdiscovered his burden and revealed a young child. Phoebe fainted dead away atsight of it, and while her husband looked to her Mrs. Blanchard tended thebaby, which was hungry but by no means alarmed. As for Will, his alteredvoice and most unusual excitement of manner indicated something of the shockhe had received. Having described the voice which called him, he proceededafter this fashion to detail what followed:

“I looked in the very hut-circle I was born, an’ I shiveredall over, for I thought ’twas the li’l ghost of our weebwoy—by God, I did! It sat theer all alone, an’ I staredan’ froze while I stared. Then it hollered like a gude un, an’stretched out its arms, an’ I seed ’twas livin’ an’never thought how it comed theer. He ’in somethin’ smaller thanour purty darling, yet like him in a way, onless I’mforgetting.”

“’Tis like,” said Damaris, dandling the child and makingit happy. “’Tis a li’l bwoy, two year old or more, I shouldguess. It keeps crying ’Mam, mam,’ for its mother. God forgivethe woman.”

“A gypsy’s baby, I reckon,” said Phoebe languidly.

“I doan’t think it,” answered her husband;“I’m most feared to guess what ’tis. Wan thing’ssure; I was called loud an’ clear or I’d never have turned back;an’ yet, second time I was called, my flesh crept.”

“The little flannels an’ frock be thick an’ gude, butthey doan’t shaw nought.”

“The thing’s most as easy to think a miracle as not. He lookedup in my eyes as I brought un away, an’ after he’d got used to mehe was quiet as a mouse an’ snuggled to me.”

“They’d have said ’twas a fairy changeling in my youngdays,” mused Mrs. Blanchard, “but us knaws better now. ’Tisa li’l gypsy, I’ll warn ’e, an’ some wickedmother’s dropped un under your nose to ease her conscience.”

“What will you do? Take un to the poorhouse?” askedPhoebe.

“‘Poorhouse’! Never! This be mine, tu. Mine! I wascalled to it, weern’t I? By a human voice or another, God knaws.Theer’s more to this than us can see.”

His women regarded him with blank amazement, and he showed considerableimpatience tinder their eyes. It was clear he desired that they should dwellon no purely materialistic or natural explanation of the incident.

“Baan’t a gypsy baaby,” he said; “’tis awnlythe legs an’ arms of un as be brown. His body’s as white ascurds, an’ his hair’s no darker than our awn Willy’swas.”

“If it ban’t a gypsy’s, whose be it?” said Phoebe,turning to the infant for the first time.

“Mine now,” answered Will stoutly. “’Twas sentan’ give into my awn hand by one what knawed who ’twas theycalled. My heart warmed to un as he lay in my arms, an’ he’m minehencefarrard.”

“What do ’e say, Phoebe?” asked Mrs. Blanchard, somewhatapprehensively. She knew full well how any such project must have struck herif placed in the bereaved mother’s position. Phoebe, however, made noimmediate answer. Her sorrowful eyes were fixed on the child, now sittinghappily on the elder woman’s lap.

“A nice li’l thing, wi’ a wunnerful curly head—eh,Phoebe? Seems more ’n chance to me, comin’ as it have on thisnight-black day. An’ like our li’l angel, tu, in a way?”asked Will.

“Like him—in a way, but more like you,” she answered;“more like you than your awn was—terrible straange that—theliving daps o’ Will! Ban’t it?”

Damaris regarded her son and then the child.

“He be like—very,” she admitted. “I see himstrong. An’ to think he found the bwoy ’pon that identical spotwheer he fust drawed breath himself!”

“’Tis a thing of hidden meaning,” declared Will.“An’ he looked at me kindly fust he seed me; ’twas awnlyhunger made un shout—not no fear o’ me. My heart warmed to un asI told ’e. An’ to come this day!”

Phoebe had taken the child, and was looking over its body in a half-dazedfashion for the baby marks she knew. Silently she completed the survey, butthere was neither caress in her fingers nor softness in her eyes. Presentlyshe put the child back on Mrs. Blanchard’s lap and spoke, stillregarding it with a sort of dull, almost vindictive astonishment.

“Terrible coorious! Ban’t no child as ever I seed or heardtell of; an’ nothin’ of my dead lamb ’bout it, now I scanscloser. But so like to Will! God! I can see un lookin’ out o’ itsbaaby eyes!”

BOOK IV
HIS SECRET

CHAPTER I
A WANDERER RETURNS

Ripe hay swelled in many a silver-russet billow, all brightened by thewarm red of sorrel under sunshine. When the wind blew, ripples raced over thebending grasses, and from their midst shone out mauve scabious and flashedoccasional poppies. The hot July air trembled agleam with shining insects,and drowsily over the hayfield, punctuated by stridulation of innumerablegrasshoppers, there throbbed one sustained murmur, like the remote and mellowmusic of wood and strings. A lark still sang, and the swallows, whosefull-fledged young thrust open beaks from the nests under Newtake eaves,skimmed and twittered above the grass lands, or sometimes dipped a purplewing in the still water where the irises grew.

Blanchard and young Ted Chown had set about their annual labour of savingthe hay, and now a rhythmic breathing of two scythes and merry clink ofwhetstones against steel sounded afar on the sleepy summer air. The familiarmusic came to Phoebe’s ear where she sat at an open kitchen window ofNewtake. Her custom was at times of hay harvest to assist in the drying ofthe grass, and few women handled a fork better; but there had recentlyreached the farm an infant girl, and the mother had plenty to do withoutseeking beyond her cradle.

Phoebe made no demur about receiving Will’s little foundling of thehut-circle. His heart’s desire was usually her amibition also, andthough Timothy, as the child had been called, could boast no mother’slove, yet Phoebe proved a kind nurse, and only abated her attention upon thearrival of her own daughter. Then, as time softened the little mound inChagford churchyard with young green, so before another baby did themother’s bereavement soften, sink deeper into memory, revive at longerintervals to conjure tears. Her character, as has been indicated, admitted ofno supreme sustained sorrow. Suffer she did, and fiery was her agony; butanother child brought occupation and new love; while her husband, after thefirst sentimental outburst of affection over the infant he had found atMetherill, settled into an enduring regard for him, associated him, by somemental process impossible of explanation, with his own lost one, and took aninterest, blended of many curious emotions, in the child.

Drying hay soon filled the air with a pleasant savour, and stretched outgrey-green ribbons along the emerald of the shorn meadows. Chown snuffled andsweated and sneezed, for the pollen always gave him hay fever; his masterdaily worked like a giant from dawn till the owl-light, drank gallons ofcider, and performed wonders with the scythe. A great hay crop gladdened themoormen, and Will, always intoxicated by a little fair fortune, talked muchof his husbandry, already calculated the value of the aftermath, and reckonedwhat number of beasts he might feed next winter.

“’Most looks as if I’d got a special gift wi’hay,” he said to his mother on one occasion. She had let her cottage toholiday folk, and was spending a month on the Moor.

Mrs. Blanchard surveyed the scene from under her sunbonnet and nodded.

“Spare no trouble, no trouble, an’ have it stacked comeSaturday. Theer’ll be thunder an’ gert rains after this heat. Bethe rushes ready for thatchin’ of it?”

“Not yet; but that’s not to say I’ve forgot.”

“I’ll cut some for ’e myself come the cool of theevenin’. An’ you can send Ted with the cart to gather ’emup.”

“No, no, mother. I’ll make time to-morrow.”

“’Twill be gude to me, an’ like auld days, when I was ali’l maid. You sharp the sickle an’ fetch the skeiner out, tu,for I was a quick hand at bindin’ ropes o’ rushes, an’ havemade many a yard of ’em in my time.”

Then she withdrew from the tremendous sunshine, and Will, now handling arake, proceeded with his task.

Two days later a rick began to rise majestically at the corner ofBlanchard’s largest field, while round about it was gathered the humanlife of the farm. Phoebe, with her baby, sat on an old sheepskin rug in theshadow of the growing pile; little Tim rollicked unheeded with Ship in thesweet grass, and clamoured from time to time for milk from a glass bottle;Will stood up aloft and received the hay from Chown’s fork, while Mrs.Blanchard, busy with the “skeiner” stuck into the side of therick, wound stout ropes of rushes for the thatching.

Then it was that Will, glancing out upon the Moor, observed a string ofgypsy folk making slow progress towards Chagford. Among the various Romanycavalcades which thus passed Newtake in summer time this appeared not theleast strange. Two ordinary caravans headed the procession. A man conductedeach, a naked-footed child or two trotted beside them, and an elder boy ledalong three goats. The travelling homes were encumbered with osier-andcane-work, and following them came a little broken-down, open vehicle. Thiswas drawn by two donkeys, harnessed tandem-fashion, and the chariot had beenpainted bright blue. A woman drove the concern, and in it appeared aknife-grinding machine and a basket of cackling poultry, while sometent-poles stuck out behind. Will laughed at this spectacle, and called hiswife’s attention to it, whereon Phoebe and Damaris went as far as thegate of the hayfield to win a nearer view. The gypsies, however, had alreadypassed, but Mrs. Blanchard found time to observe the sky-blue carriage andshake her head at it.

“What gwaines-on! Theer’s no master minds ’mongst thempeople nowadays,” she said. “Your faither wouldn’t have lethis folk make a show of themselves like that.”

“They ’m mostly chicken stealers nowadays,” declaredWill; “an’ so surly as dogs if you tell ’em to go’bout theer business.”

“Not to none o’ your name—never,” declared hismother. “No gypsy’s gwaine to forget my husband in hisson’s time. Many gude qualities have they got, chiefly along o’living so much in the awpen air.”

“An’ gude appetites for the same cause! Go after Tim, wan of’e. He’ve trotted down the road half a mile, an’ berunnin’ arter that blue concern as if’t was a circus. Theer!Blamed if that damned gal in the thing ban’t stoppin’ to let uncatch up! Now he’m feared, an’ have turned tail an’ becoming back. ’Tis all right; Ship be wi’ un.”

Presently the greater of Will’s two ricks approached completion, andall the business of thatch and spar gads and rush ropes began. At hismother’s desire he wasted no time, and toiled on, long after his partyhad returned to Newtake; but with the dusk he made an end for that day, stoodup, rested his back, and scanned the darkening scene before descending.

At eveningtide there had spread over the jagged western outlines of theMoor an orange-tawny sunset, whereon the solid masses of the hills burnt intohazy gold, all fairy-bright, unreal, unsubstantial as a cloud-island abovethem, whose solitary and striated shore shone purple through molten fire.

Detail vanished from the Moor; dim and dimensionless it spread to thetransparent splendour of the horizon, and its eternal attributes of greatvastness, great loneliness, great silence reigned together unfretted byparticulars. Gathering gloom diminished the wide glory of the sky, and slowlyrobbed the pageant of its colour. Then rose each hill and undulation in adifferent shade of night, and every altitude mingled into the outlines of itsneighbour. Nocturnal mists, taking grey substance against the darkness of thelower lands, wound along the rivers, and defined the depths and ridges of thevalleys. Moving waters, laden with a last waning gleam, glided from beneaththese vapoury exhalations, and even trifling rivulets, now invisible save forchance splashes of light, lacked not mystery as they moved from darkness intodarkness with a song. Stars twinkled above the dewy sleep of the earth, andthere brooded over all things a prodigious peace, broken only by batrachiancroakings from afar.

These phenomena Will Blanchard observed; then yellow candle fires twinkledfrom the dark mass of the farmhouse, and he descended in splendid wearinessand strode to supper and to bed.

Yet not much sleep awaited the farmer, for soon after midnight a gentlepatter of small stones at his window awakened him. Leaping from his bed andlooking into the darkness he saw a vague figure that raised its hand andbeckoned without words. Fear for the hay was Will’s first emotion, butno indication of trouble appeared. Once he spoke, and as he did so the figurebeckoned again, then approached the door. Blanchard went down to find a womanwaiting for him, and her first whispered word made him start violently anddrop the candle and matches that he carried. His ears were opened and he knewChris without seeing her face.

“I be come back—back home-along, brother Will,” shesaid, very quietly. “I looked for mother to home, but found sheweern’t theer. An’ I be sorry to the heart for all the sorrowI’ve brought ’e both. But it had to be. Strange thoughtsan’ voices was in me when Clem went, an’ I had to hide myself ordrown myself—so I went.”

“God’s gudeness! Lucky I be made o’ strong stuff, else Imight have thought ’e a ghost an’ no less. Come in out the night,an’ I’ll light a candle. But speak soft. Us must break this verygentle to mother.”

“Say you’ll forgive me, will ’e? Can ’e do it? Ifyou knawed half you’d say ‘yes.’ I’m grawed a auld,cold-hearted woman, wi’ a grey hair here an’ theera’ready.”

“So’ve I got wan an’ another, tu, along o’ worsesorrow than yours. Leastways as bad as yourn. Forgive ’e? A thousandtimes, an’ thank Heaven you’m livin’! Wheer ever have’e bided? An’ me an’ Grimbal searched the South Hams,an’ North, tu, inside out for ’e, an’ he put notices in thepapers—dozens of ’em.”

“Along with the gypsy folk for more ’n three year now.’Twas the movin’ an’ rovin’, and the opening my eyeson new things that saved me from gwaine daft. Sometimes us coined throughChagford, an’ then I’d shut my eyes tight an’ lie in thevan, so’s not to see the things his eyes had seen—so’s notto knaw when us passed the cottage he lived in. But now I’ve got tofeel I could come back again.”

“You might have writ to say how you was faring.”

“I didn’t dare. You’d bin sure to find me, an’ Ididn’t want ’e to then. ’Tis awver an’ done,an’ ’twas for the best.”

“You’m a woman, an’ can say them silly words, an’think ’em true in your heart, I s’pose. ‘For thebest!’ I caan’t see much that happens for the best under my eyes.Will ’e have bite or sup?”

“No, nothin’. You get back to your bed. Us’ll talk inthe marnin’. I’ll bide here. You an’ Phoebe be well,an’—an’ dear mother?”

“We’m well. You doan’t ax me after the fust cheel Phoebehad.”

“I knaw. I put some violets theer that very night. We were campedjust above Chagford, not far from here.”

“Theer’s a li’l gal now, an’ a bwoy as I’lltell’e about bimebye. A sheer miracle’t was that falled out theidentical day I buried my Willy. No natural fashion of words can explain it.But that’ll keep. Now let me look at’e. Fuller in the bodyseemin’ly, an’ gypsy-brown, by God! So brown as me, every bit.Well, well, I caan’t say nothin’. I’m carried off my legswi’ wonder, an’ joy, tu, for that matter. Next to Phoebean’ mother I allus loved ’e best. Gimme a kiss. What a woman, tobe sure! Like a thief in the night you went; same way you’ve comedback. Why couldn’t ’e wait till marnin’?”

“The childer—they grawed to love me that dear—also themen an’ women. They’ve been gude to me beyond power o’words for faither’s sake. They knawed I was gwaine, an’ I left’em asleep. ’T was how they found me when I runned away. I falledasleep from weariness on the Moor, an’ they woke me, an’ Ithrawed in my lot with them from the day I left that pencil-written word for’e on the window-ledge.”

“Me bein’ in the valley lookin’ for your drowned bodythe while! Women ’mazes me more the wiser I graw. Come this way, to thelinhay. There’s a sweet bed o’ dry fern in the loft, and you mustkeep out o’ sight till mother’s told cunning. I’ll hit upona way to break it to her so soon as she’s rose. An’ if Icaan’t, Phoebe will. Come along quiet. An’ I be gwaine to lock’e in, Chris, if’t is all the same to you. For why? Because youmight fancy the van folks was callin’ to ’e, an’ growhungry for the rovin’ life again.”

She made no objection, and asked one more question as they went to thebuilding.

“How be Mrs. Hicks, my Clem’s mother?”

“Alive; that’s all. A poor auld bed-lier now; just fading awayquiet. But weak in the head as a baaby. Mother sees her now an’ again.She never talks of nothin’ but snuff. ’T is the awnly brightnessin her life. She’s forgot everythin’ ’bout the past,an’ if you went to see her, she’d hold out her hand an’say, ’Got a little bit o’ snuff for a auld body, dearie?’an’ that’s all.”

They talked a little longer, while Will shook down a cool bed of dryfern—not ill-suited to the sultry night; then Chris kissed him again,and he locked her in and returned to Phoebe.

Though the wanderer presently slept peacefully enough, there was littlemore repose that night for her brother or his wife. Phoebe herself becamemuch affected by the tremendous news. Then they talked into the early dawnbefore any promising mode of presenting Chris to her mother occurred to them.At breakfast Will followed a suggestion of Phoebe’s, and sensiblylessened the shock of his announcement.

“A ’mazin’ wonnerful dream I had last night,” hebegan abruptly. “I thought I was roused long arter midnight by a gertknocking, an’ I went down house an’ found a woman at the door.‘Who be you?’ I sez. ‘Why, I be Chris, brother Will,’she speaks back, ‘Chris, come home-along to mother an’you.’ Then I seed it was her sure enough, an’ she telled me allabout herself, an’ how she’d dwelt wi’ gypsy people.Natural as life it weer, I assure ’e.”

This parable moved Mrs. Blanchard more strongly than Will expected. Shedropped her piece of bread and dripping, grew pale, and regarded her son withfrightened eyes. Then she spoke.

“Tell me true, Will; don’t ’e play with a mother’bout a life-an’-death thing like her cheel. I heard voices inthe night, an’ thought ’t was a dream—but—oh, bwoy,not Chris, not our awn Chris!—’t would ’most kill me forpure joy, I reckon.”

“Listen to me, mother, an’ eat your food. Us won’t haveno waste here, as you knaw very well. I haven’t tawld ’e the endof the story. Chris, ’pearin’ to be back again, I thinks,‘this will give mother palpitations, though ’t is quite a usualthing for a darter to come back to her mother,’ so I takes her away tothe linhay for the night an’ locks her in; an’ if ’t wastrue, she might be theer now, an’ if it weern’t—”

Damaris rose, and held the table as she did so, for her knees were weakunder her.

“I be strong—strong to meet my awn darter. Gimme the key,quick—the key, Will—do ’e hear me, child?”

“I’ll come along with ’e.”

“No, I say. What! Ban’t I a young woman still? ’T wasawnly essterday Chris corned in the world. You just bide with Phoebe,an’ do what I tell ’e.”

Will handed over the key at this order, and Mrs. Blanchard, grasping itwithout a word, passed unsteadily across the farmyard. She fumbled at thelock, and dropped the key once, but picked it up quickly before Will couldreach her, then she unfastened the door and entered.

CHAPTER II
HOPE RENEWED

Jon Grimbal’s desires toward Blanchard lay dormant, and the usualinterests of life filled his mind. The attitude he now assumed was one ofsustained patience and observation; and it may best be described in words ofhis own employment.

Visiting Drewsteignton, about a month after the return of Chris Blanchardto her own, the man determined to extend his ride and return by devious ways.He passed, therefore, where the unique Devonian cromlech stands hard byBradmere pool. A lane separates this granite antiquity from the lake below,and as John Grimbal rode between them, his head high enough to look over thehedge, he observed a ladder raised against the Spinsters’ Rock, as thecromlech is called, and a man with a tape-measure sitting on the coverstone.

It was the industrious Martin, home once again. After his difference withBlanchard, the antiquary left Devon for another tour in connection with hiswork, and had devoted the past six months to study of prehistoric remains inGuernsey, Herm, and other of the Channel Islands.

Before departing, he had finally regained his brother’s friendship,though the close fraternal amity of the past appeared unlikely to returnbetween them. Now John recognised Martin, and his first impulse producedpleasure, while his second was one of irritation. He felt glad to see hisbrother; he experienced annoyance that Martin should thus return to Chagfordand not call immediately at the Red House.

“Hullo! Home again! I suppose you forgot you had abrother?”

“John, by all that’s surprising! Forget? Was it probable? HaveI so many flesh-and-blood friends to remember? I arrived yesterday and calledon you this morning, only to find you were at Drewsteignton; so I came toverify some figures at the cromlech, hoping we might meet thesooner.”

He was beside his brother by this time, and they shook hands over thehedge.

“I’ll leave the ladder and walk by you and have achat.”

“It’s too hot to ride at a walk. Come you here to BradmerePool. We can lie down in the shade by the water, and I’ll tether myhorse for half an hour.”

Five minutes later the brothers sat under the shadow of oaks and beechesat the edge of a little tarn set in fine foliage.

“Pleasant to see you,” said Martin. “And looking youngerI do think. It’s the open air. I’ll wager you don’t getslimmer in the waist-belt though.”

“Yes, I’m all right.”

“What’s the main interest of life for you now?”

John reflected before answering.

“Not quite sure. Depends on my mood. Just been buying a greyhoundbitch at Drewsteignton. I’m going coursing presently. A kennel willamuse me. I spend most of my time with dogs. They never change. I turn tothem naturally. But they overrate humanity.”

“Our interests are so different. Yet both belong to the fresh airand the wild places remote from towns. My book is nearly finished. I shallpublish it in a year’s time, or even less.”

“Have you come back to stop?”

“Yes, for good and all now.”

“You have found no wife in your wanderings?”

“No, John. I shall never marry. That was a dark spot in my life, asit was in yours. We both broke our shins over that.”

“I broke nothing—but another man’s bones.”

He was silent for a moment, then proceeded abruptly on this theme.

“The old feeling is pretty well dead though. I look on and watch theman ruining himself; I see his wife getting hard-faced and thin, and I wonderwhat magic was in her, and am quite content. I wouldn’t kick him a yardquicker to the devil if I could. I watch him drift there.”

“Don’t talk like that, dear old chap. You ’re not theman you pretend to be, and pretend to think yourself. Don’t sour yournature so. Let the past lie and go into the world and end this lonelyexistence.”

“Why don’t you?”

“The circumstances are different. I am not a man for a wife. Youare, if ever there was one.”

“I had him within a hair’s-breadth once,” resumed theother inconsequently. “Blanchard, I mean. There ’s a secretagainst him. You didn’t know that, but there is. Some black devilry forall I can tell. But I missed it. Perhaps if I knew it would quicken up myspirit and remind me of all the brute made me endure.”

“Yet you say the old feeling is dead!”

“So it is—starved. Hicks knew. He broke his neck an hour toosoon. It was like a dream of a magnificent banquet I had some time ago. Iwoke with my mouth watering, just as the food was uncovered, and I felt sodamned savage at being done out of the grub that I got up and wentdown-stairs and had half a pint of champagne and half a cold roast partridge!I watch Blanchard go down the hill—that’s all. If this knowledgehad come to me when I was boiling, I should have used it to his utmost harm,of course. Now I sometimes doubt, even if I could hang the man, whether Ishould take the trouble to do it.”

“Get away from him and all thought of him.”

“I do. He never crosses my mind unless he crosses my eyes. I ridepast Newtake occasionally, and see him sweating and slaving and fighting theMoor. Then I laugh, as you laugh at a child building sand castles against anoncoming tide. Poor fool!”

“If you pity, you might find it in your heart to forgive.”

“My attitude is assured. We will call it one of mere indifference.You made up that row over the gate-post when his first child died,didn’t you?”

“Yes, yes. We shall be friendly—we must be, if only for thesake of the memory of Chris. You and I are frank to-day. But you saw long agowhat I tried to hide, so it is no news to you. You will understand. WhenHicks died I thought perhaps after years—but that’s over now. She’s gone.”

“Didn’t you know? She ’s back again.”

“Back! Good God!”

John laughed at his brother’s profound agitation.

“Like as not you’d see her if you went over Rushford Bridge.She ’s back with her mother. Queer devils, all of them; but I supposeyou can have her for the asking now if you couldn’t before. Damnablylike her brother she is. She passed me two days ago, and looked at me as if Iwas transparent, or a mere shadow hiding something else.”

A rush of feeling overwhelmed Martin before this tremendous news. He couldnot trust himself to speak. Then a great hope wrestled with him andconquered. In his own exaltation he desired to see all whom he loved equallylifted up towards happiness.

“I wish to Heaven you would open your eyes and raise them from yourdogs and find a wife, John.”

“Ah! We all want the world to be a pretty fairy tale for ourfriends. You scent your own luck ahead, and wish me to be lucky too. I oughtto thank you for that; but, instead, I’ll give you some advice.Don’t bother yourself with the welfare of others; to do that is to ruinyour own peace of mind and court more trouble than your share. Everybig-hearted man is infernally miserable—he can’t help it. Theonly philosopher’s stone is a stone heart; that is what the world’s taught me.”

“Never! You ’re echoing somebody else, not yourself,I’ll swear. I know you better. We must see much of each other in thefuture. I shall buy a little trap that I may drive often to the Red House.And I should like to dedicate my book to you, if you would take it as acompliment.”

“No, no; give it to somebody who may be able to serve you. I’ma fool in such things and know no more about the old stones than the foxesand rabbits that burrow among them. Come, I must get home. I’m glad youhave returned, though I hated you when you supported them against me; butthen love of family ’s a mere ghost against love of women. Besides, howseldom it is that a man’s best friend is one of his ownblood.”

They rose and departed. John trotted away through Sandypark, having firstmade Martin promise to sup with him that night, and the pedestrian proceededby the nearest road to Rushford Bridge.

Chris he did not see, but it happened that Mr. Lyddon met him just outsideMonks Barton, and though Martin desired no such thing at the time, nothingwould please the miller but that his friend should return to the farm forsome conversation.

“Home again, an’ come to glasses, tu! Well, they clear thesight, an’ we must all wear ’em sooner or late. ’T is alongful time since I seed ’e, to be sure.”

“All well, I hope?”

“Nothing to grumble at. Billy an’ me go down the hill asgradual an’ easy as any man ’s a right to expect. But he’sgettin’ so bald as a coot; an’ now the shape of his head comes tobe knawed, theer ’s wonnerful bumps ’pon it. Then yourbrother’s all for sport an’ war. A Justice of the Peacethey’ve made un, tu. He’s got his volunteer chaps to a smartpitch, theer’s no gainsaying. A gert man for wild diversions he is.Gwaine coursin’ wi’ long-dogs come winter, they tellme.”

“And how are Phoebe and her husband?”

“A little under the weather just now; but I’m watchin’’em unbeknawnst. Theer’s a glimmer of hope in the dark ifyou’ll believe it, for Will ackshally comed to me esster-night to ax myadvice—my advice—on a matter of stock! What do ’ethink of that?”

“He was fighting a losing battle in a manly sort of way it seemed tome when last I saw him.”

“So he was, and is. I give him eighteen month orthereabout—then’ll come the end of it.”

“The ‘end’! What end? You won’t let them starve?Your daughter and the little children?”

“You mind your awn business, Martin,” said Mr. Lyddon, withnods and winks. “No, they ban’t gwaine to starve, but myreadin’ of Will’s carater has got to be worked out.Tribulation’s what he needs to sweeten him, same as winter sweetenssloes; an’ ’t is tribulation I mean him to have. IfPhoebe’s self caan’t change me or hurry me ’t is odds youwon’t. Theer’s a darter for ’e! My Phoebe. She’lloften put in a whole week along o’ me still. You mind this: ifit’s grawn true an’ thrawn true from the plantin’, adarter’s love for a faither lasts longer ’n any mortal love atall as I can hear tell of. It don’t wear out wi’ marriage,neither, as I’ve found, thank God. Phoebe rises above auld age and theugliness an’ weakness an’ bad temper of auld age. Even a poor,doddering ancient such as I shall be in a few years won’t weary her;she’ll look back’ards with butivul clear eyes, an’won’t forget. She’ll see—not awnly a cracked, shrivelledauld man grizzling an’ grumbling in the chimbley corner, but what theman was wance—a faither, strong an’ lusty, as dandled her,an’ worked for, an’ loved her with all his heart in the days ofhis bygone manhood. Ess, my Phoebe’s all that; an’ she comes herewi’ the child; an’ it pleases me, for rightly onderstood,childern be a gert keeper-off of age.”

“I’m sure she’s a good daughter to you, Miller. AndWill?”

“Doan’t you fret. We’ve worked it out in ourminds—me an’ Billy; an’ if two auld blids like uscan’t hatch a bit o’ wisdom, what brains is worth anything?We’m gwaine to purify the awdacious young chap ’so as byfire,’ in holy phrase.”

“You’re dealing with a curious temperament.”

“I’m dealing with a damned fule,” said Mr. Lyddonfrankly; “but theer’s fules an’ fules, an’ thispartickler wan’s grawed dear to me in some ways despite myself.’T is Phoebe’s done it at bottom I s’pose. The man’sso full o’ life an’ hope. Enough energy in un for ten men;an’ enough folly for twenty. Yet he’ve a gude heart an’never lied in’s life to my knawledge.”

“That’s to give him praise, and high praise. How’s hissister? I hear she’s returned after all.”

“Ess—naughty twoad of a gal—runned arter the gypsies!But she’m sobered now. Funny to think her mother, as seemed like awoman robbed of her right hand when Chris went, an’ beginned to grawinto the sere onusual quick for a widow, took new life as soon as her galcomed back. Just shaws what strength lies in a darter, as I tell’e.”

The old man’s garrulity gained upon him, and though Martin muchdesired to be gone, he had not the heart to hasten.

“A darter’s the thing an’—but’t is a secretyet—awnly you’ll see what you’ll see. Coourse Billy’svery well for gathered wisdom and high conversation ’bout the world tocome; but he ban’t like a woman round the house, an’ for all hisripe larnin’ he’ll strike fire sometimes—mostly when Igives him a bad beating at ‘Oaks’ of a evenin’. Thenhe’m so acid as auld rhubarb, an’ dots off to his bedwi’out a ‘gude-night.’”

For another ten minutes Mr. Lyddon chattered, but at the end of that timeMartin escaped and proceeded homewards. His head throbbed and his mind wasmuch excited by the intelligence of the day. The yellow stubbles, the greenmeadows, the ploughed lands similarly spun before him and whirled up to meetthe sky. As he re-entered the village a butcher’s cart nearly knockedhim down. Hope rose in a glorious new sunrise—the hope that he hadbelieved was set for ever. Then, passing that former home of Clement Hicksand his mother, did Grimbal feel great fear and misgiving. The recollectionof Chris and her love for the dead man chilled him. He remembered his ownlove for Chris when he thought she must be dead. He told himself that he musthope nothing; he repeated to himself how fulfilment of his desire, nowrevived after long sleep, might still be as remote as when Chris Blanchardsaid him nay in the spring wastes under Newtake five years and more ago. Hishead dinned this upon his heart; but his heart would not believe andresponded with a sanguine song of great promise.

CHAPTER III
ANSWERED

At a spot in the woods some distance below Newtake, Martin Grimbal sat andwaited, knowing she whom he sought must pass that way. He had called at thefarm and been welcomed by Phoebe. Will was on the peat beds, and, askingafter Chris, he learnt that she had gone into the valley to pick blackberriesand dewberries, where they already began to ripen in the coombs.

Under aisles of woodland shadows he sat, where the river murmured downmossy stairs of granite in a deep dingle. Above him, the varying foliage ofoak and ash and silver birch was already touched with autumn, and trembledinto golden points where bosses of pristine granite, crowned with therowan’s scarlet harvest, arose above their luxuriance. The mellowsplendour of these forests extended to the river’s brink, along whichtowered noble masses of giant osmunda, capped by seed spears of tawny red.Here and there gilded lances splashed into the stream or dotted its stillpools with scattered sequins of sunshine, where light winnowed through thedome of the leaves; and at one spot, on a wrinkled root that wound crookedlyfrom the alder into the river, there glimmered a halcyon, like an opal on amiser’s bony finger. From above the tree-tops there sounded cynicbird-laughter, and gazing upwards Martin saw a magpie flaunt his black andwhite plumage across the valley; while at hand the more musical merriment ofa woodpecker answered him.

Then a little child’s laugh came to his ear, rippling along with thenote of the babbling water, and one moment later a small, sturdy boyappeared. A woman accompanied him. She had slipped a foot into the river, andthus awakened the amusement of her companion.

Chris steadied herself after the mishap, balanced her basket morecarefully, then stooped down to pick some of the berries that had scatteredfrom it on the bank. When she rose a man with a brown face and soft grey eyesgleaming through gold-rimmed spectacles appeared immediately before.

“Thank God I see you alive again. Thank God!” he said withintense feeling, as he took her hand and shook it warmly. “The bestnews that ever made my heart glad, Chris.”

She welcomed him, and he, looking into her eyes, saw new knowledge there,a shadow of sobriety, less of the old dance and sparkle. But he rememberedthe little tremulous updrawing of her lip when a smile was born, and hervoice rang fuller and sweeter than any music he had ever heard since last shespoke to him. A smile of welcome she gave him, indeed, and a pressure of hishand that sent magic messages with it to the very core of him. He felt hisblood leap and over his glasses came a dimness.

“I was gwaine to write first moment I heard ’e was home.An’ I wish I had, for I caan’t tell ’e what I feel. Tothink of ’e searchin’ the wide world for such a good-for-nought!I thank you for your generous gudeness, Martin. I’ll never forgetit—never. But I wasn’t worth no such care.”

“Not worth it! It proved the greatest, bitterest grief of all mylife—but one—that I couldn’t find you. We grew by cruelstages to think—to think you were dead. The agony of that for us! But,thank God, it was not so. All at least is well with you now?”

“All ban’t never well with men an’ women. But I’mmore fortunate than I deserve to be, and can make myself of use. I’velived a score of years since we met. An I’ve comed back to find’tis a difficult world for those I love best, unfortunately.”

Thus, in somewhat disjointed fashion, Chris made answer.

“Sit a while and speak to me,” replied Martin. “Theladdie can play about. Look at him marching along with that great branch ofking fern over his shoulder!”

“’T is an elfin cheel some ways. Wonnerful eyes he’vegot. They burn me if I look at’em close,” said Chris. Sheregarded Timothy without sentiment and her eyes were bright and hard.

“I hope he will turn out well. Will spoke of him the other day. Heis very fond of the child. It is singularly like him, too—a sort oflittle pocket edition of him.”

“So I’ve heard others say. Caan’t see it at all myself.Look at the eyes of un.”

“Will believes the boy has got very unusual intelligence and may gofar.”

“May go so far as the workhouse,” she answered, with a laugh.Then, observing that her reply pained Martin, Chris snatched up small Tim ashe passed by and pressed him to her breast and kissed him.

“You like him better than you think, Chris—poor littlemotherless thing.”

“Perhaps I do. I wonder if his mother ever looks hungry towardsNewtake when she passes by?”

“Perhaps others took him and told the mother that he wasdead.”

“She’s dead herself more like. Else the thing wouldn’thave falled out.”

There was a pause, then Martin talked of various matters. But he could notfight for long against the desire of his heart and presently plunged, as hehad done five years before, into a proposal.

“He being gone—poor Clem—do you think—? Have youthought, I mean? Has it made a difference, Chris? ’T is so hard to putit into words without sounding brutal and callous. Only men are selfish whenthey love.”

“What do you mean?” she asked.

A sudden inspiration prompted his reply. He said nothing for a moment, butwith a hand that shook somewhat, drew forth his pocketbook, opened it,fumbled within, and then handed over to Chris the brown ruins of flowers longdead.

“You picked them,” he said slowly; “you picked them longago and flung them away from you when you said ‘No’ tome—said it so kindly in the past. Take them in your handagain.”

“Dead bluebells,” she answered. “Ess, I can call homethe time. To think you gathered them up!” She looked at him withsomething not unlike love in her eyes and fingered the flowers gently.“You’m a gude man, Martin —the husband for a gude lass.Best to find one if you can. Wish I could help’e.”

“Oh, Chris, there’s only one woman in the world for me. Couldyou—even now? Could you let me stand between you and the world? Couldyou, Chris? If you only knew what I cannot put into words. I’d try sohard to make you happy.”

“I knaw, I knaw. But theer’s no human life so long as the roadto happiness, Martin. And yet—”

He took her hand and for a moment she did not resist him. Then littleTim’s voice chimed out merrily at the stream margin, and the music hadinstant effect upon Chris Blanchard.

She drew her hand from Martin and the next moment he saw his deadbluebells hurrying away and parting company for ever on the dancing water.Chris watched them until they vanished; then she turned and looked at him, tofind that he grew very pale and agitated. Even his humility had hardlyforeseen this decisive answer after the yielding attitude Chris first assumedwhen she suffered him to hold her hand. He looked into her face inquiring andfrightened. The silence that followed was broken by continued laughter andshouting from Timothy. Then Martin tried to connect the child’s firstmerriment with the simultaneous change in the mood of the woman heworshipped, but failed to do so.

At that moment Chris spoke. She made utterance under the weight of greatemotion and with evident desire to escape the necessity of a direct negative,while yet leaving her refusal of Martin’s offer implicit anddistinct.

“I mind when a scatter of paper twinkled down this river just likethem dead blossoms. Clem thrawed them, an’ they floated away to thesea, past daffadowndillies an’ budding lady-ferns an’ such-like.’T was a li’l bit of poetry he’d made up to pleaseme—and I, fule as I was, didn’t say the right thing when he axedme what I thought; so Clem tore the rhymes in pieces an’ sent themaway. He said the river would onderstand. An’ the river onderstands whyI dropped them dead blossoms in, tu. A wise, ancient stream, I doubt.An’ you ’m wise, tu; an’ can take my answer wi’outany more words, as will awnly make both our hearts ache.”

“Not even if I wait patiently? You couldn’t marry me, dearChris? You couldn’t get to love me?”

“I couldn’t marry you. I’m a widow in heart for alltime. But I thank God for the gude-will of such a man as you. I cherish itand ’t will be dear to me all my life. But I caan’t come to’e, so doan’t ax it.”

“Yet you’re young to live for a memory, Chris.”

“Better ’n nothing. And listen; I’ll tell you this, if’t will make my ‘No’ sound less hard to your ear. I lovesyou—I loves you better ’n any living man ’cept Will,an’ not less than I love even him. I wish I could bring ’e aspark of joy by marryin’ you, for you was allus very gude, an’thought kindly of Clem when but few did. I’d marry you if ’t wasawnly for that; yet it caan’t never be, along o’ many reasons.You must take that cold comfort, Martin.”

He sighed, then spoke.

“So be it, dear one. I shall never ask again. God knows what holdsyou back if you can even love me a little.”

“Ess, God knaws—everything.”

“I must not cry out against that. Yet it makes it all the harder. Tothink that you will dedicate all your beautiful life to a memory! it onlymakes my loss the greater, and shows the depths of you to me.”

She uttered a little scream and her cheek paled, and she put up her handswith the palms outward as though warding away his words.

“Doan’t ’e say things like that or give me any praise,for God’s sake. I caan’t bear it. I be weak, weak flesh an’blood, weaker ’n water. If you could only see down in my heart,you’d be cured of your silly love for all time.”

He did not answer, but picked up her basket and proceeded with her out ofthe valley. Chris gave a hand to the child, and save for Tim’s prattlethere was no speaking.

At length they reached Newtake, when Martin yielded up the basket and badeChris “good-night.” He had already turned, when she called himback in a strange voice.

“Kiss the li’l bwoy, will ’e? I want ’e to.I’m that fond of un. An’ he ’peared to take to ’e;an’ he said ‘By-by’ twice to ’e, but you didn’thear un.”

Then the man kissed Tim on a small, purple-stained mouth, and saw his eyesvery lustrous with sleep, for the day was done.

Woman and child disappeared; the sacking nailed along the bottom ofNewtake Gate to keep the young chicks in the farmyard rustled over theground, and Martin, turning his face away, moved homewards.

But the veil was not lifted for him; he did not understand. A secret,transparent enough to any who regarded Chris Blanchard and her circumstancesfrom a point without the theatre of action, still remained concealed from allwho loved her.

CHAPTER IV
THE END OF THE FIGHT

Will Blanchard was of the sort who fight a losing battle,

“Still puffing in the dark at one poor coal,
Held on by hope till the last spark is out.”

But the extinction of his ambitions, the final failure of his enterprisehappened somewhat sooner than Miller Lyddon had predicted. There dawned ayear when, just as the worst of the winter was past and hope began to revivefor another season, a crushing catastrophe terminated the struggle.

Mr. Blee it was who brought the ill news to Monks Barton, having firstdropped it at Mrs. Blanchard’s cottage and announced it promiscuouslyabout the village. Like a dog with a bone he licked the intelligence overand, by his delay in imparting the same, reduced his master to a very feverof irritation.

“Such a gashly thing! Of all fules! The last straw I do think.He’s got something to grumble at now, poor twoad. Your son-in-law; butnow—theer—gormed if I knaw how to tell ’e!”

Alarmed at this prelude, with its dark hints of unutterable woe, Mr.Lyddon took off his spectacles in some agitation, and prayed to know theworst without any long-drawn introduction.

“I’ll come to it fast enough, I warn ’e. To think afteryears an’ years he didn’t knaw the duffer’nce ’twixta bullock an’ a sheep! Well—well! Of coourse us knawed times wastight, but Jack-o’-Lantern be to the end of his dance now. ’T isall awver.”

“What’s the matter? Come to it, caan’t’e?”

“No ill of the body—not to him or the fam’ly. An’you must let me tell it out my awn way. Well, things bein’ same as theyare, the bwoy caan’t hide it. Dammy! Theer’s patches in the coatof un now—neat sewed, I’ll grant ’e, but a patch is apatch; an’ when half a horse’s harness is odds an’ endso’ rope, then you knaw wi’out tellin’ wheer a man bedriving to. ’T is ’cordin’ to the poetry!—

“‘Out to elbows,
Out to toes,
Out o’ money,
Out o’ clothes.’

But—”

“Caan’t ’e say what’s happened, youchitterin’ auld magpie? I’ll go up village for the news in aminute. I lay ’tis knawn theer.”

“Ban’t I tellin’ of ’e? ’Tis like this. WillBlanchard’s been mixin’ a bit of chopped fuzz with thesheep’s meal these hard times, like his betters. But now I’veseed hisself today, lookin’ so auld as Cosdon ’bout it. He wasgwaine to the horse doctor to Moreton. An’ he tawld me to keep my mouthshut, which I’ve done for the most paart.”

“A little fuzz chopped fine doan’t hurt sheep.”

“Just so. ’Cause why? They aint got no ‘bibles’ intheir innards; but he’ve gone an’ given it same way to thebullocks.”

“Gude God!”

“’Tis death to beasts wi’ ‘bibles.’An’ death it is. The things caan’t eat such stuff’ cause itsticketh an’ brings inflammation. I seed same fule’s trick donewance thirty year ago; an’ when the animals weer cut awpen, theer‘bibles’ was hell-hot wi’ the awfulest inflammation everyou heard tell of.”

“How many’s down? ’Twas all he had to countupon.”

“Awnly eight standin’ when he left. I could have cried’bout it when he tawld me. He ’m clay in the Potter’s handfor sartain. Theer’s nought squenches a chap like havin’ thebailiffs in.”

“Cruel luck! I’d meant to let him be sold out for hisgude—but now.”

“Do what you meant to. Doan’t go back on it. ’Tis forhis gude. ’Twas his awn mistake. He tawld me the blame was his. Let unget on the bed rock. Then he’ll be meek as a worm.”

“I doubt it. A sale of his goods will break his heart.”

“Not it! He haven’t got much as’ll be hard to paartfrom. Stern measures—stern measures for his everlastin’ welfare.Think of the wild-fire sawl of un! Never yet did a sawl want steadin’worse’n his. Keep you to the fust plan, and he’ll thank’eyet.”

Elsewhere two women—his wife and sister—failed utterly inwell-meaning efforts to comfort the stricken farmer. Presently, beforenightfall, Mrs. Blanchard also arrived at Newtake, and Will listened dullywith smouldering eyes as his mother talked. The veterinary surgeon fromMoreton had come, but his efforts were vain. Only two beasts out offive-and-twenty still lived.

“Send for butcher,” he said. “He’ll be more usethan I can be. The thing is done and can’t be undone.”

Chris entered most closely into her brother’s feelings and sparedhim the expressions of sorrow and sympathy which stung him, even from hismother’s lips, uttered at this crisis. She set about preparing supper,which weeping Phoebe had forgotten.

“You’ll weather it yet, bwoy,” Mrs. Blanchard said.

“Theer’s a little bit as I’ve got stowed awayfor’e; an’ come the hay—”

“Doan’t talk that way. ’Tis done with now. I’mquite cool’pon it. We must go as we’m driven. No moregropin’ an’ fightin’ on this blasted wilderness for me,that’s all. I be gwaine to turn my back ’pon it—fogan’ filthy weather an’ ice an’ snow. You wants angels fromheaven to help ’e, if you’re to do any gude here; an’heaven’s long tired o’ me an’ mine. So I’ll makeshift to do wi’out. An’ never tell me no more lies ’boutGod helpin’ them as helps themselves, ’cause I’ve proved itban’t so. I be gwaine to furrin’ lands to dig for gawld ordi’monds. The right build o’ man for gawld-seekin’, me;’cause I’ve larned patience an’ caan’t be choked offa job tu easy.”

“Think twice. Bad luck doan’t dog a man for ever. An’Phoebe an’ the childer.”

“My mind’s made up. I figured it out comin’ home fromMoreton. I’m away in six weeks or less. A chap what’s got to digfor a livin’ may just as well handle his tools where theer’ssummat worth findin’ hid in the land, as here, on this black, damnedairth, wheer your pick strikes fire out o’ stone twenty times a day.The Moor’s the Moor. Everybody knaws the way of it. Scratch its faacean’ it picks your pocket an’ breaks your heart—not asI’ve got a heart can be broken.”

“If ’e could awnly put more trust in the God of your faithers,my son. He done for them, why shouldn’t He do for you?”

“Better ax Him. Tired of the fam’ly, I reckon.”

“You hurt your mother, Will, tellin’ so wicked asthat.”

“An’ faither so cruel,” sobbed Phoebe. “Idoan’t knaw what ever us have done to set him an’ God against usso. I’ve tried that hard; an’ you’ve toiled till themuscles shawed through your skin; an’ the li’l bwoy took just ashe beginned to string words that butivul; an’ no sign of anotherthough’t is my endless prayer.”

“The ways of Providence—” began Mrs. Blanchard drearily;but Will stopped her, as she knew he would.

“Doan’t mother—I caan’t stand no more on that headtoday. I’ll dare anybody to name Providence more in my house, so longas ’tis mine. Theer’s the facts to shout out ’gainst thatrot. A honest, just, plain-dealin’ man—an’ look atme.”

“Meantime we’re ruined an’ faither doan’t hold outa finger.”

“Take it stern an’ hard like me. ’Tis all chancedrawin’ of prize or blank in gawld diggin’. The ‘newchums,’ as they call ’em, often finds the best gawld,’cause they doan’t knaw wheer to look for it, an’ goespokin’ about wheer a skilled man wouldn’t. That’s thecrooked way things happen in this poor world.”

“You wouldn’t go—not while I lived, sure? Icouldn’t draw breath comfortable wi’out knawin’ you wasbreathin’ the same air, my son.”

“You’ll live to knaw I was in the right. If fortunedoan’t come to you, you must go to it, I reckon. Anyways, I ban’tgwaine to bide here a laughing-stock to Chagford; an’ you’m thelast to ax me to.”

“Miller would never let Phoebe go.”

“I shouldn’t say ’by your leave’ to him, Ipromise’e. He can look on an’ see the coat rottin’ off myback in this desert an’ watch his darter gwaine thin as a lath alongo’ taking so much thought. He can look on at us, hisself so comfortableas a maggot in a pear, an’ see. Not that I’d take help—nota penny from any man. I’m not gwaine to fail. I’ll be a snug chapyet.”

The stolid Chown entered at this moment.

“Butcher’ll be up bimebye. An’ the last of em’sfailed down,” he said.

“So be it. Now us’ll taake our supper,” answered hismaster.

The meal was ready and presently Blanchard, whose present bitter humourprompted him to simulate a large indifference, made show of enjoying hisfood. He brought out the brandy for his mother, who drank a little with hersupper, and helped himself liberally twice or thrice until the bottle washalf emptied. The glamour of the spirit made him optimistic, and he spokewith the pseudo-philosophy that alcohol begets.

“Might have been worse, come to think of it. If the thingsweren’t choked, I doubt they’d been near starved. ’Most allthe hay’s done, an’ half what’s left—a load orso—I’d promised to a chap out Manaton way. But theer’tis—my hand be forced, that’s all. So time’s saved, if youlook at it from a right point.”

“You’m hard an’ braave, an’ you’ve got a waywith you ’mong men. Faace life, same as faither did, an’us’ll look arter Phoebe an’ the childer,” said Chris.

“I couldn’t leave un,” declared Will’s wife.“’T is my duty to keep along wi’un for better orworse.”

“Us’ll talk ’bout all that later. I be gwaine to actprompt an’ sell every stick, an’ then away, a freeman.”

“All our furniture an’ property!” moaned Phoebe, lookinground her in dismay.

“All—to the leastest bit o’ cracked cloam.”

“A forced sale brings nought,” sighed Damaris.

“Theer’s hunderds o’ pounds o’ gude chattels here,an’ they doan’t go for a penny less than they ’m worth.Because I’m down, ban’t no reason for others to try to rob me. IfI doan’t get fair money I’ll make a fire wi’ the stuffan’ burn every stick of it.”

“The valuer man, Mr. Bambridge, must be seen, an’ billsprinted out an’ sticked ’pon barn doors an’ such-like, sameas when Mrs. Lezzard died,” said Phoebe. “What’ll faitherthink then?”

Will laughed bitterly.

“I’ll see a few’s dabbed up on his awn damned outerwalls, if I’ve got to put ’em theer myself. An’ as to thelists, I’ll make ’em this very night. Ban’t my way to letthe dust fall upon a job marked for doin’. To-night I’ll draw theitems.”

“Us was gwaine to stay along with ’e, Will,” said hismother.

“Very gude—as you please. Make shake-downs in the parlour,an’ I’ll write in the kitchen when you’m gone to bed. Setthe ink an’ pen an’ paper out arter you’ve cleared away.I’m allowed to be peart enough in matters o’ business anyway,though no farmer o’ course, arter this.”

“None will dare to say any such thing,” declared Phoebe.“You can’t do miracles more than others.”

“I mind when Ellis, to Two Streams Farm, lost a mort o’bullocks very same way,” said Mrs. Blanchard.

“’Tis that as they’ll bring against me an’ say,wi’ such a tale in my knawledge, I ought to been wiser. But I neverheard tell of it before, though God knows I’ve heard the story oftenenough to-day.”

It was now dark, and Will, lighting a lantern, rose and went out into theyard. From the kitchen window his women watched him moving here and there;while, as he passed, the light revealed great motionless, rufous shapes onevery hand. The corpses of the beasts hove up into the illumination and thenvanished again as the narrow circle of lantern light bobbed on, jerking tothe beat of Will’s footsteps. From the window Damaris observed her sonmake a complete perambulation of his trouble without comment. Then a littleemotion trembled on her tongue.

“God’s hand be lifted ’gainst the bwoy, same as ’twas ’gainst the patriarch Job seemin’ly. Awnly he bent to the rodand Will—”

“He’m noble an’ grand under his sorrows. Who should knawbut me?” cried Phoebe. “A man in ten thousand, he is, an’never yields to no rod. He’ll win his way yet; an’ I be gwaine tocleave to un if he travels to the other end o’ the airth.”

“I doan’t judge un, gal. God knaws he’s been the worldto me since his faither died. He’m my dear son. But if he’d awnlybend afore the A’mighty breaks him.”

“He’s got me.”

“Ess, an’ he’m mouldin’ you to his awn vain pridean’ wrong ways o’ thinking. If you could lead un right, ’twould be a better wife’s paart.”

“He’m wiser’n me, an’ stronger. Ban’t myplace to think against him. Us’ll go our ways, childern tu, an’turn our backs ’pon this desert. I hate the plaace now, same asWill.”

Chris here interrupted Phoebe and called her from the other room.

“Wheer’s the paper an’ ink to? I be setting out thethings against Will comes in. He axed for ’em to be ready, ’causetheer’s a deal o’ penmanship afore him to-night. An’wheer’s that li’l dictionary what I gived un years ago? I layhe’ll want it.”

CHAPTER V
TWO MIGHTY SURPRISES

Will returned from survey of his tribulation. Hope was dead for themoment, and death of hope in a man of Blanchard’s character provedpainful. The writing materials distracted his mind. Beginning withoutinterest, his composition speedily absorbed him; and before the task was halfcompleted, he already pictured it set out in great black or red print uponconspicuous places.

“I reckon it’ll make some of ’em stare to see thescholar I am, anyways,” he reflected.

Through the hours of night he wrote and re-wrote. His pen scratched along,echoed by an exactly similar sound from the wainscots, where mice nibbled inthe silence. Anon, from the debris of his composition, a complete work tookshape; and when Phoebe awoke at three o’clock, discovered her husbandwas still absent, and sought him hurriedly, she found the inventory completedand Will just fastening its pages together with a piece of string. He waswide awake and in a particularly happy humour.

“Ban’t you never comin’ to bed? ’T is mostmarnin’,” she said.

“Just comin’. What a job! Look here—twelve pages. I besurprised myself to think how blamed well I’ve got through wi’it. You doan’t knaw what you can do till you try. I used to wonder atClem’s cleverness wi’ a pen; but I be purty near so handy myselfan’ never guessed it!”

“I’m sure you’ve made a braave job of it. I’llread it fust thing to-morrow.”

“You shall hear it now.”

“Not now, Will; ’t is so late an’ I’m three paartsasleep. Come to bed, dearie.”

“Oh—if you doan’t care—if it’s nought to youthat I’ve sit up all night slavin’ for our gude—”

“Then I’ll hear it now. Coourse I knaw ’t is finereadin’. Awnly I thought you’d be weary.”

“Sit here an’ put your toes to the heat.”

He set Phoebe in the chimney corner, wrapped his coat round her, and threwmore turf on the fire.

“Now you’m vitty; an’ if theer’s anything leftout, tell me.”

“I lay, wi’ your memory, you’ve forgot littleenough.”

“I lay I haven’t. All’s here; an’ ’t is agert wonder what a lot o’ gude things us have got. They did ought tofetch a couple o’ hunderd pound at least, if the sale’s carriedout proper.”

“They didn’t cost so much as that.”

“By Gor! Didn’t they? Well, set out in full, like this here,they do sound as if they ought to be worth it. Now, I’ll read ’emto see how it all sounds in spoken words.”

He cleared his throat and began:

“‘Sale this day to Newtake Farm, near Chagford, Dartmoor,Devonshire. Mr. William Blanchard, being about to leave England for foreignparts, desires to sell at auction his farm property, household goods, cloam,and effects, etc., etc., as per items below, to the best bidder. Many thingsso good as new.’ How do ’e like that, Phoebe?”

“Butivul; but do ’e mean in all solemn seriousness to go outEngland? ’T is a awful thought, come you look at it close.”

“Ess, ’t is a gert, bold thing to do; but I doan’t fearit. I be gettin’ into a business-like way o’ lookin’’pon life of late; an’ I counts the cost an’ moves arter,as is the right order. Listen to these items set out here. If they ’mprinted big, wan under t’other, same as I’ve wrote ’em,they’ll fill a barn door purty nigh!”

Then he turned to his papers.

“‘The said goods and chattels are as follows,namely,’—reg’lar lawyer’s English, you see, thoughhow I comed to get it so pat I caan’t tell. Yet theer’tis—‘namely, 2 washing trays; 3 zinc buckets; 1 meatpreserve; 1 lantern; 2 bird-cages; carving knife and steel (Sheffieldmake)—’”

“Do’e judge that’s the best order, Will?”

“Coourse ’t is! I thought that out specially. Doan’t gothrawin’ me from my stride in the middle. Arter ‘Sheffieldmake,’ ‘half-dozen knives and forks; sundry ditto, not so good;hand saw; 2 hammers; 1 cleaver; salting trendle; 3wheelbarrows—’”

“Doan’t forget you lent wan of ’em to FarmerThackwell.”

“No, I gived it to un, him bein’ pushed for need of wan. Itslipped my memory. ‘2 wheelbarrows.’ Then I goes on, ‘pigstock; pig trough; 2 young breeding sows; 4 garden tools; 2 peat cutters; 2carts; 1 market trap; 1 empty cask; 1 Dutch oven; 1 funnel; 2 firkins and acider jib; small sieve; 3 pairs new Bedford harrows; 1 chain harrow (out ofrepair).’ You see all’s straight enough, which it ban’t insome sales. No man shall say he’s got less than full value.”

“You’m the last to think of such a thing.”

“I am. It goes on like this: ‘5 mattocks; 4 digging picks; 4head chains; 1 axe; sledge and wedges; also hooks, eyes, and hasps for hardwood.’ Never used ’em all the time us been here. ‘2 sets oftrap harness, much worn.’ I ban’t gwaine to sell thedogs—eh? Us won’t sell Ship or your li’l terrier. What do’e say?”

“No. Nobody would buy two auld dogs, for that matter.”

“Though how a upland dog like Ship be gwaine to faace the fierysunshine on furrin gawld diggings, I caan’t answer. Here goes again:‘1 sofa; 1 armchair; 4 fine chairs with green cloth seats; 1 bedstead;2 cots; 1 cradle; feather beds and palliasses and bolster pillows to match;wash-stands and sets of crockery, mostly complete; 2 swing glasses; 3 bedroomchairs; 1 set of breeching harness—’”

“Hadn’t ’e better put that away from thefurniture?”

“No gert odds. ‘Also 1 set leading harness; 2 tressels andironing board; 2 fenders; fire-irons and fire-dogs; 1 old oak chest; 1wardrobe; 1 Brussels carpet (worn in 1 spot only)—’”

“Ban’t worn worth namin’.”

“Ess fay, ’tis wheer I sit Sundays—’9 feet by 11;3 four-prong dung forks.’ I’ll move them. They doan’t comein none tu well theer, I allow. ‘5 cane-seated chairs, 1 specimen ofwax fruit under glass.’”

“I caan’t paart wi’ that, lovey. Faither gived it to me;an’ ’twas mother’s wance on a time.”

“Well, bein’ a forced sale it ought to go. An’seein’ how Miller’s left us to sail our awn boat tohell—but still, if you’m set on it.”

He crossed it out, then suddenly laughed until the walls rang.

“Hush! You’ll wake everybody. What do ’e find to behappy about?”

“I was thinkin’ that down in them furrin, fiery paartswe’m gwaine to, as your wax plums an’ pears’ll damned soonrun away. They’ll melt for sartin!”

“Caan’t be so hot as that! The li’l gal will never standit. Read on now. Theer ban’t much left, surely?”

“Scores o’ things! ‘1 stuffed kingfisher in good casewith painted picture at back; 1 fox mask; 1 mahogany 2-lap table; 1warming-pan; Britannia metal teapot and 6 spoons ditto metal; 5spoons—smaller—ditto metal.’”

“I found the one us lost.”

“Then ’tis ‘6 spoons—smaller—dittometal.’ Then, ‘ironing stove; 5 irons; washing boiler; 4 frypans; 2 chimney crooks; 6 saucepans; pestle and mortar; chimney ornaments; 4coloured almanacs—one with picture of theQueen—’”

“They won’t fetch nothin’.”

“They might. ‘Knife sharper; screen; pot plants; 1 towel-rail;1 runner; 2 forms; kitchen table; scales and weights and beam; 1 set ofcasters; 4 farm horses, aged; 3 ploughs; 1 hay wain; 1 stack of dry fern;1-1/2 tons good manure; old iron and other sundries, including poultry,ducks, geese, and fowls.’ That’s all.”

“Not quite; but I caan’t call to mind much you’ve leftout ’cept all the china an’ linen.”

“Ah! that’s your job. An’ I just sit here an’brought the things to my memory, wan by wan! An’ that bit at the topcame easy as cutting a stick!”

“’Tis a wonnerful piece o’ work! An’ the piano,Will?”

“I hadn’t forgot that. Must take it along wi’ us, orelse send it down to mother. Couldn’t look her in the faace if I soldthat.”

“Ban’t worth much.”

“Caan’t say. Cost faither five pound, though that was longago. Anyway I be gwaine to buy it in.”

Silence then fell upon them. Phoebe sighed and shivered. A cock crew andhis note came muffled from the hen-roost. A dim grey dawn just served toindicate the recumbent carcasses without.

“Come to bed now an’ take a little rest ’foremarnin’, dearie. You’ve worked hard an’ donewonders.”

“Ban’t you surprised I could turn it out?”

“That I be. I’d never have thought ’twas in ’e. Soforehanded, tu! A’most afore them poor things be cold.”

“’Tis the forehandedness I prides myself ’pon. Some ofus doan’t know all that’s in me yet. But they’ll live tosee it.”

“I knaw right well they will.”

“This’ll ’maze mother to-morrow.”

“’Twill, sure ’nough.”

“Would ’e like me to read it just wance more wi’outstoppin’, Phoebe?”

“No, dear love, not now. Give it to us all arter breakfast in themarnin’.”

“So I will then; an’ take it right away to the auctioneer theminute after.”

He put his papers away in the drawer of the kitchen table and retired.Uneasy sleep presently overtook him and long he tossed and turned, murmuringof his astonishment at his own powers with a pen.

His impetuosity carried the ruined man forward with sufficient speed overthe dark bitterness of failure confessed, failure advertised, failureproclaimed in print throughout the confines of his little world. He sufferedmuch, and the wide-spread sympathy of friends and acquaintance proved noanodyne but rather the reverse. He hated to see eyes grow grave and mouthsserious upon his entry; he yearned to turn his back against Chagford andresume the process of living in a new environment. Temporary troubles vexedhim more than the supreme disaster of his failure. Mr. Bambridge madeconsiderable alterations in his cherished lucubration; and when theadvertisement appeared in print, it looked mean and filled but a paltryspace. People came up before the sale to examine the goods, and Phoebe, aftertwo days of whispered colloquies upon her cherished property, could bear itno longer, and left Newtake with her own little daughter and little Timothy.The Rev. Shorto-Champernowne himself called, stung Will into sheer madness,which he happily restrained, then purchased an old oak coffer for two poundsand ten shillings.

Miller Lyddon made no sign, and hard things were muttered against him andBilly Blee in the village. Virtuous indignation got hold upon the Chagfordquidnuncs and with one consent they declared Mr. Lyddon to blame. Where washis Christian charity—that charity which should begin at home and soseldom does? This interest in others’ affairs took shape on the nightbefore the Newtake sale. Then certain of the baser sort displayed their angerin a practical form, and Mr. Blee was hustled one dark evening, had his hatknocked off, and suffered from a dead cat thrown by unseen hands. The reasonfor this outrage also reached him. Then, chattering with indignation andalarm, he hurried home and acquainted Mr. Lyddon with the wild spiritabroad.

As for Blanchard, he roamed moodily about the scene of his lost battle. Inhis pockets were journals setting forth the innumerable advantages of certainforeign regions that other men desired to people for their private ends. ButWill was undecided, because all the prospects presented appeared to leaddirectly to fortune.

The day of the sale dawned fine and at the appointed hour a thin stream ofmarket carts and foot passengers wound towards Newtake from the villagebeneath and from a few outlying farms. Blanchard had gone up the adjacenthill; and lying there, not far distant from the granite cross, he reclinedwith his dog and watched the people. Him they did not see; but them hecounted and found some sixty souls had been attracted by his advertisement.Men laughed and joked, and smoked; women shrugged their shoulders, peepedabout and disparaged the goods. Here and there a purchaser took up hisstation beside a coveted lot. Some noticed that none of those most involvedwere present; others spread a rumour that Miller Lyddon designed to stop thesale at the last moment and buy in everything. But no such incident broke thecourse of proceedings.

Will, from his hiding-place in the heather, saw Mr. Bambridge drive up,noted the crowd follow him about the farm, like black flies, and felt himselfa man at his own funeral. The hour was dark enough. In the ear of his mind helistened to the auctioneer’s hammer, like a death-bell, beating awayall that he possessed. He had worked and slaved through long years forthis,—for the sympathy of Chagford, for the privilege of spending athousand pounds, for barely enough money to carry himself abroad. A few morefigures dotted the white road and turned into the open gate at Newtake. Oneshape, though too remote to recognise with certainty, put him in mind ofMartin Grimbal, another might have been Sam Bonus. He mused upon the two men,so dissimilar, and his mind dwelt chiefly with the former. He found himselfthinking how good it would be if Martin proposed to Chris again; that theantiquary had done so was the last idea in his thoughts.

Presently a brown figure crept through Newtake gate, hesitated a while,then began to climb the hill and approach Blanchard. Ship recognised itbefore Will’s eyes enabled him to do so, and the dog rose from a longrest, stretched, sniffed the air, then trotted off to the approachingnewcomer.

It was Ted Chown; and in five minutes he reached his master with a letter.“’Tis from Miller Lyddon,” he said. “It comed by theauctioneer. I thought you was up here.”

Blanchard took it without thanks, waited until the labourer had departed,then opened the letter with some slight curiosity.

He read a page of scriptural quotations and admonitions, then tore thecommunication in half with a curse and flung it from him. But presently hisanger waned; he rose, picked up his father-in-law’s note, and ploddedthrough it to the end.

His first emotion was one of profound thanksgiving that he had done so.Here, at the very end of the letter, was the practical significance ofit.

“Powder fust, jam arter, by God!” cried Will aloud. Then aburst of riotous delight overwhelmed him. Once again in his darkest hour hadFortune turned the wheel. He shouted, put the letter into his breast pocket,rose up and strode off to Chagford as fast as his legs would carry him. Hethought what his mother and wife would feel upon such news. Then he sworeheartily—swore down blessings innumerable on Miller Lyddon, whistled tohis dog, and so journeyed on.

The master of Monks Barton had reproved Will through long pages, citedScripture at him, displayed his errors in a grim procession, then praised himfor his prompt and manly conduct under the present catastrophe, declared thathis character had much developed of recent years, and concluded by offeringhim five-and-thirty shillings a week at Monks Barton, with the onlystipulation that himself, his wife, and the children should dwell at thefarm.

Praise, of which he had received little enough for many years, was purehoney to Will. From the extremity of gloom and from a dark and settled enmitytowards Mr. Lyddon, he passed quicker than thought to an opposite conditionof mind.

“’Tis a fairy story—awnly true!” he said tohimself as he swept along.

Will came near choking when he thought of the miller. Here was a man thatbelieved in him! Newtake tumbled clean out of his mind before this revelationof Mr. Lyddon’s trust and confidence. He was full to the brainpan withMonks Barton. The name rang in his ears. Before he reached Chagford he hadplanned innumerable schemes for developing the valley farm, for improving,saving, increasing possibilities in a hundred directions. He pictured himselfputting money into the miller’s pocket. He determined to bring thatabout if he had to work four-and-twenty hours a day to do it. He almostwished some profound peril would threaten his father-in-law, that he, at thecost of half his life, if need be, might rescue him and so pay a little ofthis great debt. Ship, taking the cue from his master, as a dog will, leaptand barked before him. In the valley below, Phoebe wept on Mrs.Blanchard’s bosom, and Chris said hard things of those in authority atMonks Barton; up aloft at Newtake, shillings rather than pounds changed handsand many a poor lot found no purchaser.

Passing by a gate beneath the great hill of Middledown, Will saw twosportsmen with a keeper and a brace of terriers, emerge from the wild landabove. They were come from rabbit shooting, as the attendant’s heavybag testified. They faced him as he passed, and, recognising John Grimbal,Will did not look at his companion. At rest with the world just then, happyand contented to a degree he had not reached for years, the young farmer wasin such amiable mood that he had given the devil “good day” onslightest provocation. Now he was carried out of himself, and spoke upon ajoyous inclination of the moment.

“Marnin’ to ’e, Jan Grimbal! Glad to hear tell as yourgreyhound winned the cup down to Newton coursing.”

The other was surprised into a sort of grunt; then, as Will moved rapidlyout of earshot, Grimbal’s companion addressed him. It was MajorTremayne; and now the soldier regarded Blanchard’s vanishing figurewith evident amazement, then spoke.

“By Jove! Tom Newcombe, by all that’s wonderful,” hesaid.

CHAPTER VI
THE SECRET OUT

NOW many different persons in various places were simultaneously concernedwith Will Blanchard and his affairs.

At Newtake, Martin Grimbal was quietly buying a few lots—and thoseworth the most money. He designed these as a gift for Phoebe; and his objectwas not wholly disinterested. The antiquary could by no means bring himselfto accept his last dismissal from Chris. Seeing the vague nature of thoseterms in which she had couched her refusal, and remembering her frankadmission that she could love him, he still hoped. All his soul was wrappedup in the winning of Chris, and her face came between him and theproof-sheets of his book; the first thoughts of his wakening mind turned tothe same problem; the last reflections of a brain sinking to rest werelikewise occupied with it. How could he win her? Sometimes his yearningdesires clamoured for any possible road to the precious goal, and heremembered his brother’s hint that a secret existed in Will’slife. At such times he wished that he knew it, and wondered vaguely if theknowledge were of a nature to further his own ambition. Then he blushed andthought ill of himself But this personal accusation was unjust, for it is theproperty of a strong intellect engaged about affairs of supreme importance,to suggest every possible action and present every possible point of view bythe mere mechanical processes of thinking. The larger a brain, the morealternative courses are offered, the more facets gleam with thought, the morenumerous the roads submitted to judgment. It is a question of intellect, notethics. Right actions and crooked are alike remorselessly presented, and theCouncil of Perfection, which holds that to think amiss is sin, must convictevery saint of unnumbered offences. As reasonably might we blame him whodreams murder. Departure from rectitude can only begin where evil thought isconverted into evil action, for thought alone of all man’s possessionsand antecedents is free, and a lifetime of self-control and high thinkingwill not shut the door against ideas. That Martin—a man of luminous iflimited intellect—should have considered every possible line of actionwhich might assist him to come at the highest good life could offer wasinevitable; but he missed the reason of certain sinister notions and accusedhimself of baseness in giving birth to them. Nevertheless, the idea recurredand took shape. He associated John’s assertion of a secret with anotherrumour that had spread much farther afield. This concerned the parentage oflittle Timothy the foundling, for it was whispered widely of late that thechild belonged to Blanchard. Of course many people knew all the facts, weredelighted to retail them, and could give the mother’s name. Only thosemost vitally concerned had heard nothing as yet.

These various matters were weighing not lightly on Martin’s mindduring the hours of the Newtake sale; and meantime Will thundered into hismother’s cottage and roared the news. He would hear of no objection tohis wish, that one and all should straightway proceed to Monks Barton, and hepoured forth the miller’s praises, while Phoebe was reduced to tears byperusal of her father’s letter to Will.

“Thank Heaven the mystery’s read now, an’ us can see howMiller had his eyes ’pon ’e both all along an’ just waitedfor the critical stroke,” said Mrs. Blanchard. “Sure I’veknawed him these many years an’ never could onderstand his hard way inthis; but now all’s clear.”

“He might have saved us a world of trouble and a sea o’ tearsif he’d awnly spoken sooner, whether or no,” murmured Chris, butWill would tolerate no unfriendly criticism.

“He’m a gert man, wi’ his awn way o’ doin’things, like all gert men,” he burst out; “an’ ban’tfor any man to call un in question. He knawed the hard stuff I was made ofand let me bide accordin’. An’ now get your bonnets on, the lotof ’e, for I’m gwaine this instant moment to MonksBarton.”

They followed him in a breathless procession, as he hurried across thefarmyard.

“Rap to the door quick, dear heart,” said Phoebe, “orI’ll be cryin’ again.”

“No more rappin’ after thicky butivul letter,” answeredWill. “Us’ll gaw straight in.”

“You walk fust, Phoebe—’tis right you should,”declared Mrs. Blanchard. “Then Will can follow ’e; an’ mean’ Chris—us’ll walk ’bout for a bit, till youbeckons from window.”

“Cheer up, Phoebe,” cried Will. “Trouble’s blawedawver for gude an’ all now by the look of it. ’Tis plain sailinghencefarrard, thank God, that is, if a pair o’ strong arms, workingmorning an’ night for Miller, can bring it about.”

So they went together, where Mr. Lyddon waited nervously within; andDamaris and Chris walked beside the river.

Upon his island sat the anchorite Muscovy duck as of yore. He was gettingold. He still lived apart and thought deeply about affairs; but hisconclusions he never divulged.

Yet another had been surprised into unutterable excitement during thatafternoon. John Grimbal found the fruit of long desire tumble into his handat last, as Major Tremayne made his announcement. The officer was spending afortnight at the Red House, for his previous friendship with John Grimbal hadripened.

“By Jove! Tom Newcombe, by all that’s wonderful!” heexclaimed, as Will swung past him down the hill to happiness.

“That’s not his name. It’s Blanchard. He’s a youngfool of a farmer, and Lord knows what he’s got to be so cock-a-hoopabout. Up the hill they’re selling every stick he’s got atauction. He’s ruined.”

“He might be ruined, indeed, if I liked. ‘Tom Newcombe’he called himself when he was with us.”

“A soldier!”

“He certainly was, and my servant; about the most decent,straightforward, childlike chap that ever I saw.”

“God!”

“You’re surprised. But it’s a fact. That’sNewcombe all right. You couldn’t forget a face and a laugh like his.The handsomest man I’ve ever seen, bar none. He borrowed a suit of myclothes, the beggar, when he vanished. But a week later I had the things backwith a letter. He trusted me that far. I tried to trace him, of course, butwas not sorry I failed.”

“A letter!”

“Yes, giving a reason for his desertion. Some chap was running afterhis girl and had got her in a corner and bullied her into saying‘Yes,’ though she hated the sight of him. I’d have doneanything for Tom. But he took the law into his own hands. Hedisappeared—we were at Shorncliffe then if I remember rightly. The chaphad joined to get abroad, and he told me all his harum-scarum ambitions once.I hope the poor devil was in time to rescue his sweetheart,anyway.”

“Yes, he was in time for that.”

“I’m glad.”

“Should you see him again, Tremayne, I would advise your pretendingnot to know him. Unless, of course, you consider it your duty to proclaimhim.”

“Bless your life, I don’t know him from Adam,” declaredthe Major. “I’m not going to move after all these years. I wishhe’d come back to me again, all the same. A good servant.”

“Poor brute! What’s the procedure with a deserter? Do you sendsoldiers for him or the police?”

“A pair of handcuffs and the local bobby, that’s all. Then theman’s handed over to the military authorities andcourt-martialled.”

“What would he get?”

“Depends on circumstances and character. Tom might probably have sixmonths, as he didn’t give himself up. I should have thought, knowingthe manner of man, that he would have done his business, married the girl,then come back and surrendered. In that case, being peace time, he would onlyhave forfeited his service, which didn’t amount to much.”

So John Grimbal learned the secret of his enemy at last; but, to pursue aformer simile, the fruit had remained so long out of reach that now it wasnot only overripe, but rotten. There began a painful resuscitation of desirestowards revenge—desires long moribund. To flog into life a passion neardead of inanition was Grimbal’s disgusting task. For days and nightsthe thing was as Frankenstein’s creation of grisly shreds and patches;then it moved spasmodically,—or he fancied that it moved.

He fooled himself with reiterated assurances that he was glorying in thediscovery; he told himself that he was not made of the human stuff that canforgive bitter wrongs or forget them until cancelled. He painted in luridcolours his past griefs; through a ghastly morass of revenge grown stale, ofmemories deadened by time, he tried to struggle back to his originalstarting-point in vanished years, and feel as he felt when he flung WillBlanchard over Rushford Bridge.

Once he wished to God the truth had never reached him; then he urgedhimself to use it instantly and plague his mind no more. A mental exhaustionand nausea overtook him. Upon the night of his discovery he retired to sleepwishing that Blanchard would be as good as his rumoured word and get out ofEngland. But this thought took a shape of reality in the tattered medley ofdreams, and Grimbal, waking, leapt on to the floor in frantic fear that hisenemy had escaped him.

As yet he knew nothing of Will’s good fortune, and when it came tohis ears it unexpectedly failed to reawaken resentment or strengthen hisanimosity. For, as he retraced the story of the past years, it was with himas with a man reading the narrative of another’s wrongs. He could notyet absorb himself anew in the strife; he could not revive the personalelement.

Sometimes he looked at himself in the glass as he shaved; and the sight ofthe grey hair thickening on the sides of his head, the spectacle of the deeplines upon his forehead and the stamp of many a shadowy crow’s-footabout his blue eyes—these indications served more than all his thoughtsto sting him into deeds and to rekindle an active malignancy.

CHAPTER VII
SMALL TIMOTHY

A year and more than a year passed by, during which time some puresunshine brightened the life of Blanchard. Chagford laughed at his sustainedgood fortune, declared him to have as many lives as a cat, and secretlyregretted its outspoken criticism of Miller Lyddon before the event of hisgenerosity. Life at Monks Barton was at least wholly happy for Will himself.No whisper or rumour of renewed tribulation reached his ear; early and latehe worked, with whole-hearted energy; he differed from Mr. Blee as seldom aspossible; he wearied the miller with new designs, tremendous enterprises,particulars concerning novel machinery, and much information relating tonitrates. Newtake had vanished out of his life, like an old coat put off forthe last time. He never mentioned the place and there was now but one farm inall Devon for him.

Meantime a strange cloud increased above him, though as yet he had notdiscerned so much as the shadow of it. This circumstance possessed noconnection with John Grimbal. Time passed and still he did not take action,though he continued to nurse his wrongs through winter, spring, and summer,as a child nurses a sick animal. The matter tainted his life but did notdominate it. His existence continued to be soured and discoloured, yet notentirely spoiled. Now a new stone of stumbling lay ahead and Grimbal’sinterest had shifted a little.

Like the rest of Chagford he heard the rumour of little Timothy’sparentage—a rumour that grew as the resemblance ripened betweenBlanchard and the child. Interested by this thought and its significance, hedevoted some time to it; and then, upon an early October morning, chancehurried the man into action. On the spur of an opportunity he played thecoward, as many another man has done, only to mourn his weakness toolate.

There came a misty autumn sunrise beside the river and Grimbal, hasteningthrough the valley of Teign, suddenly found himself face to face with Phoebe.She had been upon the meadows since grey dawn, where many mushrooms set insilvery dew glimmered like pearls through the mist; and now, with a fullbasket, she was returning to Monks Barton for breakfast. As she rested for amoment at a stile between two fields, Grimbal loomed large from the foggyatmosphere and stood beside her. She moved her basket for him to pass and herpulses quickened but slightly, for she had met him on numerous occasionsduring past years and they were now as strangers. To Phoebe he had long beennothing, and any slight emotion he might awaken was in the nature ofresentment that the man could still harden his heart against her husband andremain thus stubborn and obdurate after such lapse of time. When, therefore,John Grimbal, moved thereto by some sudden prompting, addressed Will’swife, she started in astonishment and a blush of warm blood leapt to herface. He himself was surprised at his own voice; for it sounded unfamiliar,as though some intelligent thing had suddenly possessed him and was using hisvocal organs for its own ends.

“Don’t move. Why, ’t is a year since we met alone, Ithink. So you are back at Monks Barton. Does it bring thoughts? Is it allsweet? By your face I should judge not.”

She stared and her mouth trembled, but she did not answer.

“You needn’t tell me you’re happy,” he continued,with hurried words. “Nobody is, for that matter. But you might havebeen. Looking at your ruined life and my own, I can find it in my heart to besorry for us both.”

“Who dares to say my life is ruined?” she flashed out.“D’ you think I would change Will for the noblest in the land? Heis the noblest. I want no pity—least of all yourn. I’vebeen a very lucky woman—and—everybody knaws it whatever they maysay here an’ theer.”

She was strong before him now; her temper appeared in her voice and shetook her basket and rose to leave him.

“Wait one moment. Chance threw us here, and I’ll never speakto you again if you resent it. But, meeting you like this, something seemedto tell me to say a word and let you know. I’m sorry you are sowretched—honestly.”

“I ban’t wretched! Never was a happier wife.”

“Never was a better one, I know; but happy? Think. I was fond of youonce and I can read between the lines—the little thin lines on yourforehead. They are newcomers. I’m not deceived. Nor is it hidden. Thatthe man has proved faithless is common knowledge now. Facts are hard thingsand you’ve got the fact under your eyes. The child’s his livingimage.”

“Who told you, and how dare you foul my ears and thoughts with suchlies?” she asked, her bosom heaving. “You’m a coward, asyou always was, but never more a coward than this minute.”

“D’ you pretend that nobody has told you this? Aren’tyour own eyes bright enough to see it?”

The man was in a pitiful mood, and now he grew hot and forgot himselfwholly before her stinging contempt. She did not reply to his question and hecontinued,—

“Your silence is an answer. You know well enough. Who’s themother? Perhaps you know that, too. Is she more to him than youare?”

Phoebe made a great effort to keep herself from screaming. Then she movedhastily away, but Grimbal stopped her and dared her to proceed.

“Wait. I’ll have this out. Why don’t you face him withit and make him tell you the truth? Any plucky woman would. The scandal growsinto a disgrace and your father’s a fool to stand it. You can tell himso from me.”

“Mind your awn business an’ let me pass, you hulking, gert,venomous wretch!” she cried. Then a blackguard inspiration came to theman, and, suffering under a growing irritation with himself as much as withPhoebe, he conceived an idea by which his secret might after all be made abitter weapon. He assured himself, even while he hated the sight of her, thatjustice to Phoebe must be done. She had dwelt in ignorance long enough. Hedetermined to tell her that she was the wife of a deserter. The end gainedwas the real idea in his mind, though he tried to delude himself. The suddenidea that he might inform Blanchard through Phoebe of his knowledge reallyactuated him.

“You may turn your head away as if I was dirt, you little fool, andyou may call me what names you please; but I’m raising this questionfor your good, not my own. What do I care? Only it’s a man’s partto step in when he sees a woman being trampled on.”

“A man!” she said. “You’m not in our lives anymore, an’ we doan’t want ’e in ’em. More like to ameddlin’ auld woman than a man, if you ax me.”

“You can say that? Then we’ll put you out of the question. I,at least, shall do my duty.”

“Is it part of your duty to bully me here alone? Why doan’t’e faace the man, like a man, ’stead of blusterin’ to me’bout it? Out on you! Let me pass, I tell ’e.”

“Doan’t make that noise. Just listen and stand still.I’m in earnest. It pleases me to know the true history of this child,and I mean to. As a Justice of the Peace I mean to.”

“Ax Will Blanchard then an’ let him answer. Maybe you’llbe sorry you spoke arter.”

“You can tell him I want to see him; you can say I order him to cometo the Red House between eight and nine next Monday.”

“Be you a fule? Who’s he, to come at your bidding?”

“He’s a—well, no matter. You’ve got enough totrouble you. But I think he will come. Tell him that I know where he wasduring the autumn and winter of the year that I returned home from Africa.Tell him I know where he came from to marry you. Tell him the grey suit ofclothes reached the owner safely—remember, the grey suit of clothes.That will refresh his memory. Then I think he will come fast enough and letme have the truth concerning this brat. If he refuses, I shall take steps tosee justice done.”

“I lay he’s never put himself in the power of a black-hearted,cruel beast like you,” blazed out the woman, furious and frightened atonce.

“Has he not? Ask him. You don’t know where he was during thosemonths? I thought you didn’t. I do. Perhaps this child—perhapsthe other woman’s the married one—”

Phoebe dropped her basket and her face grew very pale before the horrorsthus coarsely spread before her. She staggered and felt sick at theman’s last speech. Then, with one great sob of breath, she turned herback on him, nerved herself to use her shaking legs, and set off at her bestspeed, as one running from some dangerous beast of the field.

Grimbal made no attempt to follow, but watched her fade into the mist,then turned and pursued his way through the dripping woodlands. Sunrise firesgleamed along the upper layers of the fading vapours and gildedautumn’s handiwork. Ripe seeds fell tapping through the gold of thehorse-chestnuts, and many acorns also pattered down upon a growing carpet ofleaves. Webs and gossamers twinkled in the sunlight, and the flaming foliagemade a pageant of colour through waning mists where red leaves and yellowfell at every breath along the thinning woods. Beneath trees and hedgerowsthe ripe mosses gleamed, and coral and amber fungi, with amanita and otherhooded folk. In companies and clusters they sprang or arose misshapen,sinister, and alone. Some were orange and orange-tawny; others white andpurple; not a few peered forth livid, blotched, and speckled, as with venomspattered from some reptile’s jaws. On the wreck of the year theyflourished, sucked strange life from rotten stick and hollow tree, openedgills on lofty branch and bough, shone in the green grass rings of themeadows, thrust cup and cowl from the concourse of the dead leaves inditches, clustered like the uprising roof-trees of a fairy village in dingleand in dene.

At the edge of the woods John Grimbal stood, and the hour was very darkfor him and he cursed at the loss of his manhood. His heart turned to gallbefore the thought of the thing he had done, as he blankly marvelled whatunsuspected base instinct had thus disgraced him. He had plumbed apossibility unknown within his own character, and before his shatteredself-respect he stood half passionate, half amazed. Chance had thus wreckedhim; an impulse had altered the whole face of the problem; and he gritted histeeth as he thought of Blanchard’s feelings when Phoebe should tell herstory. As for her, she at least had respected him during the past years; butwhat must henceforth be her estimate of him? He heaped bitter contempt uponhimself for this brutality to a woman; he raged, as he pursued long chains ofconsequences begot of this single lapse of self-control. His eye was clearedfrom passion; he saw the base nature of his action and judged himself asothers would judge him. This spectacle produced a definite mental issue andaroused long-stagnant emotions from their troubled slumbers. He discoveredthat a frank hatred of Will Blanchard awoke and lived. He told himself thisman was to blame for all, and not content with poisoning his life, nowravaged his soul also and blighted every outlook of his being. Like a speckupon an eyeball, which blots the survey of the whole eye, so this wretch hadfastened upon him, ruined his ambitions, wrecked his life, and now draggedhis honour and his very manhood into the dust. John Grimbal found himselfnear choked by a raging fit of passion at last. He burnt into sheer frenzyagainst Blanchard; and the fuel of the fire was the consciousness of his owncraven performance of that morning. Flying from self-contemplation, he soughtdistraction and even oblivion at any source where his mind could win it; andnow he laid all blame on his enemy and suffered the passion of his own shameand remorse to rise, as it had been a red mist, against this man who wasplaying havoc with his body and soul. He trembled under the loneliness of thewoods in a debauch of mere brute rage that exhausted him and left a mark onthe rest of his life. Even his present powers appeared trifling and theirexercise a deed unsatisfying before this frenzy. What happiness could beachieved by flinging Blanchard into prison for a few months at most? Whatsalve could be won from thought of this man’s disgrace and social ruin?The spectacle sank into pettiness now. His blood was surging through hisveins and crying for action. Primitive passion gripped him and cravedprimitive outlet. At that hour, in his own deepest degradation, the man camenear madness, and every savage voice in him shouted for blood and blows andbatterings in the flesh.

Phoebe Blauchard hastened home, meanwhile, and kept her own counsel uponthe subject of the dawn’s sensational incidents. Her first instinct wasto tell her husband everything at the earliest opportunity, but Will haddeparted to his work before she reached the farm, and on second thoughts shehesitated to speak or give John Grimbal’s message. She feared toprecipitate the inevitable. In her own heart what mystery revolved aboutWill’s past performances undoubtedly embraced the child fashioned inhis likeness; and though she had long fought against the rumour and deceivedherself by pretending to believe Chris, whose opinion differed from that ofmost people, yet at her heart she felt truth must lie hidden somewhere in thetangle. Will and Mr. Lyddon alone knew nothing of the report, and Phoebehesitated to break it to her husband. He was happy—perhaps in theconsciousness that nobody realised the truth; and yet at his very gates abitter foe guessed at part of his secret and knew the rest. Still Phoebecould not bring herself to speak immediately. A day of mental stress andstrain ended, and she retired and lay beside Will very sad. Under darkness ofnight the threats of the enemy grew into an imminent disaster of terrificdimensions, and with haunting fear she finally slept, to waken in anightmare.

Will, wholly ignorant of the facts, soothed Phoebe’s alarm andcalmed her as she clung to him in hysterical tears.

“No ill shall come to ’e while I live,” she sobbed:“not if all the airth speaks evil of ’e. I’ll cleave to’e, and fight for ’e, an’ be a gude wife, tu,—abetter wife than you’ve been husband.”

“Bide easy, an’ doan’t cry no more. My arm’s round’e, dearie. Theer, give awver, do! You’ve been dreamin’ugly along o’ the poor supper you made, I reckon. Doan’t ’ethink nobody’s hand against me now, for ban’t so. Folks begin tosee the manner of man I am; an’ Miller knaws, which is all I careabout. He’ve got a strong right arm workin’ for him an’ atidy set o’ brains, though I sez it; an’ you might have a worsehusband, tu, Phoebe; but theer—shut your purty eyes—I knaw they’m awpen still, for I can hear your lashes against the sheet. An’doan’t ’e go out in the early dews mushrooming no more, for’t is cold work, an’ you’ve got to be strong these nextmonths.”

She thought for a moment of telling him boldly concerning the legendspreading on every side; but, like others less near and dear to him, shefeared to do so.

Knowing Will Blanchard, not a man among the backbiters had cared to risk abroken head by hinting openly at the startling likeness between the child andhimself; and Phoebe felt her own courage unequal to the task just then. Sheracked her brains with his dangers long after he was himself asleep, andfinally she determined to seek Chris next morning and hear her opinion beforetaking any definite step.

On the same night another pair of eyes were open, and trouble of a sortonly less deep than that of the wife kept her father awake. Billy had takenan opportunity to tell his master of the general report and spread before himthe facts as he knew them.

The younger members of the household had retired early, and when MillerLyddon took the cards from the mantelpiece and made ready for their customarygame, Mr. Blee shook his head and refused to play.

“Got no heart for cards to-night,” he said.

“What’s amiss, then? Thank God I’ve heard little to callill news for a month or two. Not but what I’ve fancied a shadow on mygal’s face more’n wance.”

“If not on hers, wheer should ’e see it?” asked Mr. Bleeeagerly.“ I’ve seed it, tu, an’ for that mattertheer’s sour looks an’ sighs elsewheer. People ban’t blind,worse luck. ’Tis grawed to be common talk, an’ I’ve firedmyself to tell you, ’cause ’tis fitting an’ right,an’ it might come more grievous from less careful lips.”

“Go on then; an’ doan’t rack me longer’n you canhelp. Use few words.”

“Many words must go to it, I reckon. ’Tis well knawn I unfoldsa bit o’ news like the flower of the field—gradual and sure. Youmight have noticed that love-cheel by the name of Timothy ’bout theplaace? Him as be just of age to harry the ducks an’such-like.”

“A nice li’l bwoy, tu, an’ fond of me; an’ youcaan’t say he’m a love-cheel, knawin’ nothin’’bout him.”

“Love-cheel or changeling, ’tis all wan. Have’e everthought ’twas coorious the way Blanchard comed by un?”

“Certainly ’twas—terrible coorious.”

“You never doubted it?”

“Why for should I? Will’s truthful as light, whatever else hemay be.”

“You believe as he went ’pon the Moor an’ found thatbwoy in a roundy-poundy under the gloamin’?”

“Ess, I do.”

“Have’e ever looked at the laddie close?”

“Oftentimes—so like Will as two peas.”

“Theer ’tis! The picter of Will! How do’e readthat?”

“Never tried to. An accident, no more.”

“A damn queer accident, if you ax me. Burnish it all! Youdoan’t see yet, such a genius of a man as you tu! Why, WillBlanchard’s the faither of the li’l twoad! You’ve awnly gotto know the laws of nature an’ such-like to swear to it. The way hewalks an’ holds his head, his curls, his fashion of lording it awverthe birds an’ beasts, the sudden laugh of un—he’sWill’s son, for a thousand pound, an’ his mother’s alive,like as not.”

“No mother would have gived up a child that way.”

“’Zactly so! Onless she gived it to the faither!” saidBilly triumphantly.

Mr. Lyddon reflected and showed an evident disposition to scoff at thewhole story.

“’Tis stuff an’ rubbish!” he said. “Youmight as well find a mare’s nest t’other side an’ say’twas Will’s sister’s child. ’Tis almost so like heras him, an’ got her brown eyes in the bargain.”

“God forbid!” answered Billy, in horror. “That’sflat libel, an’ I’d be the last to voice any such thing formoney. If a man gets a cheel wrong side the blanket ’tis just a passingsarcumstance, an’ not to be took too serious. Half-a-crown a week isits awn punishment like. But if a gal do, ’tis destruction to the endof the chapter, an’ shame everlasting in the world to come, by allaccounts. You didn’t ought to think o’ such things,Miller,—takin’ a pure, gude maiden’s carater like that.Surprised at ’e!”

“’Tis just as mad a thought wan way as t’other, and ifyou’m surprised so be I. To be a tale-bearer at your time o’life!”

“That gormed Blanchard’s bewitched ’e from fust tolast!” burst out Billy. “If a angel from heaven comed down-longand tawld ’e the truth ’bout un, you wouldn’tb’lieve. God stiffen it! You make me mad! You’d stand ’ponyour head an’ waggle your auld legs in the air for un if he axed’e.”

“I’ll speak to him straight an’ take his word for it. Ifit’s true, he ’m wickedly to blame, I knaw that.”

“I was thinkin’ of your darter. ’Tis black thoughts havekept her waking since this reached her ears.”

“Did you tell her what people were sayin’? I warrant youdid!”

“You’m wrong then. No such thing. I may have just heaved asigh when I seed the bwoy playin’ in front of her, an’ looked atBlanchard, an’ shook my head, or some such gentle hint as that. But nomore.”

“Well, I doan’t believe a word of it; an’ I’lltell you this for your bettering,—’tis poor religion in you,Blee, to root into other people’s troubles, like a pig in a trough;an’ auld though you be, you ’m not tu auld to mind what it feltlike when the blood was hot an’ quick to race at the sight of amaid.”

“I practice same as I preach, whether or no,” said Billystoutly, “an’ I can’t lay claim to creating nothing lawfulor unlawful in my Maker’s image. ’Tis something to say that, inthese godless days. I’ve allus kept my foot on the world, the flesh,an’ the Devil so tight as the best Christian in company; an’ ifthat ban’t a record for a stone, p’raps you’ll tell me abetter. Your two-edged tongue do make me feel sometimes as though I did oughtto go right away from ’e, though God knaws—God, Heknaws—”

Billy hid his face and began to weep, while Mr. Lyddon watched thecandle-light converge to a shining point upon his bald skull.

“Doan’t go against a word in season, my dear sawl. ’Tisour duty to set each other right. That’s what we’m put here for,I doubt. Many’s the time you’ve given me gude advice, an’I’ve thanked ’e an’ took it.”

Then he went for the spirits and mixed Mr. Blee a dose of more than usualstrength.

“You’m the most biting user of language in Chagford, when youmind to speak sour,” declared Billy. “If I thought you meant allyou said, I’d go an’ hang myself in the barn this instant moment.But you doan’t.”

He snuffled and dried his scanty tears on a red handkerchief, then cheeredup and drank his liquor.

“It do take all sorts to make a world, an’ a man must actaccordin’ as he’m built,” continued Mr. Lyddon.“Ban’t no more use bein’ angered wi’ a chap given towomen than ’tis bein’ angered wi’ a fule, becausehe’s a fule. What do ’e expect from a fule but folly, or a crabtree but useless fruit, or hot blood but the ways of it? This ban’t tospeak of Will Blanchard, though. ’Pon him we’ll say no more tillhe’ve heard what’s on folks’ tongues. A maddeningbwoy—I’ll allow you that—an’ he’ve took a yearor two off my life wan time an’ another. ’Pears I ban’tnever to graw to love un as I would; an’ yet I caan’t quite helpit when I sees his whole-hearted ferment to put money into my pocket; or whenI hears him talk of nitrates an’ the ways o’ the world; orwatches un playin’ make-believe wi’ the childer—himself thebiggest cheel as ever laughed at fulishness or wanted spankin’an’ putting in the corner.”

CHAPTER VIII
FLIGHT

On the following morning Miller Lyddon arose late, looked from his windowand immediately observed the twain with whom his night thoughts had beenconcerned. Will stood at the gate smoking; small Timothy, and another lad, ofslightly riper years, appeared close by. The children were fighting tooth andnail upon the ownership of a frog, and this reptile itself, fastened by theleg to a stick, listlessly watched the progress of the battle. Will likewisesurveyed the scene with genial attention, and encouraged the particularlittle angry animal who had most claim upon his interest. Timothy kicked andstruck out pretty straight, but fought in silence; the bigger boy screamedand howled and scratched.

“Vang into un, man, an’ knock his ugly head off!” saidWill encouragingly, and the babe to whom he spoke made renewed efforts asboth combatants tumbled into the road, the devil in their little bright eyes,each puny muscle straining. Tim had his foe by the hair, and the elder wastrying to bite his enemy’s leg, when Martin Grimbal and Chris Blanchardapproached from Rushford Bridge. They had met by chance, and Chris was comingto the farm while the antiquary had business elsewhere. Now a scuffle in acloud of dust arrested them and the woman, uninfluenced by considerations ofsportsmanship, pounced upon Timothy, dragged him from his operations, and,turning to Will, spoke as Martin Grimbal had never heard her speakbefore.

“You, a grawed man, to stand theer an’ see that gert wildbeast of a bwoy tear this li’l wan like a savage tiger! Look at hissclowed faace all streaming wi’ blood! ’S truth! I’d liketo sarve you the same, an’ I would for two pins! I’m ashamed of’e!”

“He hit wi’ his fistes like a gude un,” said Will,grinning; “an’ he’m made o’ the right stuff,I’ll swear. Couldn’t have done better if he was my awn son. I begwaine to give un a braave toy bimebye. You see t’other kid’sfaace come to-morrow!”

Martin Grimbal watched Chris fondle the gasping Timothy, clean his wounds,calm his panting heart; then, as though a superhuman voice whispered in hisear, her secret stood solved, and the truth of Timothy’s parentageconfronted him in a lightning flash of the soul. He looked at Chris as a manmight gaze upon a spectre; he stared at her and through her into her past; hepieced each part of the puzzle to its kindred parts until all stood complete;he read “mother” in her voice, in her caressing hands andgleaming eyes as surely as man reads morning in the first light of dawn; andhe marvelled that a thing so clear and naked had been left to his discovery.The revelation shook him not a little, for he was familiar with the rumoursconcerning Tim’s paternity, and had been disposed to believe them; butfrom the moment of the new thought’s inception it gripped him, for hefelt that the thing was true. As lamps, so ordered that the light of each mayfall on the fringe of darkness where its fellow fades, and thus complete achain of illumination, so the present discovery, duly considered, was but onepoint of truth revealing others. It made clear much that had not been easy tounderstand, and the tremendous fact rose in his mind as a link in such aperfect sequence of evidence that doubt actually vanished before he had lostsight of Chris and passed dumfounded upon his way. Her lover’s suddendeath, her own disappearance, the child’s advent at Newtake, and thewoman’s subsequent return—these main incidents connected athousand others and explained what little mystery still obscured theposition. He pursued his road and marvelled as he went how a tragedy sothinly veiled had thus escaped every eye. Within the story that Chris hadtold, this other story might be intercalated without convicting her of anyspoken falsehood. Now he guessed at the reason why Timothy’s mother hadrefused to marry him on his last proposal; then, thinking of the child, heknew Tim’s father.

So he stood before the truth; and it filled his heart with some agony andsome light. Examining his love in this revelation, he discovered strangethings; and first, that it was love only that had opened his eyes and enabledhim to solve the secret at all. Nobody had made the discovery but himself,and he, of all men the least likely to come at any concern others desired tohide from him, had fathomed this great fact, had won it from the heart ofunconscious Chris. His love widened and deepened into profound pity as hethought of all that her secret and the preservation of it must have meant;and tears dimmed his eyes as he pictured her life since her lover’spassing.

To him the discovery hurt Chris so little that for a time he underratedthe effect of it upon other people. His affection rose clean above theunhappy fact, and it was some time before he began to appreciate thespectacle of Chris under the world’s eye with the truth no longerhidden. Then a sense of his own helplessness overmastered him; he walkedslowly, drew up at a gate and stood motionless, leaning over it. So silentdid he stand, and so long, that a stoat hopped across the road within twoyards of him.

He realised to the full that he was absolutely powerless. Chris alone mustdisperse the rumours fastening on her brother if they were to be dispersed.He knew that she would not suffer any great cloud of unjust censure to restupon Will, and he saw what a bitter problem must be overwhelming her. Nobodycould help her and he, who knew, was as powerless as the rest. Then he askedhimself if that last conviction was true. He probed the secret places of hismind to find an idea; he prayed for some chance spark or flash of genius toaid him before this trial; he mourned his own simple brains, so weak to aidhim in this vital pass. But of all living men the accidental discovery wasmost safe with him. His heart went out to the secret mother, and he toldhimself that he would guard her mystery like gold.

It was strange in a nature so timorous that not once did a suspicion hehad erred overtake him, and presently he wondered to observe how ancient thisdiscovery of the motherhood of Chris had grown within his mind. It appearedas venerable as his own love for her. He yearned for power to aid; withoutconscious direction of his course he proceeded and strode along for hours.Then he ate a meal of bread and cheese at an inn and tramped forward oncemore upon a winding road towards the village of Zeal.

Through his uncertainty, athwart the deep perplexity of his mind, movedhope and a shadowed joy. Within him arose again the vision of happiness oncepictured and prayed for, once revived, never quite banished to the grey limboof ambitions beyond fulfilment. Now realities saddened the thought of it andbrought ambition within a new environment less splendid than the old. But,despite clouds, hope shone fairly forth at last. So a planet, that the eyehas followed at twilight and then lost a while, beams anew at dawn afterlapse of days, and wheels in wide mazes upon some new background of theunchanging stars.

Elsewhere Mr. Lyddon braced himself to a painful duty, and had privatespeech with his son-in-law. Like a thunderbolt the circling suspicions fellon Will, and for a moment smothered his customary characteristics under sheersurprise.

The miller spoke nervously, and walked up and down with his eyesaverted.

“Ban’t no gert matter, I hope, an’ I won’t keep’e from your work five minutes. You’ve awnly got to say‘No,’ an’ theer’s an end of it so far as I’mconcerned. ’Tis this: have ’e noticed heads close together nowan’ again when you passed by of late?”

“Not me. Tu much business on my hands, I assure ’e. Cooursetheer’s envious whisperings; allus is when a man gets a high place,same as what I have, thanks to his awn gude sense an’ the wisdom ofothers as knaws what he’s made of. But you trusted me wi’ allyour heart, an’ you’ll never live to mourn it.”

“I never want to. You’m grawing to be much to me by slowstages. Yet these here tales. This child Timothy. Who’s his faither,Will, an’ who’s his mother?”

“How the flaming hell should I knaw? I found him same as you finds aberry on a briar. That’s auld history, surely?”

“The child graws so ’mazing like you, that even dim eyes suchas mine can see it.”

A sudden flash of light came into Blanchard’s face. Then the firedied as quickly as it had been kindled, and he grew calm.

“God A’mighty!” he said, in a voice hushed and awed.“They think that! I lay that’s why your darter’s criedo’ nights, then, an’ Chris have grawed sad an’ wisht in herways, an’ mother have pet the bwoy wan moment an’ been shortwi’ un the next.”

He remained marvellously quiet under this attack, but amazement chieflymarked his attitude. Miller Lyddon, encouraged by this unexpectedreasonableness, spoke again more sternly.

“The thing looks bad to a wife an’ mother, an’’tis my duty to ax ’e for a plain, straightforward answer’pon it. Human nature’s got a ugly trick of repeatin’itself in this matter, as we all knaws. But I’ll say nought an’think nought till you answers me. Be the bwoy yourn or not? Tell me true,with your hand on this.”

He took his Bible from the mantelpiece, while Will, apparently cowed bythe gravity of the situation, placed both palms upon it, then fixed his eyessolemnly upon Mr. Lyddon.

“As God in heaven’s my judge, he ban’t no cheel of mine,and I knaw nothing about him—no, nor yet his faither nor mother norplaace of birth. I found un wheer I said, and if I’ve lied by afraction, may God choke me as I stand here afore you.”

“An’ I believe you to the bottom!” declared hisfather-in-law. “I believe you as I hopes to be believed myself, when Istands afore the Open Books an’ says I’ve tried to do my duty.You’ve got me on your side, an’ that’s to say you’llhave Phoebe an’ your mother, tu, for certain.”

Then Blanchard’s mood changed, and there came a tremendous reboundfrom the tension of the last few minutes. In the anti-climax following uponhis oath, passion, chained a while by astonishment, broke loose in awhirlwind.

“Let ’em believe or disbelieve, who cares?” he thunderedout. “Not me—not a curse for you or anybody, my awn blood or notmy awn blood. To harbour lies against me! But women loves to believe bad mosttimes.”

“Who said they believed it, Will? Doan’t go mad, now’tis awver and done.”

“They did believe it; I knaw, I seed it in theer faaces, cometo think of it. ’Tis the auld song. I caan’t do no right. CourseI’ve got childer an’ ruined maids in every parish of the Moor!God damn theer lying, poisonous tongues, the lot of ’em! I’m sickof this rotten, lie-breeding hole, an’ of purty near every sawl in itbut mother. She never would think against me. An’ me, so true to Phoebeas the honey-bee to his awn butt! I’ll go—I’ll get out ofit—so help me, I will—to a clean land, ’mongstclean-thinking folk, wheer men deal fair and judge a chap by his works. For athought I’d wring the neck of the blasted child, by God Iwould!”

“He’ve done no wrong.”

“Nor me neither. I had no more hand in his getting than he hadhimself. Poor li’l brat; I’m sorry I spoke harsh of him. He wasgive me—he was give me—an’ I wish to God he wasmine. Anyways he shaa’n’t come to no harm. I’ll fight thelot of ’e for un, till he ’s auld enough to fight forhisself.”

Then Will burst out of Monks Barton and vanished. He passed far from theconfines of the farm, roamed on to the high Moor, and nothing further wasseen of him until the following day.

Those most concerned assembled after his departure and heard the result ofthe interview.

“Solemn as a minister he swore,” explained Mr. Lyddon;“an’ then, a’most before his hands was off the Book, heburst out like a screeching, ravin’ hurricane. I half felt the oath wasvain then, an’ ’t was his real nature bubblin’ uplike.”

They discussed the matter, all save Chris, who sat apart, silent andabstracted. Presently she rose and left them, and faced her own troublesingle-handed, as she had similarly confronted greater sorrows in thepast.

She was fully determined to conceal her cherished secret still; yet notfor the superficial reason that had occurred to any mind. Vast mentalalterations had transformed Chris Blanchard since the death of Clement. Herfamily she scarcely considered now; no power of logic would have convincedher that she had wronged them or darkened their fame. In the past, indeed,not the least motive of her flight had centred in the fear of Will; but nowshe feared nobody, and her own misfortune held no shadow of sin or shame forher, looking back upon it. Those who would have denied themselves her societyor friendship upon this knowledge it would have given her no pang to lose.She could feel fiercely still, as she looked back to the birth of her son andtraced the long course of her sufferings; and she yet experienced occasionalthrills of satisfaction in her weaker moments, when she lowered the mask andreflected, not without pride, on the strength and determination that hadenabled her to keep her secret. But to reveal the truth now was a prospectaltogether hateful in the eyes of Chris, and she knew the reason. More thanonce had she been upon the brink of disclosure, since recent unhappysuspicions had darkened Phoebe’s life; but she had postponed thenecessary step again and again, at one thought. Her fortitude, her apathy,her stoic indifference, broke down and left her all woman before onenecessity of confession; her heart stood still when she remembered thatMartin Grimbal must know and judge. His verdict she did, indeed, dread withall her soul, and his only; for him she had grown to love, and the thought ofhis respect and regard was precious to her. Everybody must know, everybody ornobody. For long she could conceive of no action clearing Will in the eyes ofthe wider circle who would not be content to take his word, and yet leavingherself uninvolved. Then the solution came. She would depart once more withthe child. Such a flight was implicit confession, and could not bemisunderstood. Martin must, indeed, know, but she would never see him afterhe knew. To face him after the truth had reached his ear seemed to Chris acircumstance too terrible to dwell upon. Her action, of course, wouldproclaim the parentage of Timothy, and free Will from further slanderings;while for herself, through tears she saw the kind faces of the gypsy peopleand her life henceforth devoted to her little one.

To accentuate the significance of the act she determined to carry out herintention that same day, and during the afternoon opportunity offered. Herson, playing alone in the farmyard, came readily enough for a walk, andbefore three o’clock they had set out. The boy’s face was badlyscratched from his morning battle, but pain had ceased, and his injuries onlyserved as an object of great interest to Timothy. Where water in ditch orpuddle made a looking-glass he would stop to survey himself.

A spectator, aware of certain facts, had viewed the progress of Chris withsome slight interest. Three ways were open to her, three main thoroughfaresleading out of Chagford to places of parallel or greater importance. Upon theMoor road Will wandered in deep perturbation; on that to Okehampton walkedanother man, concerned with the same problem from a different aspect; thethird highway led to Moreton; and thither Chris might have proceededunchallenged. But a little public vehicle would be returning just then fromthe railway station. That the runaway knew, and therefore selected anotherpath.

In her pocket was all the money that she had; in her heart was a sort ofalloyed sorrow. Two thoughts shared her mind after she had decided upon acourse of action. She wondered how quickly Tim would learn to call her“mother,” for that was the only sweet word life still held; yetof the child’s father she did not think, for her mind, without specialact of volition, turned and turned again to him upon whom the Indian summerof her love had descended.

CHAPTER IX
UNDER COSDON BEACON

Beneath a region where the “newtakes” straggle upCosdon’s eastern flank and mark a struggle between man and the giantbeacon, Chris Blanchard rested a while upon the grass by the highway. Tim,wrapped in a shawl, slept soundly beside his mother, and she sat with herelbows on her knees and one hand under her chin. It was already dusk; darkmist wreaths moved upon the Moor, and oncoming night winds sighed of rain.Then a moment before her intended departure from this most solitary spot sheheard footsteps upon the road. Not interested to learn anything of thepasser-by, Chris remained with her eyes upon the ground, but the footstepsstopped suddenly before her, whereupon she looked up and saw MartinGrimbal.

After a perambulation of twenty miles he had now set his face homewards,and thus the meeting was accomplished. Utmost constraint at first marked theexpression of both man and woman, and it was left for Martin to break thesilence, for Chris only started at seeing him, but said nothing. Her mind,however, ranged actively upon the reason of Grimbal’s suddenappearance, and she did not at first believe it accidental.

“Why, my dear, what is this? You have wandered farafield!”

He addressed her in unnatural tones, for surprise and emotion sent hisvoice up into his head, and it came thin and tremulous as a woman’s.Even as he spoke Martin feared. From the knowledge gleaned by him thatmorning he suspected the meaning of this action, and thought that Chris wasrunning away.

And she, at the same moment, divined that he guessed the truth in so faras the present position was concerned. Still she did not speak, and he grewcalmer and took her silence as an admission.

“You’re going away from Chagford? Is it wise?”

“Ess, Martin, ’tis best so. You see this poor child bebreedin’ trouble, an’ bringing bad talk against Will. Heban’t wanted—little Timothy—an’ I ban’t wantedovermuch, so it comed to me I’d—I’d just slip away out ofthe turmoil an’ taake Tim. Then—”

She stopped, for her heart was beating so fast that she could speak nomore. She remembered her own arguments in the recent past,—that thisflight must tell all who cared to reflect that the child was her own. Now shelooked up at Martin to see if he had guessed it. But he exhibited extremeself-control and she was reassured.

“Just like your thoughtful self to try and save others from sorrow.Where are you going to, Chris? Don’t tell me more than you please; butI may be useful to you on this, the first stage of the journey.”

“To Okehampton to-night. To-morrow—but I’d rather notsay any more. I don’t care so long as you think I’mright.”

“I haven’t said that yet. But I’ll go as far as Zealwith you. Then we’ll get a covered cab or something. We may reach thevillage before rain.”

“No call for your coming. ’Tis awnly a short mile.”

“But I must. I’ll carry the laddie. Poor little man! Hard tobe the cause of such a bother.”

He picked Timothy up so gently that the child did not wake.

“Now,” he said, “come along. You must be tiredalready.”

“How gude you be!” she said wearily. “I’m glad youdoan’t scold or fall into a rage wi’ me, for I knaw I’mright. The bwoy’s better away, and I’m small use to any now. ButI can be busy with this little wan. I might do worse than give up my life toun—eh, Martin?”

Then some power put words in his mouth. He trembled when he had spokenthem, but he would not have recalled them.

“You couldn’t do better. It’s a duty staring you in theface.”

She started violently, and her dark skin flamed under the night.

“Why d’you say that?” she asked, with loud, harsh voice,and stopping still as she did so. “Why d’you say‘duty’?”

He, too, stood and looked at her.

“My dear,” he answered, “love’s a quick, subtlething. It can make even such a man as I am less stupid than Nature built him.It fires dull brains; it adds sight to dim eyes; it shows the bookworm how tofind out secrets hidden from keener spirits; it lifts a veil from the lovedone and lets the lover see more than anybody else can. Be patient with me. Ispoke because I love you still with all my heart and soul, Chris; I spoke,because what I feel for you is lifelong, and cannot change. Had I not stillworshipped the earth under your feet I would have died rather than tell you.But love makes me bold. I have watched you so long and prayed for you sooften. I have seen little differences in you that nobody else saw. And to-dayI know. I knew when you picked up Timothy and flew at Will. Since thenI’ve wandered Heaven can tell where, just thinking and thinking andwondering and seeing no way. And all the time God meant me to come and findyou and tell you.”

She understood; she gave one bitter cry that started an echo from ruinedmine-workings hard at hand; then she turned from him, and, in a moment ofsheer hopeless misery, flung herself and her wrecked ambitions upon theground by the wayside.

For a moment the man stood scared by this desperate answer to his words.Then he put his burden down, approached Chris, knelt beside her, and tried toraise her. She sat up at last with panting breast and eyes in which someterror sat.

“You!” she said. “You to knaw! Wasn’t my cup fullenough before but that my wan hope should be cut away, tu? My God, I’mauld in sorrow now—very auld. But ’t is awver at last.You knaw, an’ I had to hear it from your awn lips! Theer ’snought worse in the world for me now.”

Her hands were pressed against her bosom, and as he unconsciously moved alittle towards her she shrank backwards, then rose to her feet. Timothy wokeand cried, upon which she turned to him and picked him up.

“Go!” she cried suddenly. “If ever you loved me, get outof my sight now, or you’ll make me want to kill myselfagain.”

He saw the time was come for strong self-assertion, and spoke.

“Listen!” he said. “You don’t understand, but youmust. I’m the only man in the world who knows—the only one, andI’ve told you because it was stamped into my brain to tell you, andbecause I love you perhaps better than one creature has any right to loveanother.”

“You knaw. Isn’t it enough? Who else did I care for? Who elsemattered to me? Mother or brother or other folk? I pray you to go an’leave me. God knaws how hard it was to hide it, but I hugged it an’suffered more ’n any but a mother could fathom ’cause things weeras they weer. Then came this trouble, an’ still none seed. But ’twas meant you should, an’ the rest doan’t matter. I’d sosoon go back now as not.”

“So you shall,” he answered calmly; “only hear thisfirst. Last time I spoke about what was in my heart, Chris, you told me youcould love me, but that you would not marry me, and I said I would never askyou again. I shall keep my word, sweetheart. I shall not ask; I shall takewithout asking. You love me; that is all I care for. The little boy camebetween last time; now nothing does.”

He took the woman in his arms and kissed her, but the next moment he wasflying to where water lay in a ditch, for his unexpected attitude hadoverpowered Chris. She raised her hands to his shoulders, uttered a faintcry, then slipped heavily out of his arms in a faint. The man rushed this wayand that, the child sat and howled noisily, the woman remained longunconscious, and heavy rain began to fall out of the darkness; yet, to hisdying day that desolate spot of earth brought light to Martin’s eyes asoften as he passed it.

Chris presently recovered her senses, and spoke words that made herlover’s heart leap. She uttered them in a sad, low voice, but her handwas in his, pressing it close the while.

“Awften an’ awften I’ve axed the A’mighty to giveme wan little glint o’ knawledge as how ’twould all end. IfI’d knawed! But I never guessed how big your sawl was, Martin. I neverthought you was the manner of man to love a woman arter that.”

“God knows what’s in my heart, Chris.”

“I’ll tell ’e everything some day. Lookin’ back itdoan’t ’pear no ways wicked, though it may seem so in colddaylight to cold hearts.”

“Come, come with me, for the rain grows harder. I know where I canhire a covered carriage at an inn. ’Tis only five minutes farther on,and poor Tim’s unhappy.”

“He’m hungry. You won’t be hard ’pon my li’lbwoy if I come to ’e, Martin?”

“You know as well as I can tell you. There’s one other thing.About Chagford, Chris? Are you afraid of it? I’ll turn my back on it ifyou like. I’ll take you to Okehampton now if you would rather gothere.”

“Never! ’Tis for you to care, not me. So you knaw an’forgive—what’s the rest? Shadows. But let me hold your handan’ keep my tongue still. I’m sick an’ fainty wi’this gert turn o’ the wheel. ’T is tu deep for anywords.”

He felt not less uplifted, but his joy was a man’s. It rolled andtumbled over his being like the riotous west wind. Under such stress his mindcould find no worthy thing to say, and yet he was intoxicated and had tospeak. He was very unlike himself. He uttered platitudes; then the weight ofTimothy upon his arm reminded him that the child existed.

“He shall go to a good school, Chris.”

She sighed.

“I wish I could die quick here by the roadside, dear Martin, forliving along with you won’t be no happier than I am this moment. Mythoughts do all run back, not forward. I’ve lived long enough, Ireckon. If I’d told ’e! But I’d rather been skinned alivethan do it. I’d have let the rest knaw years agone but foryou.”

Driving homewards half an hour later, Chris Blanchard told Martin thatpart of her story which concerned her life after the birth of Timothy.

“The travellin’ people was pure gawld to me,” she said.“And theer’s much to say of theer gert gudeness. But I can tell’e that another time. It chanced the very day Will’s li’lwan was buried we was to Chagford, an’ the sad falling-out quickened myawn mind as to a thought ’bout my cheel. It comed awver me to leave unat Newtake. I left the vans wheer they was camped that afternoon, an’hid ’pon the hill wi’ the baaby. Then Will comed out hisself,an’ I chaanged my thought an’ followed un wheer he roamed,knawin’ the colour of his mind through them black hours as if’twas my awn. ’Twas arter he’d left the roundy-poundy wheerhe was born that I put my child in it, then called tu un loud an’clear. He never knawed the voice, which was the awnly thing I feared. But avoice long silent be soon forgot. I bided at hand till I saw the bwoy inbrother Will’s arms. An’ then I knawed ’twas well an’that mother would come to see it. Arterwards I suffered very terriblewi’out un. But I fought wi’ myself an’ kept away up to thetime I’d fixed in my mind. That was so as nobody should link me withthe li’l wan in theer thoughts. Waitin’ was the hard deed, andseein’ my bwoy for the first time when I went to Newtake was hard tu.But ’tis all wan now.”

She remained silent until the lengthy ride was ended and hermother’s cottage reached. Then, as that home she had thought to enterno more appeared again, the nature of the woman awoke for one second, and sheflung herself on Martin’s heart.

“May God make me half you think me, for I love you true, an’you’m the best man He ever fashioned,” she said. “An’to-morrow’s Sunday,” she added inconsequently, “an’I’ll kneel in church an’ call down lifelong blessings on’e.”

“Don’t go to-morrow, my darling. And yet—but no,we’ll not go, either of us. I couldn’t hear my own banns read outfor the world, and I don’t think you could; yet read they’ll beas sure as the service is held.”

She said nothing, but he knew that she felt; then mother and child weregone, and Martin, dismissing his vehicle, proceeded to Monks Barton with thenews that all was well.

Mrs. Blanchard heard her daughter’s story and its sequel. Sheexhibited some emotion, but no grief. The sorrow she may have suffered wasnever revealed to any eye by word or tear.

“I reckoned of late days theer was Blanchard blood to thechild,” she said, “an’ I won’t hide from you Ithought more’n wance you was so like to be the mother as Will thefaither of un. Go to bed now, if you caan’t eat, an’ taake thebwoy, an’ thank God for lining your dark cloud with this silver. If Heforgives ’e, an’ this here gude grey Martin forgives ’e,who be I to fret? Worse’n you’ve been forgived at fust hand bythe Lard when He travelled on flesh-an’-blood feet ’mong men;an’ folks have short memories for dates, an’ them as sniggers nowwill be dust or dotards ’fore Tim’s grawed. When you’vebeen a lawful wife ten year an’ more, who’s gwaine to mind this?Not little Tim’s fellow bwoys an’ gals, anyway. His awngeneration won’t trouble him, an’ he’ll find a wiseguardian in Martin, an’ a lovin’ gran’mother in me. Dryyour eyes an’ be a Blanchard. God A’mighty sends sawls in theworld His awn way, an’ chooses the faithers an’ mothers for’em; an’ He’s never taught Nature to go second to parsonyet, worse luck. ’Tis done, an’ to grumble at a dead man’sdoin’s—specially if you caan’t mend ’em—bevain.”

“My share was half, an’ not less,” said Chris.

“Aye, you say so, but ’tis a deed wheer the blame ban’tawften divided equal,” answered Mrs. Blanchard. “Wheer’sthe maiden as caan’t wait for her weddin’ bells?”

The use of the last two words magically swept Chris back into the past.The coincidence was curious, and she remembered when a man, destined never tolisten to such melody, declared impatiently that he heard it in the hiddenheart of a summer day long past. She did not reply to her mother, but aroseand took her child and went to rest.

CHAPTER X
BAD NEWS FOR BLANCHARD

On the morning that saw the wedding of Chris and Martin, Phoebe Blanchardfound heart and tongue to speak to her husband of the thing she still keptlocked within her mind. Since the meeting with John Grimbal she had sufferedmuch in secret, but still kept silence; and now, after a quiet service beforebreakfast on a morning in mid-December, most of those who had been present asspectators returned to the valley, and Phoebe spoke to Will as they walkedapart from the rest. A sight of the enemy it was that loosed her lips, for,much to the surprise of all present, John Grimbal had attended hisbrother’s wedding. As the little gathering streamed away after theceremony, he had galloped off again with a groom behind him, and the incidentnow led to greater things.

“Chill-fashion weddin’,” said Will, as he walkedhomewards, “but it ’pears to me all Blanchards be fated to wedcoorious. Well, ’t is a gude matter out o’ hand. I knaw I ragedsomethin’ terrible come I fust heard it, but I think differ’ntnow, specially when I mind what Chris must have felt those times she seed mewelting her child an’ heard un yell, yet set her teeth an’ nevershawed a sign.”

“Did ’e note Jan Grimbal theer?”

“I seed un, an’ I catched un wi’ his eye on you more’n wance. He ’s grawed to look nowadays as if his mouth allus hada sour plum in it.”

“His brain’s got sour stuff hid in it if his mouthhaven’t. Be you ever feared of un?”

“Not me. Why for should I be? He’ll be wan of the fam’lylike, now. He caan’t keep his passion alive for ever. We ’mlikely to meet when Martin do come home again from honeymooning.”

“Will, I must tell you something—something gert an’terrible. I should have told ’e ’fore now but I wasfrightened.”

“Not feared to speak to me?”

“Ess, seeing the thing I had to say. I’ve waited weeks in fearan’ tremblin’, expecting something to happen, an’ allweighed down with fright an’ dread. Now, what wi’ the cheelthat’s comin’, I caan’t carry this any more.”

Being already lachrymose, after the manner of women at a wedding, Phoebenow shed a tear or two. Will thereupon spoke words of comfort, and blamed herfor hiding any matter from him.

“More trouble?” he said. “Yet I doan’t thinkit,—not now,—just as I be right every way. I guess ’t isyour state makes you queer an’ glumpy.”

“I hope ’t was vain talk an’ not true anyway.”

“More talk ’bout me? You’d think Chagford was most tiredo’ my name, wouldn’t ’e? Who was it now?”

“Him—Jan Grimbal. I met him ’mong the mushrooms. Heburst out an’ said wicked, awful things, but his talk touched theli’l bwoy. He thought Tim was yourn an’ he was gwaine to domischief against you.”

“Damn his black mind! I wonder he haven’t rotted awaywi’ his awn bile ’fore now.”

“But that weern’t all. He talked an’ talked, an’threatened if you didn’t go an’ see him, as he’d tell’bout you in the past, when you was away that autumn-time ’foreus was married.”

“Did he, by God! Doan’t he wish he knawed!”

“He does knaw, Will—least he said he did.”

“Never dream it, Phoebe. ’T is a lie. For why? ’Cause ifhe did knaw I shouldn’t—but theer, I’ve never tawld’e, an’ I ban’t gwaine to now. Awnly I’ll saythis,—if Grimbal really knawed he’d have—but he can’tknaw, and theer ’s an end of it.”

“To think I should have been frighted by such a story all theseweeks! An’ not true. Oh! I wish I’d told ’e when he sentthe message. ’T would have saved me so much.”

“Ess, never keep nothin’ from me, Phoebe. Theer ’stroubles that might crush wan heart as comes a light load divided betweentwo. What message?”

“Some silly auld story ’bout a suit of grey clothes. He said Iwas to tell ’e the things was received by the awner.”

Will Blanchard stood still so suddenly that it seemed as though magic hadturned him into stone. He stood, and his hands unclasped, and Phoebe’schurch service which he carried fell with a thud into the road. His wifewatched him change colour, and noted in his face an expression she had neverbefore seen there.

“Christ A’mighty!” he whispered, with his eyesreflecting a world of sheer amazement and even terror; “he doesknaw!”

“What? Knaw what, Will? For the Lard’s sake doan’t’e look at me like that; you’ll frighten my heart into mymouth.”

“To think he knawed an’ watched an’ waited all theseyears! The spider patience o’ that man! I see how ’t was. He letthe world have its way an’ thought to see me broken wi’out anytrouble from him. Then, when I conquered, an’ got to Miller’sright hand, an’ beat the world at its awn game, he—an’ beennursing this against me! The heart of un!”

He spoke to himself aloud, gazing straight before him at nothing.

“Will, tell me what ’t is. Caan’t your awn true wifehelp ’e now or never?”

Recalled by her words he came to himself, picked up her book, and walkedon. She spoke again and then he answered,—

“No, ’t is a coil wheer you caan’t do nought—nornobody. The black power o’ waitin’—’t is that I neverheard tell of. I thought I knawed what was in men to the core—me,thirty years of age, an’ a ripe man if ever theer was wan. But thismalice! ’T is enough to make ’e believe in the devil.”

“What have you done?” she cried aloud. “Tell me theworst of it, an’ how gert a thing he’ve got againstyou.”

“Bide quiet,” he answered. “I’ll tell ’e,but not on the public road. Not but he’ll take gude care every ear hasit presently. Shut your mouth now an’ come up to our chamber arterbreakfast an’ I’ll tell ’e the rights of it. An’ thatdog knawed an’ could keep it close all these years!”

“He’s dangerous, an’ terrible, an’ strong. I seeit in your faace, Will.”

“So he is, then; ban’t no foxin’ you ’bout it now.’T is an awful power of waitin’ he’ve got; an’ hehaven’t bided his time these years an’ years for nothin’. Afeast to him, I lay. He’ve licked his damned lips many a score o’times to think of the food he’d fat his vengeance withbimebye.”

“Can he taake you from me? If not I’ll bear it.”

“Ess fay, I’m done for; credit, fortune, all gone. It mighthave been death if us had been to war at the time.”

She clung to him and her head swam.

“Death! God’s mercy! you’ve never killed nobody,Will?”

“Not as I knaws on, but p’r’aps ban’t tu late tomend it. It freezes me—it freezes my blood to think what his thoughtshave been. No, no, ban’t death or anything like that. But ’t isprison for sure if—”

He broke off and his face was very dark.

“What, Will? If what? Oh, comfort me, comfort me, Will, forGod’s sake! An’ another li’l wan comin’!”

“Doan’t take on,” he said. “Ban’t my way tosqueal till I’m hurt. Let it bide, an’ be bright an’ cheerycome eating, for mother ’s down in the mouth at losin’ Chris,though she doan’t shaw it.”

Mrs. Blanchard, with little Timothy, joined the breakfast party at MonksBarton, and a certain gloom hanging over the party, Mr. Blee commented uponit in his usual critical spirit.

“This here givin’ in marriage do allus make a looker-on downin the mouth if he ’s a sober-minded sort o’ man. ’T is thecontrast between the courageousness of the two poor sawls jumpin’ intothe state, an’ the solid fact of bein’ a man’s wife or awoman’s husband for all time. The vows they swear! An’ thatMartin’s voice so strong an’ cheerful! A teeming cause o’broken oaths the marriage sarvice; yet each new pair comes along like sheepto the slaughter.”

“You talk like a bachelor man,” said Damaris.

“Not so, Mrs. Blanchard, I assure ’e! Lookers-on see most ofthe game. Ban’t the mite as lives in a cheese what can tell e’’bout the flavour of un. Look at a married man at aweddin’—all broadcloth an’ cheerfulness, like the fox ashave lost his tail an’ girns to see another chap in the samepickle.”

“Yet you tried blamed hard to lose your tail an’ get a wife,for all your talk,” said Will, who, although his mind was full enough,yet could generally find a sharp word for Mr. Blee.

“Bah to you!” answered the old man angrily. “Thatfor you! ’T is allus your way to bring personal talk into highconversation. I was improvin’ the hour with general thoughts; but thevulgar tone you give to a discourse would muzzle the wisdom o’Solomon.”

Miller Lyddon here made an effort to re-establish peace and soonafterwards the meal came to an end.

Half an hour later Phoebe heard from her husband the story of his briefmilitary career: of how he had enlisted as a preliminary to going abroad andmaking his fortune, how he had become servant to one Captain Tremayne, howupon the news of Phoebe’s engagement he had deserted, and how hisintention to return and make a clean breast of it had been twice changed bythe circumstances that followed his marriage. Long he took in detailing everyincident and circumstance.

“Coming to think,” he said, “of coourse ’t isclear as Grimbal must knaw my auld master. I seed his name raised to a Majorin the Western Morning News a few year agone, an’ he was toOkehampton with a battalion when Hicks come by his death. So that’show’t is; an’ I ban’t gwaine to bide Grimbal’s timeto be ruined, you may be very sure of that. Now I knaw, I act.”

“He may be quite content you should knaw. That’s meatan’ drink enough for him, to think of you gwaine in fear day an’night.”

“Ess, but that’s not my way. I ban’t wan to wait anenemy’s pleasure.”

“You won’t go to him, Will?”

“Go to un? Ess fay—’fore the day’s done,tu.”

“That’s awnly to hasten the end.”

“The sooner the better.”

He tramped up and down the bedroom with his eyes on the ground, his handsin his pockets.

“A tremendous thing to tumble up on the surface arter all theseyears; an’ a tremendous time for it to come. ’T was a crime’gainst the Queen for my awn gude ends. I had to choose ’tweenher an’ you; I’d do the same to-morrow. The fault weern’ttheer. It lay in not gwaine back.”

“You couldn’t; your arm was broke.”

“I ought to have gone back arter ’t was well. Then time hadpassed, an’ uncle’s money corned, an’ they never found me.But theer it lies ahead now, sure enough.”

“Perhaps for sheer shame he’ll bide quiet ’bout it. Aman caan’t hate another man for ever.”

“I thought not, same as you, but Grimbal shaws we ’mwrong.”

“Let us go, then; let us do what you thought to do ’forefaither comed forward so kind. Let us go away to furrin paarts, evennow.”

“I doubt if he’d let me go. ’T is mouse an’ catfor the minute. Leastways so he’s thought since he talked to ’e.But he’ll knaw differ’nt ’fore he lies in his bed to-night.Must be cut an’ dried an’ settled.”

“Be slow to act, Will, an’—”

“Theer! theer!” he said, “doan’t ’e offer meno advice, theer’s a gude gal, ’cause I couldn’t stand iteven from you, just this minute. God knaws I’m not above takin’it in a general way, for the best tried man can larn from babes an’sucklings sometimes; but this is a thing calling for nothin’ but shutlips. ’T is my job an’ I’ve got to see it through my ownway.”

“You’ll be patient, Will? ’T isn’t like othertimes when you was right an’ him wrong. He’s got the whip-hand of’e, so you mustn’t dictate.”

“Not me. I can be reasonable an’ just as any man. I never hidfrom myself I was doin’ wrong at the time. But, when all’s said,this auld history’s got two sides to it—’specially if youremember that ’t was through John Grimbal’s awn act I had to dowan wrong thing to save you doin’ a worse wan. He’ll have to bereasonable likewise. ’T is man to man.”

Will’s conversation lasted another hour, but Phoebe could not shakehis determination, and after dinner Blanchard departed to the Red House, hisdestination being known to his wife only.

But while Will marched upon this errand, the man he desired to see hadjust left his own front door, struck through leafless coppices of larch andsilver beech that approached the house, and then proceeded to where biggertimber stood about a little plateau of marshy land, surrounded by tall flags.The woodlands had paid their debt to Nature in good gold, and all the treeswere naked. An east wind lent a hard, clean clearness to the country. In theforeground two little lakes spread their waters steel-grey in a cup of lead;the distance was clear and cold and compact of all sober colours save onlywhere, through a grey and interlacing nakedness of many boughs, the roof ofthe Red House rose.

John Grimbal sat upon a felled tree beside the pools, and while heremained motionless, his pipe unlighted, his gun beside him, a spaniel workedbelow in the sere sedges at the water’s margin. Presently the dogbarked, a moor-hen splashed, half flying, half swimming, across the largerlake, and a snipe got up and jerked crookedly away on the wind. The dog stoodwith one fore-paw lifted and the water dripping along his belly. He waitedfor a crack and puff of smoke and the thud of a bird falling into the wateror the underwood. But his master did not fire; he did not even see theflushing of the snipe; so the dog came up and remonstrated with his eyes.Grimbal patted the beast’s head, then rose from his seat on the felledtree, stretched his arms, sat down again and lighted his pipe.

The event of the morning had turned his thoughts in the old direction, andnow they were wholly occupied with Will Blanchard. Since his fit of futilespleen and fury after the meeting with Phoebe, John had slowly sunk back intothe former nerveless attitude. From this an occasional wonder rousedhim—a wonder as to whether the woman had ever given her husband hismessage at all. His recent active hatred seemed a little softened, though whyit should be so he could not have explained. Now he sometimes assured himselfthat he should not proceed to extremities, but hang his sword overWill’s head a while and possibly end by pardoning him altogether.

Thus he paltered with his better part and presented a spectacle of onementally sick unto death by reason of shattered purpose. His unity of designwas gone. He had believed the last conversation with Phoebe in itselfsufficient to waken his pristine passion, but anger against himself had beena great factor of that storm, apart from which circumstance he made themistake of supposing that his passion slept, whereas in reality it was dead.Now, if Grimbal was to be stung into activity, it must be along another lineand upon a fresh count.

Then, as he reflected by the little tarns, there approached Will Blanchardhimself; and Grimbal, looking up, saw him standing among white tussocks ofdead grass by the water-side and rubbing the mud off his boots upon them. Fora moment his breath quickened, but he was not surprised; and yet, before Willreached him, he had time to wonder at himself that he was not.

Blanchard, calling at the Red House ten minutes after the master’sdeparture, had been informed by old Lawrence Vallack, John’s factotum,that he had come too late. It transpired, however, that Grimbal had taken hisgun and a dog, so Will, knowing the estate, made a guess at thesportsman’s destination, and was helped on his way when he came withinearshot of the barking spaniel.

Now that animal resented his intrusion, and for a moment it appeared thatthe brute’s master did also. Will had already seen Grimbal where hesat, and came swiftly towards him.

“What are you doing here, William Blanchard? You’retrespassing and you know it,” said the landowner loudly. “You canhave no business here.”

“Haven’t I? Then why for do’e send memessages?”

Will stood straight and stern in front of his foe. His face was moregloomy than the sombre afternoon; his jaw stood out very square; his greyeyes were hard as the glint of the east wind. He might have been accuser, andJohn Grimbal accused. The sportsman did not move from his seat upon the log.But he felt a flush of blood pulse through him at the other’s voice, asthough his heart, long stagnant, was being sluiced.

“That? I’d forgotten all about it. You’ve taken yourtime in obeying me.”

“This marnin’, an’ not sooner, I heard what you telledher when you catched Phoebe alone.”

“Ah! now I understand the delay. Say what you’ve got to say,please, and then get out of my sight.”

“’T is for you to speak, not me. What be you gwaine to do,an’ when be you gwaine to do it? I allow you’ve bested me, Godknaws how; but you’ve got me down. So the sooner you say what your nextstep is, the better.”

The older man laughed.

“’T isn’t the beaten party makes the terms as arule.”

“I want no terms; I wouldn’t make terms with you for a sureplaace in heaven. Tell me what you be gwaine to do against me. I’ve aright to knaw.”

“I can’t tell you.”

“You mean as you won’t tell me?”

“I mean I can’t—not yet. After speaking to your wife Iforgot all about it. It doesn’t interest me.”

“Be you gwaine to give me up?”

“Probably I shall—as a matter of duty. I’m a bit of asoldier myself. It’s such a dirty coward’s trick to desert. Yes,I think I shall make an example of you.”

Will looked at him steadily.

“You want to wake the devil in me—I see that. But youwon’t. I’m aulder an’ wiser now. So you ’m to give meup? I knawed it wi’out axin’.”

“And that doesn’t wake you?”

“No. Seein’ why I deserted an’ mindin’ your sharein drivin’ me.”

Grimbal did not answer, and Will asked him to name a date.

“I tell you I shall suit myself, not you. When you will like itleast, be sure of that. I needn’t pretend what I don’t feel. Ihate the sight of you still, and the closer you come the more I hate you. Itrolls years off me to see your damned brown face so near and hear your voicein my ear,—years and years; and I’m glad it does. You’veruined my life, and I’ll ruin yours yet.”

There was a pause; Blanchard stared cold and hard into Grimbal’seyes; then John continued, and his flicker of passion cooled a little as hedid so,—

“At least that’s what I said to myself when first I heard thislittle bit of news—that I’d ruin you; now I’m notsure.”

“At least I’ll thank you to make up your mind. ’T isturn an’ turn about. You be uppermost just this minute. As to ruiningme, that’s as may be.”

“Well, I shall decide presently. I suppose you won’t run away.And it ’s no great matter if you do, for a fool can’t hidehimself under his folly.”

“I sha’n’t run. I want to get through with this and haveit behind me.”

“You ’re in a hurry now.”

“It ’s just an’ right. I knaw that. An’ban’t no gert odds who ’s informer. But I want to have it behindme—an’ you in front. Do ’e see? This out o’ hand,then it ’s my turn again. Keepin’ me waitin’ ’ponsuch a point be tu small an’ womanish for a fight between men. ’Tis your turn to hit, Jan Grimbal, an’ theer ’s no guard’gainst the stroke, so if you ’re a man, hit an’ have donewith it.”

“Ah! you don’t like the thought of waiting!”

“No, I do not. I haven’t got your snake’s patience. Letme have what I’ve got to have, an’ suffer it, an’ makean’ end of it.”

“You ’re in a hurry for a dish that won’t be pleasanteating, I assure you.”

“It’s just an’ right I tell ’e; an’ I knawit is, though all these years cover it. Your paart ’s differ’nt.I lay you ’m in a worse hell than me, even now.”

“A moralist! How d’ you like the thought of a damned goodflogging—fifty lashes laid on hot and strong?”

“Doan’t you wish you had the job? Thrashing of a man wi’his legs an’ hands tied would just suit your sort ofcourage.”

“As to that, they won’t flog you really; and I fancy I couldthrash you still without any help. Your memory ’s short. Never mind.Get you gone now; and never speak to me again as long as you live, or I shallprobably hit you across the mouth with my riding-whip. As to giving you up,you ’re in my hands and must wait my time for that.”

“Must I, by God? Hark to a fule talkin’! Why should I waityour pleasure, an’ me wi’ a tongue in my head? You’ve jawedlong enough. Now you can listen. I’ll give myself up, so theer!I’ll tell the truth, an’ what drove me to desert, an’ whatyou be anyway—as goes ridin’ out wi’ the yeomanry so braavein black an’ silver with your sword drawed! That’ll spoil yourmarket for pluck an’ valour, anyways. An’ when I’ve doneall court-martial gives me, I’ll come back!”

He swung away as he spoke; and the other sat on motionless for an hourafter Will had departed.

John Grimbal’s pipe went out; his dog, weary of waiting, crept tohis feet and fell asleep there; live fur and feathers peeped about andscanned his bent figure, immobile as a tree-trunk that supported it; and thegun, lying at hand, drew down a white light from a gathering gloaming.

One great desire was in the sportsman’s mind,—he already foundhimself hungry for another meeting with Blanchard.

CHAPTER XI
PHOEBE TAKES THOUGHT

That night Will sat and smoked in his bedroom and talked to Phoebe, whohad already gone to rest. She looked over her knees at him with round, sadeyes; while beside her in a cot slept her small daughter. A candle burned onthe mantelpiece and served to illuminate one or two faded pictures; adaguerreotype of Phoebe as a child sitting on a donkey, and an ancientsilhouette of Miller Lyddon, cut for him on his visit to the GreatExhibition. In a frame beneath these appeared the photograph of little Willwho had died at Newtake.

“He thinks he be gwaine to bide his time an’ let me stewan’ sweat for it,” said the man moodily.

“Awnly a born devil could tell such wickedness. Ban’t theer noways o’ meetin’ him, now you knaw? If you’d speak tofaither—”

“What ’s the use bringing sorrow on his grey hairs?”

“Well, it’s got to come; you knaw that. Grimbal isn’tthe man to forgive.”

“Forgive! That would be worst of all. If he forgived me nowI’d go mad. Wait till I’ve had soldier law, then us’ll talk’bout forgiving arter.”

Phoebe shivered and began to cry helplessly, drying her eyes upon thesheet.

“Theer—theer,” he said; “doan’t be a cheel.We ’m made o’ stern stuff, you an’ me. ’T is awnly amatter of years, I s’pose, an’ the reason I went may lessen thesentence a bit. Mother won’t never turn against me, an’ so longas your faither can forgive, the rest of the world’s welcome to look soblack as it pleases.”

“Faither’ll forgive ’e.”

“He might—just wance more. He’ve got to onderstand mypoints better late days.”

“Come an’ sleep then, an’ fret no more tillmarnin’ light anyway.”

“’Tis the thing hidden, hanging over my head, biding behindevery corner. I caan’t stand it; I caan’t wait for it. I’llgrow sheer devil if I’ve got to wait; an’, so like as not,I’ll meet un faace to faace some day an’ send un wheer neitherhis bark nor bite will harm me. Ess fay—solemn truth. I won’tanswer for it. I can put so tight a hand ’pon myself as any man sinceJob, but to sit down under this—”

“Theer’s nought else you can do,” said Phoebe. Sheyawned as she spoke, but Will’s reply strangled the yawn andeffectually woke her up.

“So Jan Grimbal said, an’ I blamed soon shawed un he was out.Theer’s a thing I can do an’ shall do. ’T will sweep theground from under un; ’t will blaw off his vengeance harmless as a gunfired in the air; ’t will turn his malice so sour as beer afterthunder. I be gwaine to give myself up—then us’ll see who’sthe fule!”

Phoebe was out of bed with her arms round her husband in a moment.

“No, no—never. You couldn’t, Will; youdaren’t—’tis against nature. You ban’t free to do nosuch wild thing. You forget me, an’ the li’l maid, an’t’ other comin’!”

“Doan’t ’e choke me,” he said; “an’doan’t ’e look so terrified. Your small hands caan’t keepoff what’s ahead o’ me; an’ I wouldn’t let ’emif they could. ’T is in this world that a chap’s got to pay forhis sins most times, an’ damn short credit, tu, so far as I can see. Sowhat they want to bleat ’bout hell-fire for I’ve neveronderstood, seeing you get your change here. Anyway, so sure as I do a trickthat ban’t ’zactly wise, the whip ’s allus behindit—the whip—”

He repeated the word in a changed voice, for it reminded him of whatGrimbal had threatened. He did not know whether there might be truth in it.His pride winced and gasped. He thought of Phoebe seeing his bare backperhaps years afterwards. A tempest of rage blackened his face and he spokein a voice hoarse and harsh.

“Get up an’ go to bed. Doan’t whine, for God’ssake, or you’ll drive me daft. I’ve paid afore, an’I’ll pay again; an’ may the Lard help him who ever owes me ought.No mercy have I ever had from living man,—’ceptMiller,—none will I ever shaw.”

“Not to-morrow, Will—not this week. Promise that, an’I’ll get into bed an’ bide quiet. For your love o’ me, justleave it till arter Christmas time. Promise that, else you’ll kill me.No, no, no—you shaa’n’t shout me down ’pon this.I’ll cry to ’e while I’ve got life left. Promise not tillChristmas be past.”

“I’ll promise nothing. I must think in the peace o’night. Go to sleep an ’bide quiet, else you’ll wake theli’l gal.”

“I won’t—I won’t—I’ll never sleepagain. Caan’ t’e think o’ me so well as yourself—youas be allus thinking o’ me? Ban’t I to count in an awful passlike this? I’m no fair-weather wife, as you knaws by now. If you givesyourself up, I’ll kill myself. You think I couldn’t, but I could.What’s my days away from you?”

“Hush, hush!” he said. “Be you mad? ’T is a mattertu small for such talk as that.”

“Promise, then, promise you’ll be dumb till arterChristmas.”

“So I will, if you ’m that set on it; but if you knawed whatwaitin’ meant to the likes o’ me, you wouldn’t ax.You’ve got my word, now keep quiet, theer ’s a dear love,an’ dry your eyes.”

He put her into bed, and soon stretched himself beside her. Then she clungto him as though powers were already dragging him away for ever. Will, boredand weary, was sorry for his wife with all his soul, and kept grunting wordsof good cheer and comfort as he sank to sleep. She still begged and prayedfor delay, and by her importunity made him promise at last that he would takeno step until after New Year’s Day. Then, finding she could win no morein that direction, Phoebe turned to another aspect of the problem, and beganto argue with unexpected if sophistic skill. Her tears were now dry, her eyesvery bright beneath the darkness; she talked and talked with feverishvolubility, and her voice faded into a long-drawn murmur as Will’shearing weakened on the verge of unconsciousness.

“Why for d’ you say you was wrong in what you done? Whyd’ you harp an’ harp ’pon that, knawin’ right wellyou’d do the same again to-morrow? You wasn’t wrong, an’the Queen’s self would say the same if she knawed. ’T was to savea helpless woman you runned; an’ her—QueenVictoria—wi’ her big heart as can sigh for the sorrow of evensuch small folks as us—she’d be the last to blame’e.”

“She’ll never knaw nothin’ ’bout it, gude or bad.They doan’t vex her ears wi’ trifles. I deserted, an’that’s a crime.”

“I say ’t weern’t no such thing. You had to choosebetween that an’ letting me die. You saved my life; an’ the factswould be judged the same by any as was wife an’ mother, high or low.God A’mighty ’s best an’ awnly judge how much you waswrong; an’ you knaw He doan’t blame ’e, else your heartwould have been sore for it these years an’ years. You never blamedyourself till now.”

“Ess, awften an’ awften I did. It comed an’ went,an’ comed an’ went again, like winter frosts. True as I’mliving it comed an’ went like that.”

Thus he spoke, half incoherently, his voice all blurred and vague withsleep.

“You awnly think ’t was so. You’d never have sat downunder it else. It ban’t meant you should give yourself up now, anyways.God would have sent the sojers to find ’e when you runned away ifHe’d wanted ’em to find ’e. You didn’t hide. Youlooked the world in the faace bold as a lion, didn’t ’e? Coourseyou did; an’ ’t is gwaine against God’s will an’ wishfor you to give yourself up now. So you mustn’t speak an’ youmust tell no one—not even faither. I was wrong to ax ’e to tellhim. Nobody at all must knaw. Be dumb, an’ trust me to be dumb.’T is buried an’ forgot. I’ll fight for ’e, mydearie, same as you’ve fought for me many a time; an’ ’twill all fall out right for ’e, for men ’s come through worsepasses than this wi’ fewer friends than what you’vegot.”

She stopped to win breath and, in the silence, heard Will’s regularrespiration and knew that he slept. How much he had heard of her speechPhoebe could not say, but she felt glad to think that some hours at least ofrest and peace now awaited him. For herself she had never been more widelyawake, and her brains were very busy through the hours of darkness. A hundredthoughts and schemes presented themselves. She gradually eliminated everybodyfrom the main issue but Will, John Grimbal, and herself; and, pursuing theargument, began to suspect that she alone had power to right the wrong. Inone direction only could such an opinion lead—a direction tremendous toher. Yet she did not shrink from the necessity ahead; she strung herself upto face it; she longed for an opportunity and resolved to make one at theearliest moment.

Now that night was the longest in the whole year; and yet to Phoebe itpassed with magic celerity.

Will awakened about half-past five, rose immediately according to hiscustom, lighted a candle, and started to dress himself. He began the day insplendid spirits, begotten of good sleep and good health; but his wife sawthe lightness of heart, the bustling activity of body, sink into apathy andinertia as remembrance overtook his wakening hour. It was like a brief andsplendid dawn crushed by storm-clouds at the very rise of the sun.

Phoebe presently dressed her little daughter and, as soon as the child hadgone down-stairs, Will resumed the problems of his position.

“I be in two minds this marnin’,” he said.“I’ve a thought to tell mother of this matter. She ’m thatwise, I’ve knawed her put me on the right track ’fore now,an’ never guess she’d done it. Not but what I allus awn up totaking advice, if I follow it, an’ no man ’s readier to profit bythe wisdom of his betters than me. That’s how I’ve done all Ihave done in my time. T’ other thought was to take your counselan’ see Miller ’pon it.”

“I was wrong, Will—quite wrong. I’ve been thinking, tu.He mustn’t knaw, nor yet mother, nor nobody. Quite enough knaws as’t is.”

“What’s the wisdom o’ talkin’ like that? Who’s gwaine to hide the thing, even if they wanted to? God knaws Iban’t. I’d like, so well as not, to go up Chagford nextmarket-day an’ shout out the business afore the world.”

“You can’t now. You must wait. You promised. I thought aboutit with every inch of my brain last night, an’ I got a sort offeeling—I caan’t explain, but wait. I’ve trusted you all mylife long an’ allus shall; now ’t is your turn to trust me, justthis wance. I’ve got great thoughts. I see the way; I may do muchmyself. You see, Jan Grimbal—”

Will stood still with his chin half shorn.

“You dare to do that,” he said, “an’ I’llraise Cain in this plaace; I’ll—”

He broke off and laughed at himself.

“Here be I blusterin’ like a gert bully now! Doan’t befeared, Phoebe. Forgive my noise. You mean so well, but you caan’t hideyour secrets, fortunately. Bless your purty eyes—tu gude for me,an’ allus was, braave li’l woman!

“But no more of that—no seekin’ him, an’ no speechwith him, if that’s the way your poor, silly thought was. My bonessmart to think of you bearin’ any of it. But doan’t you put nooar into this troubled water, else the bwoat’ll capsize, sure as death.I’ve promised ’e not to say a word till arter New Year; now youmust promise me never, so help you, to speak to that man, or look at un, orlisten to a word from un. Fly him like you would the devil; an’ a gudesecond to the devil he is—if ’t is awnly in the matter o’patience. Promise now.”

“You ’m so hasty, Will. You doan’t onderstand awoman’s cleverness in such matters. ’T is just the fashion thingas shaws what we ’m made of.”

“Promise!” he thundered angrily. “Now, this instantmoment, in wan word.”

She gave him a single defiant glance. Then the boldness of her eyes fadedand her lips drooped at the corners.

“I promise, then.”

“I should think you did.”

A few minutes later Will was gone, and Phoebe dabbed her moist eyes andblamed herself for so clumsily revealing her great intention,—to seeJohn Grimbal and plead with him. This secret ambition was now swept away, andshe knew not where to turn or how to act for her husband.

CHAPTER XII
NEW YEAR’S EVE AND NEW YEAR’S DAY

From this point in his career Will Blanchard, who lacked all power ofhiding his inner heart, soon made it superficially apparent that new troubleshad overtaken him. No word concerning his intolerable anxieties escaped him,but a great cloud of tribulation encompassed every hour, and was revealed toothers by increased petulance and shortness of temper. This mental frictionquickly appeared on the young man’s face, and his habitual expressionof sulkiness which formerly belied him, now increased and more nearlyreflected the reigning temperament of Blanchard’s mind. His nerves wereon the rack and he grew sullen and fretful. A dreary expression gained uponhis features, an expression sad as a winter twilight brushed with rain. ToPhoebe he seldom spoke of the matter, and she soon abandoned further attemptsto intrude upon his heart though her own was breaking for him. Billy Blee andthe farm hands were Will’s safety-valve. One moment he showered hardand bitter words; the next, at sight of some ploughboy’s tears or olderman’s reasonable anger, Will instantly relented and expressed hissorrow. The dullest among them grew in time to discern matters were amisswith him, for his tormented mind began to affect his actions and disorder theprogress of his life. At times he worked laboriously and did much with hisown hands that might have been left to others; but his energy was displayedin a manner fitful and spasmodic; occasionally he would vanish altogether forfour-and-twenty hours or more; and none knew when he might appear ordisappear.

It happened on New Year’s Eve that a varied company assembled at the“Green Man” according to ancient custom. Here were InspectorChown, Mr. Chapple, Mr. Blee, Charles Coomstock, with many others; and theassembly was further enriched by the presence of the bell-ringers. Theirservices would be demanded presently to toll out the old year, to welcomewith joyful peal the new; and they assembled here until closing time thatthey might enjoy a pint of the extra strong liquor a prosperous publicanprovided for his customers at this season.

The talk was of Blanchard, and Mr. Blee, provided with a theme whichalways challenged his most forcible diction, discussed Will freely andwithout prejudice.

“I ’most goes in fear of my life, I tell ’e; but thankGod ’t is the beginning of the end. He’ll spread his wings aforespring and be off again, or I doan’t knaw un. Ess fay, he’lldepart wi’ his fiery nature an’ horrible ideas ’ponmanuring of land; an’ a gude riddance for Monks Barton, Isay.”

“’Mazing ’t is,” declared Mr. Coomstock,“that he should look so black all times, seeing the gude fortune asturns up for un when most he wants it.”

“So ’t is,” admitted Billy. “The faace of un weerallus sulky, like to the faace of a auld ram cat, as may have a gude heart inun for all his glowerin’ eyes. But him! Theer ban’t nopleasin’ un. What do he want? Surely never no man ’s failed onhis feet awftener.”

“’T is that what ’s spoilin’ un, I reckon,”said Mr. Chappie. “A li’l ill-fortune he wants now, same as asalad o’ green stuff wants some bite to it. He’d grumble inheaven, by the looks of un. An’ yet it do shaw the patience of Godwi’ human sawls.”

“Ess, it do,” answered Mr. Blee; “but patienceban’t a virtue, pushed tu far. Justice is justice, as I’ve saidmore ’n wance to Miller an’ Blanchard, tu, an’ a man of myyears can see wheer justice lies so clear as God can. For why? Because theerban’t room for two opinions. I’ve give my Maker best scoresan’ scores o’ times, as we all must; but truth caan’talter, an’ having put thinking paarts into our heads, ’t is more’n God A’mighty’s Self can do to keep us from usin’of’em.”

“A tremenjous thought,” said Mr. Chapple.

“So ’t is. An’ what I want to knaw is, why shouldBlanchard have his fling, an’ treat me like dirt, an’ riderough-shod awver his betters, an’ scowl at the sky all times, an’nothin’ said?”

“Providence doan’t answer a question just ’cause we’m pleased to ax wan,” said Abraham Chown. “What happenshappens, because ’t is foreordained, an’ you caan’t judgethe right an’ wrong of a man’s life from wan year or two or ten,more ’n you can judge a glass o’ ale by a tea-spoon of it. Manyhas a long rope awnly to hang themselves in the end, by the wonnerfulforesight of God.”

“All the same, theer’d be hell an’ Tommy to pay mightyquick, if you an’ me did the things that bwoy does, an’ carriedon that onreligious,” replied Mr. Blee, with gloomy conviction.“Ban’t fair to other people, an’ if ’t was DoomsdayI’d up an’ say so. What gude deeds have he done to have lifesmoothed out, an’ the hills levelled an’ the valleys filled up?An’ nought but sour looks for it.”

“But be you sure he ’m happy?” inquired Mr. Chapple.“He ’m not the man to walk ’bout wi’ a fiddle-faaceif ’t was fair weather wi’ un. He’ve got his troubles sameas us, depend upon it.”

Blanchard himself entered at this moment. It wanted but half an hour toclosing time when he did so, and he glanced round the bar, snorted at thethick atmosphere of alcohol and smoke, then pulled out his pipe and took avacant chair.

“Gude evenin’, Will,” said Mr. Chapple.

“A happy New Year, Blanchard,” added the landlord.

“Evening, sawls all,” answered Will, nodding round him.“Auld year’s like to die o’ frost by the looks ofit—a stinger, I tell ’e. Anybody seen Farmer Endicott? I’vebeen looking for un since noon wi’ a message from myfaither-in-law.”

“I gived thicky message this marnin’,” cried Billy.

“Ess, I knaw you did; that’s my trouble. You gived it wrong.I’ll just have a pint of the treble X then. ’T is the night for’t.”

Will’s demeanour belied the recent conversation respecting him. Heappeared to be in great spirits, joked with the men, exchanged shafts withBilly, and was the first to roar with laughter when Mr. Blee got the betterof him in a brisk battle of repartee. Truth to tell, the young man’sheart felt somewhat lighter, and with reason. To-morrow his promise to Phoebeheld him no longer, and his carking, maddening trial of patience was to end.The load would drop from his shoulders at daylight. His letter to Mr. Lyddonhad been written; in the morning the miller must read it before breakfast,and learn that his son-in-law had started for Plymouth to give himself up forthe crime of the past. John Grimbal had made no sign, and the act ofsurrender would now be voluntary—a thought which lightenedBlanchard’s heart and induced a turn of temper almost jovial. He joineda chorus, laughed with the loudest, and contrived before closing time todrink a pint and a half of the famous special brew. Then the bell-ringersdeparted to their duties, and Mr. Chapple with Mr. Blee, Will, and one or twoother favoured spirits spent a further half-hour in their host’sprivate parlour, and there consumed a little sloe gin, to steady the hummingale.

“You an’ me must see wan another home,” said Will whenhe and Mr. Blee departed into the frosty night.

“Fust time as ever you give me an arm,” murmured Billy.

“Won’t be the last, I’m sure,” declared Will.

“I’ve allus had a gude word for ’e ever since I knawed’e,” answered Billy.

“An’ why for shouldn’t ’e?” asked Will.

“Beginning of New Year ’s a solemn sarcumstance,”proceeded Billy, as a solitary bell began to toll. “Theer ’s thedeath-rattle of eighteen hunderd an’ eighty-six! Well, well, we mustall die—men an’ mice.”

“An’ the devil take the hindmost.”

Mr. Blee chuckled.

“Let ’s go round this way,” he said.

“Why? Ban’t your auld bones ready for bed yet? Theer ’snought theer but starlight an’ frost.”

“Be gormed to the frost! I laugh at it. Ban’t that. ’Tis the Union workhouse, wheer auld Lezzard lies. I likes to pass, an’nod to un as he sits on the lew side o’ the wall in his white coat,chumping his thoughts between his gums.”

“He ’m happier ’n me or you, I lay.”

“Not him! You should see un glower ’pon me when I gives un’gude day.’ I tawld un wance as the Poor Rates was upsomethin’ cruel since he’d gone in the House, an’ he lookedas though he’d ’a’ liked to do me violence. No, heban’t happy, I warn ’e.”

“Well, you won’t see un sitting under the stars in his whitecoat, poor auld blid. He ’m asleep under the blankets, Ilay.”

“Thin wans! Thin blankets an’ not many of ’em. An’all his awn doin’. Patent justice, if ever I seed it.”

“Tramp along! You can travel faster ’n that. Ess fay! Justiceis the battle-cry o’ God against men most times. Maybe they ’mstrong on it in heaven, but theer ’s damned little filters down here.Theer go the bells! Another New Year come. Years o’ the Lard they call’em! Years o’ the devil most times, if you ax me. What do’e want the New Year to bring to you, Billy?”

“A contented ’eart,” said Mr. Blee, “an’perhaps just half-a-crown more a week, if ’t was seemly. Brains be paidhigher ’n sweat in this world, an’ I’m mostly brain now inmy dealin’s wi’ Miller. A brain be like a nut, as ripens all theyear through an’ awnly comes to be gude for gathering when the tree’s in the sere. ’T is in the autumn of life a man’s brainbe worth plucking like—eh?”

“Doan’t knaw. They ’m maggoty mostly at yourage!”

“An’ they ’m milky mostly at yourn!”

“Listen to the bells an’ give awver chattering,” saidWill.

“After gude store o’ drinks, a sad thing like holy bellsringing in the dark afar off do sting my nose an’ bring a drop to myeye,” confessed Mr. Blee. “An’ you—why, theer’s a baaby hid away in the New Year for you—a human creature asmay do gert wonders in the land an’ turn out into Antichrist, for allyou can say positive. Theer ’s a braave thought for’e!”

This remark sobered Blanchard and his mind travelled into the future, toPhoebe, to the child coming in June.

Billy babbled on, and presently they reached Mrs. Blanchard’scottage. Damaris herself, with a shawl over her head, stood and listened tothe bells, and Will, taking leave of Mr. Blee, hastened to wish his motherall happiness in the year now newly dawned. He walked once or twice up anddown the little garden beside her, and with a tongue loosened by liquor camenear to telling her of his approaching action, but did not do so. MeantimeMr. Blee steered himself with all caution over Rushford Bridge to MonksBarton.

Presently the veteran appeared before his master and Phoebe, who hadwaited for the advent of the New Year before retiring. Miller Lyddon wasabout to suggest a night-cap for Billy, but changed his mind.

“Enough ’s as gude as a feast,” he said. “Canstget up-stairs wi’out help?”

“Coourse I can! But the chap to the ‘Green Man’s’that perfuse wi’ his liquor at seasons of rejoicing. More went downthan was chalked up; I allow that. If you’ll light my chamber cannel,I’ll thank ’e, missis; an’ a Happy New Year toall.”

Phoebe obeyed, launched Mr. Blee in the direction of his chamber, thenturned to receive Will’s caress as he came home and locked the doorbehind him.

The night air still carried the music of the bells. For an hour theypealed on; then the chime died slowly, a bell at a time, until two clangedeach against the other. Presently one stopped and the last, weakening softly,beat a few strokes more, then ceased to fret the frosty birth-hour of anotheryear.

The darkness slipped away, and Blanchard who had long learned to risewithout awakening his wife, was up and dressed again soon after fiveo’clock. He descended silently, placed a letter on the mantelpiece inthe kitchen, abstracted a leg of goose and a hunch of bread from the larder,then set out upon a chilly walk of five miles to Moreton Hampstead. Fromthere he designed to take train and proceed to Plymouth as directly andspeedily as possible.

Some two hours later Will’s letter found itself in Mr.Lyddon’s hand, and his father-in-law learnt the secret. Phoebe wasalmost as amazed as the miller himself when this knowledge came to her ear;for Will had not breathed his intention to her, and no suspicion had crossedhis wife’s mind that he intended to act with such instant promptitudeon the expiration of their contract.

“I doubted I knawed him through an’ through at last, but’t is awnly to-day, an’ after this, that I can say as Ido,” mused Mr. Lyddon over an untasted breakfast. “To think herunned them awful risks to make you fast to him! To think he corned allacross England in the past to make you his wife against the danger on wanside, an’ the power o’ Jan Grimbal an’ me drawed up’pon the other!”

Pursuing this strain to Phoebe’s heartfelt relief, the millerneither assumed an attitude of great indignation at Will’s action noraffected despair of his future. He was much bewildered, however.

“He’ll keep me ’mazed so long as I live, ’pears tome. But he ’m gone for the present, an’ I doan’t sayI’m sorry, knawin’ what was behind. No call for you to sobyourself into a fever. Please God, he’ll be back long ’fore youwant him. Us’ll make the least we can of it, an’ bide patientuntil we hear tell of him. He’ve gone to Plymouth—that’sall Chagford needs to knaw at present.”

“Theer ’s newspapers an’ Jan Grimbal,” sobbedPhoebe.

“A dark man wi’ fixed purposes, sure enough,” admittedher father, for Will’s long letter had placed all the facts before him.“What he’ll do us caan’t say, though, seein’Will’s act, theer ’s nothin’ more left for un. Why has theman been silent so long if he meant to strike in the end? Now I must goan’ tell Mrs. Blanchard. Will begs an’ prays of me to do that sosoon as he shall be gone; an’ he ’m right. She ought to knaw; but’t is a job calling for careful choice of words an’ a light hand.Wonder is to me he didn’t tell her hisself. But he never does whatyou’d count ’pon his doing.”

“You won’t tell Billy, faither, will ’e? Ban’t nocall for that.”

“I won’t tell him, certainly not; but Blee ’s a ferretwhen a thing ’s hid. A detective mind theer is to Billy. How would itdo to tell un right away an’ put un ’pon his honour to saynothing?”

“He mustn’t knaw; he mustn’t knaw. He couldn’tkeep a secret like that if you gived un fifty pounds to keep it. So soon tella town-crier as him.”

“Then us won’t,” promised Mr. Lyddon, and ten minutesafter he proceeded to Mrs. Blanchard’s cottage with the news. His firsthasty survey of the position had not been wholly unfavourable to Will, but hewas a man of unstable mind in his estimates of human character, and now hechiefly occupied his thoughts with the offence of desertion from the army.The disgrace of such an action magnified itself as he reflected uponWill’s unhappy deed.

Phoebe, meantime, succumbed and found herself a helpless prey of terrorsvague and innumerable. Will’s fate she could not guess at; but she feltit must be severe; she doubted not that his sentence would extend over longyears. In her dejection and misery she mourned for herself and wondered whatmanner of babe would this be that now took substance through a season of suchgloom and accumulated sorrows. The thought begat pity for the coming littleone,—utmost commiseration that set Phoebe’s tears flowinganew,—and when the miller returned he found his daughter strickenbeyond measure and incoherent under her grief. But Mr. Lyddon came back witha companion, and it was her husband, not her father, who dried Phoebe’seyes and cheered her lonely heart. Will, indeed, appeared and stood by hersuddenly; and she heard his voice and cried a loud thanksgiving and claspedhim close.

Yet no occasion for rejoicing had brought about this unexpectedreappearance. Indeed, more ill-fortune was responsible for it. When Mr.Lyddon arrived at Mrs. Blanchard’s gate, he found both Will and DoctorParsons standing there, then learnt the incident that had prevented hisson-in-law’s proposed action.

Passing that way himself some hours earlier, Will had been suddenlysurprised to see blue smoke rising from a chimney of the house. It was a veryconsiderable time before such event might reasonably be expected and a secondlook alarmed Blanchard’s heart, for on the little chimney-stack he kneweach pot, and it was not the kitchen chimney but that of his mother’sbedroom which now sent evidence of a newly lighted fire into the morning.

In a second Will’s plans and purposes were swept away before thisspectacle. A fire in a bedroom represented a circumstance almost outside hisexperience. At least it indicated sickness unto death. He was in the house amoment later, for the latch lifted at his touch; and when he knocked at hismother’s door and cried his name, she bade him come in.

“What’s this? What’s amiss with ’e, mother?Doan’t say ’t is anything very bad. I seed the smoke an’ myheart stood still.”

She smiled and assured him her illness was of no account.

“Ban’t nothing. Just a shivering an’ stabbing in thechest. My awn fulishness to be out listening to they bells in the frost. Butno call to fear. I awnly axed my li’l servant to get me a cup o’tea, an’ she comed an’ would light the fire, an’ would gofor doctor, though theer ban’t no ’casion at all.”

“Every occasion, an’ the gal was right, an’ it shawedgude sense in such a dinky maid as her. Nothin’ like taaking a cold ingude time. Do ’e catch heat from the fire?”

Mrs. Blanchard’s eyes were dull, and her breathing a littledisordered. Will instantly began to bustle about. He added fuel to the flame,set on a kettle, dragged blankets out of cupboards and piled them upon hismother. Then he found a pillow-case, aired it until the thing scorched,inserted a pillow, and placed it beneath the patient’s head. Hissubsequent step was to rummage dried marshmallows out of a drawer, concoct asort of dismal brew, and inflict a cup upon the sick woman. Doctor Parsonsstill tarrying, Will went out of doors, knocked a brick from the fowl-housewall, brought it in, made it nearly red hot, then wrapped it up in an old rugand applied it to his parent’s feet,—all of which things the sickwoman patiently endured.

“You ’m doin’ me a power o’ gude, dearie,”she said, as her discomfort and suffering increased.

Presently Doctor Parsons arrived, checked Will in fantastic experimentswith a poultice, and gave him occupation in a commission to thephysician’s surgery. When he returned, he heard that his mother wassuffering from a severe chill, but that any definite declaration upon thecase was as yet impossible.

“No cause to be ’feared?” he asked.

“’T is idle to be too sanguine. You know my philosophy.I’ve seen a scratched finger kill a man; I’ve known puny babeswriggle out of Death’s hand when I could have sworn it had closed uponthem for good and all. Where there ’s life there ’shope.”

“Ess, I knaw you,” answered Will gloomily; “an’ Iknaw when you say that you allus mean there ban’t no hope atall.”

“No, no. A strong, hale woman like your mother need not give us anyfear at present. Sleep and rest, cheerful faces round her, and no amateurphysic. I’ll see her to-night and send in a nurse from the CottageHospital at once.”

Then it was that Miller Lyddon arrived, and presently Will returned home.He wholly mistook Phoebe’s frantic reception, and assumed that hertears must be flowing for Mrs. Blanchard.

“She’ll weather it,” he said. “Keep a gude heart.The gal from the hospital ban’t coming ’cause theer ’sdanger, but ’cause she ’m smart an’ vitty ’bout asick room, an’ cheerful as a canary an’ knaws her business. Quickof hand an’ light of foot for sartin. Mother’ll be all right; Ifeel it deep in me she will.”

Presently conversation passed to Will himself, and Phoebe expressed a hopethis sad event would turn him from his determination for some time atleast.

“What determination?” he asked. “What be talkin’about?”

“The letter you left for faither, and the thing you started todo,” she answered.

“’S truth! So I did; an’ if the sight o’ the smokean’ then hearin’ o’ mother’s trouble didn’tblaw the whole business out of my brain!”

He stood amazed at his own complete forgetfulness.

“Queer, to be sure! But coourse theer weern’t room in my mindfor anything but mother arter I seed her stricken down.”

During the evening, after final reports from Mrs. Blanchard’ssick-room spoke of soothing sleep, Miller Lyddon sent Billy upon an errand,and discussed Will’s position.

“Jan Grimbal ’s waited so long,” he said, “thatmaybe he’ll wait longer still an’ end by doin’nothin’ at all.”

“Not him! You judge the man by yourself,” declared Will.“But he ’s made of very different metal. I lay he’sbidin’ till the edge of this be sharp and sure to cut deepest. So like’s not, when he hears tell mother ’s took bad he’ll choosethat instant moment to have me marched away.”

There was a moment’s silence, then Blanchard burst out into a furybred of sudden thought, and struck the table heavily with his fist.

“God blast it! I be allus waitin’ now for some wan’svengeance! I caan’t stand this life no more. I caan’t an’ Iwon’t—’t is enough to soften any man’swits.”

“Quiet! quiet, caan’t ’e?” said the miller, asthough he told a dog to lie down. “Theer now! You’ve beenan’ gived me palpitations with your noise. Banging tables won’tmend it, nor bad words neither. This thing hasn’t come by chance. You’m ripening in mind an’ larnin’ every day. You mark myword; theer ’s a mort o’ matters to pick out of this new trouble.An’ fust, patience.”

“Patience! If a patient, long-suffering man walks this airth, I behim, I should reckon. I caan’t wait the gude pleasure of that dog, noteven for you, Miller.”

“’T is discipline, an’ sent for the strengthening ofyour fibre. Providence barred the road to-day, else you’d be in prisonnow. Ban’t meant you should give yourself up—that’s how Iread it.”

“’T is cowardly, waitin’ an’ playin’ intohis hands; an’ if you awnly knawed how this has fouled my mindwi’ evil, an’ soured the very taste of what I eat, an’dulled the faace of life, an’ blunted the right feeling in me even forthem I love best, you’d never bid me bide on under it. ’T isrotting me—body an’ sawl—that’s what ’t isdoin’. An’ now I be come to such a pass that if I met unto-morrow an’ he swore on his dying oath he’d never tell, Ishouldn’t be contented even wi’ that.”

“No such gude fortune,” sighed Phoebe.

“’T wouldn’t be gude fortune,” answered herhusband. “I’m like a dirty chamber coated wi’ cobwebsan’ them ghostly auld spiders as hangs dead in unsecured corners.Plaaces so left gets worse. My mind ’s all in a ferment, an’’t wouldn’t be none the better now if Jan Grimbal broke hisdamned neck to-morrow an’ took my secret with him. I caan’tbreathe for it; it ’s suffocating me.”

Phoebe used subtlety in her answer, and invited him to view the positionfrom her standpoint rather than his own.

“Think o’ me, then, an’ t’ others. ’T isplain selfishness, this talk, if you looks to the bottom of it.”

“As to that, I doan’t say so,” began Mr. Lyddon, slowlystuffing his pipe. “No. When a man goes so deep into his heart as whatWill have before me this minute, doan’t become no man to judge un, ortell ’bout selfishness. Us have got to save our awn sawls, an’ usmust even leave wife, an’ mother, and childer if theer ’s noother way to do it. Ban’t no right living—ban’t no fairtravelling in double harness wi’ conscience, onless you’ve got aclean mind. An’ yet waitin’ ’pears the only way o’wisdom just here. You’ve never got room in that head o’ yourn formore ’n wan thought to a time; an’ I doan’t blame ’etheer neither, for a chap wi’ wan idea, if he sticks to it, goesfurther ’n him as drives a team of thoughts half broken in. I mean you’m forgettin’ your mother for the moment. I should say, wait forher mendin’ ’fore you do anything.”

Back came Blanchard’s mind to his mother with a whole-heartedswing.

“Ess,” he said, “you ’m right theer. My plaace ishandy to her till she ’m movin’; an’ if he tries to take mebefore she ’m down-house again, by God! I’ll—”

“Let it bide that way then. Put t’ other matter out o’your mind so far as you can. Fill your pipe an’ suck deep at it. Ihaven’t seen ’e smoke this longful time; an’ in my viewtheer ’s no better servant than tobacco to a mind puzzled at wano’ life’s cross-roads.”

CHAPTER XIII
MR. LYDDON’S TACTICS

In the morning Mrs. Blanchard was worse, and some few days later lay indanger of her life. Her son spent half his time in the sick-room, walkedabout bootless to make no sound, and fretted with impatience at thought ofthe length of days which must elapse before Chris could return to Chagford.Telegrams had been sent to Martin Grimbal, who was spending his honeymoon outof England; but on the most sanguine computation he and his wife wouldscarcely be home again in less than ten days or a fortnight.

Hope and gloom succeeded each other swiftly within Will Blanchard’smind, and at first he discounted the consistent pessimism of Doctor Parsonssomewhat more liberally than the issue justified. When, therefore, he wasinformed of the truth and stood face to face with his mother’s danger,hope sank, and his unstable spirit was swept from an altitude of secretconfidence to the opposite depth of despair.

Through long silences, while she slept or seemed to do so, the young mantraced back his life and hers; and he began to see what a good mother means.Then he accused himself of many faults and made impetuous confession to hiswife and her father. On these occasions Phoebe softened his self-blame, butMr. Lyddon let Will talk, and told him for his consolation that everymother’s son must be accused of like offences.

“Best of childer falls far short,” he assured Will;“best brings tu many tears, if ’t is awnly for wantonness;an’ him as thinks he’ve been all he should be to his mother liesto himself; an’ him as says he has, lies to other people.”

Will’s wild-hawk nature was subdued before this grave crisis in hisparent’s life; he sat through long nights and tended the fire withquiet fingers; he learnt from the nurse how to move a pillow tenderly, how toshut a door without any sound. He wearied Doctor Parsons with futilepropositions, but the physician’s simulated cynicism often broke downin secret before this spectacle of the son’s dog-like pertinacity.Blanchard much desired to have a vein opened for his mother, nor was all thepractitioner’s eloquence equal to convincing him such a course couldnot be pursued.

“She ’m gone that gashly white along o’ want o’blood,” declared Will; “an’ I be busting wi’ gude redblood, an’ why for shouldn’t you put in a pipe an’ draw offa quart or so for her betterment? I’ll swear ’t would strengthenthe heart of her.”

Time passed, and it happened on one occasion, while walking abroad betweenhis vigils, that Blanchard met John Grimbal. Will had reflected curiously oflate days into what ghostly proportions his affair with the master of the RedHouse now dwindled before this greater calamity of his mother’ssickness; but sudden sight of the enemy roused passion and threw back theman’s mind to that occasion of their last conversation in thewoods.

Yet the first words that now passed were to John Grimbal’s credit.He made an astonishing and unexpected utterance. Indeed, the spoken wordsurprised him as much as his listener, and he swore at himself for a foolwhen Will’s retort reached his ear.

They were passing at close quarters,—Blanchard on foot, John uponhorseback,—when the latter said,—

“How ’s Mrs. Blanchard to-day?”

“Mind your awn business an’ keep our name off yourlips!” answered the pedestrian, who misunderstood the question, as hedid most questions where possible, and now supposed that Grimbal meantPhoebe.

His harsh words woke instant wrath.

“What a snarling, cross-bred cur you are! I should judge your ownfamily will be the first to thank me for putting you under lock and key. Hellto live with, you must be.”

“God rot your dirty heart! Do it—do it; doan’tjaw—do it! But if you lay a finger ’pon me while my mother’s bad or have me took before she ’m stirring again, I’llkill you when I come out. God ’s my judge if I doan’t!”

Then, forgetting what had taken him out of doors, and upon what matter hewas engaged, Will turned back in a tempest, and hastened to hismother’s cottage.

At Monks Barton Mr. Lyddon and his daughter had many and longconversations upon the subject of Blanchard’s difficulties. Bothtrembled to think what might be the issue if his mother died; both began torealise that there could be no more happiness for Will until a definiteextrication from his present position was forthcoming. At hisdaughter’s entreaty the miller finally determined on a strong step. Hemade up his mind to visit Grimbal at the Red House, and win from him, ifpossible, some undertaking which would enable him to relieve his son-in-lawof the present uncertainty.

Phoebe pleaded for silence, and prayed her father to get a promise at anycost in that direction.

“Let him awnly promise ’e never to tell of his free will,an’ the door against danger ’s shut,” she said. “WhenWill knaws Grimbal ’s gwaine to be dumb, he’ll rage a while, thencalm down an’ be hisself again. ’T is the doubt that drove himfrantic.”

“I’ll see the man, then; but not a word to Will’s ear.All the fat would be in the fire if he so much as dreamed I was about anysuch business. As to a promise, if I can get it I will. An’’twixt me an’ you, Phoebe, I’m hopeful of it. He ’skept quiet so long that theer caan’t be any fiery hunger ’gainstWill in un just now. I’ll soothe un down an’ get his word ofhonour if it ’s to be got. Then your husband can do as hepleases.”

“Leave the rest to me, Faither.”

A fortnight later the cautious miller, after great and exhaustivereflection, set out to carry into practice his intention. An appointment wasmade on the day that Will drove to Moreton to meet his sister and MartinGrimbal. This removed him out of the way, while Billy had been despatched toOkehampton for some harness, and Mr. Lyddon’s daughter, alone in thesecret, was spending the afternoon with her mother-in-law.

So Miller walked over to the Red House and soon found himself waiting forJohn Grimbal in a cheerless but handsome dining-room. The apartment suggestedlittle occupation. A desk stood in the window, and upon it were half a dozendocuments under a paper-weight made from a horse’s hoof. A fire burnedin the broad grate; a row of chairs, upholstered in dark red leather, stoodstiffly round; a dozen indifferent oil-paintings of dogs and horses filledlarge gold frames upon the walls; and upon a massive sideboard of black oak afew silver cups, won by Grimbal’s dogs at various shows and coursingmeetings, were displayed.

Mr. Lyddon found himself kept waiting about ten minutes; then Johnentered, bade him a cold “good afternoon” without shaking hands,and placed an easy-chair for him beside the fire.

“Would you object to me lighting my pipe, Jan Grimbal?” askedthe miller humbly; and by way of answer the other took a box of matches fromhis pocket and handed it to the visitor.

“Thank you, thank you; I’m obliged to you. Let me get a light,then I’ll talk to ’e.”

He puffed for a minute or two, while Grimbal waited in silence for hisguest to begin.

“Now, wi’out any beatin’ of the bush or waste of time,I’ll speak. I be come ’bout Blanchard, as I dare say you guessed.The news of what he done nine or ten years ago comed to me just a monthsince. A month ’t was, or might be three weeks. Like a bolt from theblue it falled ’pon me an’ that’s a fact. An’ I heardhow you knawed the thing—you as had such gude cause to hate unwance.”

“‘Once?’”

“Well, no man’s hate can outlive his reason, surely? I waswith ’e, tu, then; but a man what lets himself suffer lifelong troublefrom a fule be a fule himself. Not that Blanchard ’s all fule—farfrom it. He’ve ripened a little of late years—though slowly asfruit in a wet summer. Granted he bested you in the past an’ yournatural hope an’ prayer was to be upsides wi’ un some day. Well,that’s all dead an’ buried, ban’t it? I hated the shadow ofun in them days so bad as ever you did; but you gets to see more of theworld, an’ the men that walks in it when you ’m moved away fromthings by the distance of a few years. Then you find how wan deed bears upont’ other. Will done no more than you’d ’a’ done ifthe cases was altered. In fact, you ’m alike at some points, come tothink of it.”

“Is that what you’ve walked over here to tell me?”

“No; I’m here to ax ’e frank an’ plain, as asportsman an’ a straight man wi’ a gude heart most times, to tellme what you ’m gwaine to do ’bout this job. I’m auld,an’ I assure ’e you’ll hate yourself if you give un up.’T would be outside your carater to do it.”

“You say that! Would you harbour a convict from Princetown if youfound him hiding on your farm?”

“Ban’t a like case. Theer ’s the personal point of view,if you onderstand me. A man deserts from the army ten years ago, an’you, a sort o’ amateur soldier, feels ’t is your duty to give unto justice.”

“Well, isn’t that what has happened?”

“No fay! Nothing of the sort. If ’t was your duty, whydidn’t you do it fust minute you found it out? If you’d writ tothe authorities an’ gived the man up fust moment, I might have said’t was a hard deed, but I’d never have dared to say ’tweern’t just. Awnly you done no such thing. You nursed the poweran’ sucked the thought, same as furriners suck at poppy poison. Youplayed with the picture of revenge against a man you hated, an’ let theidea of what you’d do fill your brain; an’ then, when you wantedbigger doses, you told Phoebe what you knawed—reckoning as she’dtell Will bimebye. That’s bad, Jan Grimbal—worse than poisoningfoxes, by God! An’ you knaw it.”

“Who are you, to judge me and my motives?”

“An auld man, an’ wan as be deeply interested in thisbusiness. Time was when we thought alike touching the bwoy; now wedoan’t; ’cause your knowledge of un hasn’t grawed past thepoint wheer he downed us, an’ mine has.”

“You ’re a fool to say so. D’ you think I haven’twatched the young brute these many years? Self-sufficient, ignorant,hot-headed, always in the wrong. What d’ you find to praise in theclown? Look at his life. Failure! failure! failure! and making of enemies atevery turn. Where would he be to-day but for you?”

“Theer ’s a rare gert singleness of purpose ’boutun.”

“A grand success he is, no doubt. I suppose you couldn’t geton without him now. Yet you cursed the cub freely enough once.”

“Bitter speeches won’t serve ’e, Grimbal; but they showme mighty clear what’s hid in you. Your sawl ’s torn every way bythis thing, an’ you turn an’ turn again to it, like a dog to hisvomit, yet the gude in ’e drags ’e away.”

“Better cut all that. You won’t tell me what you’ve comefor, so I’ll tell you. You want me to promise not to move in thismatter,—is that so?”

“Why, not ezackly. I want more ’n that. I never thought for aminute you would do it, now you’ve let the time pass so far. I knawyou’ll never act so ugly a paart now; but Will doan ’t, an’he’ll never b’lieve me if I told un.”

The other made a sound, half growl, half mirthless laugh.

“You’ve taken it all for granted, then—you, who knowmore about what ’s in my mind than I do myself? You ’re a fondold man; and if you’d wanted to screw me up to the pitch of taking thenecessary trouble, you couldn’t have gone a better way. I’ve beentoo busy to bother about the young rascal of late or he’d lie in gaolnow.”

“Doan’t say no such vain things! D’ you think Icaan’t read what your face speaks so plain? A man’s eyes tell thetruth awftener than what his tongue does, for they ’m harder to breakinto lying. ’Tu busy’! You be foul to the very brainpan wi’this job an’ you knaw it.”

“Is the hatred all on my side, d’ you suppose? Curse the bruteto hell! And you’d have me eat humble-pie to the man who ’swrecked my life?”

“No such thing at all. All the hatred be on your side. He’dforgived ’e clean. Even now, though you ’m fretting his guts tofiddlestrings because of waiting for ’e, he feels no malice—nomore than the caged rat feels ’gainst the man as be carrying him,anyway.”

“You ’re wrong there. He’d kill me to-morrow. He let meknow it. In a weak moment I asked him the other day how his mother was; andhe turned upon me like a mad dog, and told me to keep his name off my lips,and said he’d have my life if I gave him up.”

“That’s coorious then, for he ’s hungry to give himselfup, so soon as the auld woman ’s well again.”

“Talk! I suppose he sent you to whine for him?”

“Not so. He’d have blocked my road if he’dguessed.”

“Well, I’m honest when I say I don’t care a curse whathe does or does not. Let him go his way. And as to proclaiming him, I shalldo so when it pleases me. An odious crime that,—a traitor to hiscountry.”

“Doan’t become you nor me to dwell ’pon that, seeing howthings was.”

Grimbal rose.

“You think he ’s a noble fellow, and that your daughter had amerciful escape. It isn’t for me to suggest you are mistaken. NowI’ve no more time to spare, I’m afraid.”

The miller also rose, and as he prepared to depart he spoke a finalword.

“You ’m terrible pushed for time, by the looks of it. I knaw’t is hard in this life to find time to do right, though every man canmake a ’mazing mort o’ leisure for t’ other thing. But hearme: you ’m ruinin’ yourself, body an’ sawl, along o’this job—body an’ sawl, like apples in a barrel rots each other.You ’m in a bad way, Jan Grimbal, an’ I’m sorry for’e—brick house an’ horses an’ dogs notwithstanding.Have a spring cleaning in that sulky brain o’ yourn, my son, an’be a man wi’ yourself, same as you be a man wi’ theworld.”

The other sneered.

“Don’t get hot. The air is cold. And as you’ve given somuch good advice, take some, too. Mind your own business, and let yourson-in-law mind his.”

Mr. Lyddon shook his head.

“Such words do only prove me right. Look in your heart an’ seehow ’t is with you that you can speak to an auld man so. ’T iscommon metal shawing up in ’e, an’ I’m sorry to findit.”

He set off home without more words and, as chance ordered the incident,emerged from the avenue gates of the Red House while a covered vehicle passedby on the way from Moreton Hampstead. Its roof was piled with luggage, andinside sat Chris, her husband, and Will. They spied Mr. Lyddon and made roomfor him; but later on in the evening Will taxed the miller with hisaction.

“I knawed right well wheer you’d come from,” he saidgloomily, “an’ I’d ’a’ cut my right hand offrather than you should have done it. You did n’t ought, Faither; forI’ll have no living man come between me an’ him.”

“I made it clear I was on my awn paart,” explained Mr. Lyddon;but that night Will wrote a letter to his enemy and despatched it by a ladbefore breakfast on the following morning.

“Sir,” he said, “ Miller seenyou yesterday out of his own head, and if I had knowed he was coming I wouldhave took good care to prevent it.

“W. BLANCHARD.”

CHAPTER XIV
ACTION

Time passed, and Mrs. Blanchard made a slow return to health. Her daughterassumed control of the sick-room, and Martin Grimbal was denied thesatisfaction of seeing Chris settled in her future home for a period ofnearly two months. Then, when the invalid became sufficiently restored toleave Chagford for change of air, both Martin and Chris accompanied her andspent a few weeks by the sea.

Will, meantime, revolved upon his own affairs and suffered torments longdrawn out. For these protracted troubles those of his own house wereresponsible, and both Phoebe and the miller greatly erred in their treatmentof him at this season. For the woman there were indeed excuses, but Mr.Lyddon might have been expected to show more wisdom and better knowledge of acharacter at all times transparent enough. Phoebe, nearing maternaltribulation, threw a new obstacle in her husband’s way, and imploredhim by all holy things, now that he had desisted from confession thus far, tokeep his secret yet a little longer and wait for the birth of the child. Sheused every possible expedient to win this new undertaking from Will, and herfather added his voice to hers. The miller’s expressed wish, stronglyurged, frequently repeated, at last triumphed, and against his own desire andmental promptings, Blanchard, at terrible cost to himself, had promisedpatience until June.

Life, thus clouded and choked, wrought havoc with the man. His naturalsafety-valves were blocked, his nerves shattered, his temper poisoned.Primitive characteristics appeared as a result of this position, and heexhibited the ferocity of an over-driven tame beast, or a hunted wild one. Indays long removed from this crisis he looked back with chill of body andshudder of mind to that nightmare springtime; and he never willinglypermitted even those dearest to him to retrace the period.

The struggle lasted long, but his nature beat Blanchard before the end,burst its bonds, shattered promises and undertakings, weakened marital lovefor a while, and set him free by one tremendous explosion and victory ofnatural force. There had come into his head of late a new sensation, as ofbusy fingers weaving threads within his skull and iron hands moulding thematter of his brain into new patterns. The demon things responsible for historment only slept when he slept, or when, as had happened once or twice, hedrank himself indifferent to all mundane matters. Yet he could not still themfor long, and even Phoebe had heard mutterings and threats of thethread-spinners who were driving her husband mad.

On an evening in late May she became seriously alarmed for his reason.Circumstances suddenly combined to strangle the last flickering breath ofpatience in Will, and the slender barriers were swept away in such a storm aseven Phoebe’s wide experience of him had never parallelled. MillerLyddon was out, at a meeting in the village convened to determine after whatfashion Chagford should celebrate the Sovereign’s Jubilee; Billy alsodeparted about private concerns, and Will and his wife had Monks Barton muchto themselves. Even she irritated the suffering man at this season, and hersunken face and chatter about her own condition and future hopes of a sonoften worried him into sheer frenzy. His promise once exacted she rarelytouched upon that matter, believing the less said the better, but hemisunderstood her reticence and held it selfish. Indeed, Blanchard frettedand chafed alone now; for John Grimbal’s sustained silence had long agoconvinced Mr. Lyddon that the master of the Red House meant no active harm,and Phoebe readily grasped at the same conclusion.

This night, however, the flood-gates crumbled, and Will, before a futileassertion from Phoebe touching the happy promise of the time to come and thecheerful spring weather, dashed down his pipe with an oath, clenched hishands, then leapt to his feet, shook his head, and strode about like amaniac.

“Will! You’ve brawk un to shivers—the butivul wood pipewi’ amber that I gived ’e last birthday!”

“Damn my birthday—a wisht day for me ’t was! I’velived tu long—tu long by all my years, an’ nobody cares wan salttear that I be roastin’ in hell-fire afore my time. I caan’tstand it no more—no more at all—not for you or your faither orangels in heaven or ten million babies to be born into this blastedworld—not if I was faither to ’em all. I must live my life free,or else I’ll go in a madhouse. Free—do ’e hear me?I’ve suffered enough and waited more ’n enough. Ban’tmonths nor weeks neither—’t is a long, long lifetime. You talko’ time dragging! If you knawed—if you knawed! An’ thesedevil-spinners allus knotting an’ twisting. I could do things—Icould—things man never dreamed. An’ I will—for they’m grawing and grawing, an’ they’ll burst my skull if I let’em bide in it. Months ago I’ve sat on a fence unbeknawnst wheermen was shooting, an’ whistled for death. So help me, ’t is true.Me to do that! Theer ’s a cur for ’e; an’ yet ban’tme neither, but the spinners in my head. Death ’s a party easilycalled, mind you. A knife, or a pinch o’ powder, or a drop o’deep water—they ’ll bring un to your elbow in a moment. Awnly, ifI done that, I’d go in company. Nobody should bide to laugh. Them aswould cry might cry, but him as would laugh should come along o’me—he should, by God!”

“Will, Will! It isn’t my Will talking so?”

“It be me, an’ it ban’t me. But I’m in earnest atlast, an’ speakin’ truth. The spinners knaw, an’ they’m right. I’m sick to sheer hate o’ my life; andyou’ve helped to make me so—you and your faither likewise. Thisthing doan’t tear your heart out of you an’ grind your nerves topulp as it should do if you was a true wife.”

“Oh, my dear, my lovey, how can ’e say or think it? You knawwhat it has been to me.”

“I knaw you’ve thought all wrong ’pon it whenyou’ve thought at all. An’ Miller, tu. You’ve prevailedwi’ me to go on livin’ a coward’s life for countless ageso’ time—me—me—creepin’ on the earth wi’my tail between my legs an’ knawin’ I never set eyes on a man asban’t braver than myself. An’ him—Grimbal—laughing,like the devil he is, to think on what my life must be!”

“I caan’t be no quicker. The cheel’s movin’an’ bracin’ itself up an’ makin’ ready to come in theworld, ban’t it? I’ve told ’e so fifty times. It’slittle longer to wait.”

“It’s no longer. It’s nearer than sleep or food ordrink. It’s comin’ ’fore the moon sets. ’T is that orthe madhouse—nothin’ else. If you’d felt the fire as havebeen eatin’ my thinking paarts o’ late days you’d knaw.Ban’t no use your cryin’, for ’t isn’t love of memakes you. Rivers o’ tears doan’t turn me no more. I’msteel now—fust time for a month—an’ while I’m steelI’ll act like steel an’ strike like steel. I’ve had shakynights an’ silly nights an’ haunted nights, but my head ’sclear for wance, an’ I’ll use it while ’tis.”

“Not to do no rash thing, Will? For Christ’s sake, youwon’t hurt yourself or any other?”

“I must meet him wance for all.”

“He ’m at the council ’bout Jubilee wi’ faitheran’ parson an’ the rest.”

“But he’ll go home arter. An’ I’ll have’Yes’ or ’No’ to-night—I will, if I’vegot to shake the word out of his sawl. I ban’t gwaine to be drivenlunatic for him or you or any. Death’s a sight better than a soft headan’ a lifetime o’ dirt an’ drivelling an’ babbling,like the brainless beasts they feed an’ fatten in asylums. That’sworse cruelty than any I be gwaine to suffer at human hands—to be mewedin wan of them gashly mad-holes wi’ the rack an’ ruins o’empty flesh grinning an’ gibbering ’pon me from all the cornerso’ the airth. I be sane now—sane enough to knaw I’m gwainemad fast—an’ I won’t suffer it another hour. It’scome crying and howling upon my mind like a storm this night, an’ thisnight I’ll end it.”

“Wait at least until the morning. See him then.”

“Go to bed, an’ doan’t goad me to more waiting, if youever loved me. Get to bed—out of my sight! I’ve had enough of’e and of all human things this many days. An’ that’s asnear madness as I’m gwaine. What I do, I do to-night.”

She rose from her chair in sudden anger at his strange harshness, for thewife who has never heard an unkind word resents with passionate protest thesting of the first when it falls. Now genuine indignation inflamed Phoebe,and she spoke bitterly.

“’Enough of me’! Ess fay! Like enough you have—apoor, patient creature sweatin’ for ’e, an’ thinkin’for ’e, an’ blotting her eyes with tears for ’e, an’bearin’ your childer an’ your troubles, tu! ’Enough ofme.’ Ess, I’ll get gone to my bed an’ stiffen my jointswi’ kneelin’ in prayer for ’e, an’ weary God’sear for a fule!”

His answer was an action, and before she had done speaking he stretchedabove him and took his gun from its place on an old beam that extended acrossthe ceiling.

“What in God’s name be that for? Youwouldn’t—?”

“Shoot a fox? Why not? I’m a farmer now, and I’d killbest auld red Moor fox as ever gave a field forty minutes an’ beat it.You was whinin’ ’bout the chicks awnly this marnin’.I’ll sit under the woodstack a bit an’ think ’fore Istarts. Ban’t no gude gwaine yet.”

Will’s explanation of his deed was the true one, but Phoebe realisedin some dim fashion that she stood within the shadow of a critical night andthat action was called upon from her. Her anger waned a little, and her heartbegan to beat fast, but she acted with courage and promptitude.

“Let un be to-night—auld fox, I mean. Theer ’m morechicks than young foxes, come to think of it; an’ he ’m awnlydoin’ what you forget to do—fighting for his vixen an’cubs.”

She looked straight into Will’s eyes, took the gun out of his hands,climbed on to a chair, and hung the weapon up again in its place.

He laughed curiously, and helped his wife to the ground again.

“Thank you,” she said. “Now go an’ do what youwant to do, an’ doan’t forget the future happiness of womenan’ childer lies upon it.” Her anger was nearly gone, as he spokeagain.

“How little you onderstand me arter all these years—an’never will—nobody never will but mother. What did ’e fear? ThatI’d draw trigger on the man from behind a tree,p’r’aps?”

“No—not that, but that you might be driven to kill yourselfalong o’ having such a bad wife.”

“Now we ’m both on the mad road,” he said bitterly. Thenhe picked up his stick and, a moment later, went out into the night.

Phoebe watched his tall figure pass over the river, and saw himsilhouetted against dead silver of moonlit waters as he crossed thestepping-stones. Then she climbed for the gun again, hid it, and presentlyprepared for her father’s return.

“What butivul peace an quiet theer be in ministerin’ to a gudefaither,” she thought, “as compared wi’ servin’ astormy husband!” Then sorrow changed to active fear, and that, in itsturn, sank into a desolate weariness and indifference. She detected nosemblance of justice in her husband’s outburst; she failed to see howcircumstances must sooner or late have precipitated his revolt; and she feltherself very cruelly misjudged, very gravely wronged.

Meantime Blanchard passed through a hurricane of rage against his enemymuch akin to that formerly recorded of John Grimbal himself, when the brutewon to the top of him and he yearned for physical conflict. That night Willwas resolved to get a definite response or come to some conclusion by forceof arms. His thoughts carried him far, and before he took up his stationwithin the grounds of the Red House, at a point from which the avenueapproach might be controlled, he had already fallen into a frantic hunger forfight and a hope that his enemy would prove of like mind. He itched forassault and battery, and his heart clamoured to be clean in his breastagain.

Whatever might happen, he was determined to give himself up on thefollowing day. He had done all he could for those he loved, but he waspowerless to suffer more. He longed now to trample his foe into the dust,and, that accomplished, he would depart, well satisfied, and receive whatpunishment was due. His accumulated wrongs must be paid at last, and he fullydetermined, an hour before John Grimbal came homewards, that the paymentshould be such as he himself had received long years before on RushfordBridge. His muscles throbbed for action as he sat and waited at the top of asloping bank dotted with hawthorns that extended upwards from the edge of theavenue and terminated on the fringe of young coverts.

And now, by a chance not uncommon, two separate series of circumstanceswere about to clash, while the shock engendered was destined to precipitatethe climax of Will Blanchard’s fortunes, in so far as this record isconcerned. On the night that he thus raged and suffered the gall bred of longinaction to overflow, John Grimbal likewise came to a sudden conclusion withhimself, and committed a deed of nature definite so far as it went.

In connection with the approaching Jubilee rejoicings a spirit in somesense martial filled the air, and Grimbal with his yeomanry was destined toplay a part. A transient comet-blaze of militarism often sparkles overfighting nations at any season of universal joy, and that more especially ifthe keystone of the land’s constitution be a crown. This fire foundmaterial inflammable enough in the hearts of many Devonshire men, and beforeits warm impulse John Grimbal, inspired by a particular occasion, compoundedwith his soul at last. Rumoured on long tongues from the village ale-house,there had come to his ears the report of certain ill-considered utterancesmade by his enemy upon the events of the hour. They were only a hot-headedand very miserable man’s foolish comments upon things in general andthe approaching festival in particular, and they served but to illustrate thefact that no ill-educated and passionate soul can tolerate universalrejoicings, itself wretched; but Grimbal clutched at this proven disloyaltyof an old deserter, and told himself that personal questions must weigh withhim no more.

“The sort of discontented brute that drifts into Socialism and allmanner of wickedness,” he thought. “The rascal must be muzzledonce for all, and as a friend to the community I shall act, not as an enemyto him.”

This conclusion he came to on the evening of the day which sawBlanchard’s final eruption, and he was amazed to find howstraightforward and simple his course appeared when viewed from theimpersonal standpoint of duty. His brother was due to dine with John Grimbalin half an hour, for both men were serving on a committee to meet that nightupon the question of the local celebrations at Chagford, and they were goingtogether. Time, however, remained for John to put his decision into action.He turned to his desk, therefore, and wrote. The words to be employed he knewby heart, for he had composed his letter many months before, and it was withhim always; yet now, seen thus set out upon paper for the first time, itlooked strange.

“RED HOUSE, CHAGFORD, DEVON.

“To the Commandant, Royal Artillery, Plymouth.

“SIR,—It has come to my knowledge that the man, WilliamBlanchard, who enlisted in the Royal Artillery under the name of Tom Newcombeand deserted from his battery when it was stationed at Shorncliffe some tenyears ago, now resides at this place on the farm of Monks Barton, Chagford.My duty demands that I should lodge this information, and I can, of course,substantiate it, though I have reason to believe the deserter will notattempt to evade his just punishment if apprehended. I have the honour tobe,

“Your obedient servant,

“JOHN GRIMBAL,

“Capt. Dev. Yeomanry.”

He had just completed this communication when Martin arrived, and as hisbrother entered he instinctively pushed the letter out of sight. But a momentlater he rebelled against himself for the act, knowing the ugly tacitadmission represented by it. He dragged forth the letter, therefore, andgreeted his brother by thrusting the note before him.

“Read that,” he said darkly; “it will surprise you, Ithink. I want to do nothing underhand, and as you ’re linked to thesepeople for life now, it is just that you should hear what is going to happen.There’s the knowledge I once hinted to you that I possessed concerningWilliam Blanchard. I have waited and given him rope enough. Now he’shanged himself, as I knew he would, and I must act. A few days ago he spokedisrespectfully of the Queen before a dozen other loafers in a public-house.That’s a sin I hold far greater than his sin against me. Read what Ihave just written.”

Martin gazed with mildness upon John’s savage and defiant face. Hisbrother’s expression and demeanour by no means chimed with the judicialmoderation of his speech. Then the antiquary perused the letter, and therefell no sound upon the silence, except that of a spluttering pen as JohnGrimbal addressed an envelope.

Presently Martin dropped the letter on the desk before him, and his facewas very white, his voice tremulous as he spoke.

“This thing happened more than ten years ago.”

“It did; but don’t imagine I have known it tenyears.”

“God forbid! I think better of you. Yet, if only for my sake,reflect before you send this letter. Once done, you have ruined a life. Ihave seen Will several times since I came home, and now I understand theterrific change in him. He must have known that you know this. It was thelast straw. He seems quite broken on the wheel of the world, and no wonder.To one of his nature, the past, since you discovered this terrible secret,must have been sheer torment.”

John Grimbal doubled up the letter and thrust it into the envelope, whileMartin continued:

“What do you reap? You’re not a man to do an action of thissort and live afterwards as though you had not done it. I warn you, youintend a terribly dangerous thing. This may be the wreck of another soulbesides Blanchard’s. I know your real nature, though you’vehidden it so close of late years. Post that letter, and your life’sbitter for all time. Look into your heart, and don’t pretend to deceiveyourself.”

His brother lighted a match, burnt red wax, and sealed the letter with asignet ring.

“Duty is duty,” he said.

“Yes, yes; right shall be done and this extraordinary thing madeknown in the right quarter. But don’t let it come out through you;don’t darken your future by such an act. Your personal relations withthe man, John,—it’s impossible you should do this after all theseyears.”

The other affixed a stamp to his letter.

“Don’t imagine personal considerations influence me. I’ma soldier, and I know what becomes a soldier. If I find a traitor to hisQueen and country am I to pass upon the other side of the road and not do myduty because the individual happens to be a private enemy? You rate me lowand misjudge me rather cruelly if you imagine that I am so weak.”

Martin gasped at this view of the position, instantly believed himselfmistaken, and took John at his word. Thereon he came near blushing to thinkthat he should have read such baseness into a brother’s character.

“I beg your pardon,” he said. “I ought to be ashamed tohave misunderstood you so. I could not escape the personal factor in thisterrible business, but you, I see, have duly weighed it. I wronged you. Yes,I wronged you, as you say. The writing of that letter was a very courageousaction, under the circumstances—as plucky a thing as ever man did,perhaps. Forgive me for taking so mean a view of it, and forgive me for evendoubting your motives.”

“I want justice, and if I am misunderstood for doing myduty—why, that is no new thing. I can face that, as better men havedone before me.”

There was a moment or two of silence; then Martin spoke, almostjoyfully.

“Thank God, I see a way out! It seldom happens that I am quick inany question of human actions, but for once, I detect a road by which rightmay be done and you still spared this terrible task. I do, indeed, because Iknow Blanchard better than you do. I can guess what he has been enduring oflate, and I will show him how he may end the torture himself by doing theright thing even now.”

“It’s fear of me scorching the man, not shame of his owncrime.”

“Then, as the stronger, as a soldier, put him out of his misery andset your mind at ease. Believe me, you may do it without any reflection onyourself. Tell him you have decided to take no step in the affair, and leavethe rest to me. I will wager I can prevail upon him to give himself up. I amsingularly confident that I can bring it about. Then, if I fail, do what youconsider to be right; but first give me leave to try and save you from thispainful necessity.”

There followed a long silence. John Grimbal saw how much easier it was todeceive another than himself, and, before the spectacle of his deludedbrother, felt that he appreciated his own real motives and incentives attheir true worth. The more completely was Martin hoodwinked, the moreapparent did the truth grow within John’s mind. What was in realityresponsible for his intended action never looked clearer than then, and asMartin spoke in all innocence of the courage that must be necessary toperform such a deed, Grimbal passed through the flash of a white light andcaught a glimpse of his recent mental processes magnified by many degrees inthe blinding ray. The spectacle sickened him a little, weakened him, touchedthe depths of him, stirred his nature. He answered presently in a voiceharsh, abrupt, and deep.

“I’ve lied often enough in my life,” he said, “andmay again, but I think never to you till to-day. You’re such aclean-minded, big-hearted man that you don’t understand a mind of mybuild—a mind that can’t forgive, that can’t forget,that’s fed full for years on the thought of revenging that frightfulblow in the past. What you feared and hinted just now was partly the truth,and I know it well enough. But that is only to say my motives in this mattermixed.”

“None but a brave man would admit so mucn, but now you wrongyourself, as I wronged you. We are alike. I, too, have sometimes in darkmoments blamed myself for evil thoughts and evil deeds beyond my realdeserts. So you. I know nothing but your sense of duty would make you postthat letter.”

“We’ve wrecked each other’s lives, he and I; onlyhe’s a boy, and his life’s before him; I’m a man, and mylife is lived, for I’m the sort that grows old early, and he’shelped Time more than anybody knows but myself.”

“Don’t say that. Happiness never comes when you are hungeringmost for it; sorrow never when you believe yourself best tuned to bear it.Once I thought as you do now. I waited long for my good fortune, and said’good-by’ to all my hope of earthly delight.”

“You were easier to satisfy than I should have been. Yet you wereconstant, too,—constant as I was. We’re built that way.More’s the pity.”

“I have absolutely priceless blessings; my cup of happiness is full.Sometimes I ask myself how it comes about that one so little deserving hasreceived so much; sometimes I waken in the very extremity of fear, for joylike mine seems greater than any living thing has a right to.”

“I’m glad one of us is happy.”

“I shall live to see you equally blessed.”

“It is impossible.”

There was a pause, then a gong rumbled in the hall, and the brothers wentto dinner. Their conversation now ranged upon varied local topics, and it wasnot until the cloth had been removed according to old-fashioned custom, andfruit and wine set upon a shining table, that John returned to the crucialsubject of the moment.

He poured out a glass of port for Martin, and pushed the cigars towardshim, then spoke,—

“Drink. It’s very good. And try one of those. I shall not postthat letter.”

“Man, I knew it! I knew it well, without hearing so from you.Destroy the thing, dear fellow, and so take the first step to a peace I fearyou have not known for many days. All this suffering will vanish quicker thana dream then. Justice is great, but mercy is greater. Yours is the privilegeof mercy, and yet justice shall not suffer either—not if I know WillBlanchard.”

They talked long and drank more than usual, while the elder man’sgrim and moody spirit lightened a little before his determination and hiswine. The reek of past passions, the wreckage of dead things, seemed to besweeping out of his mind. He forgot the hour and their engagement until thetime fixed for that conference was past. Then he looked at his watch, rosefrom the table, and hurried to the hall.

“Let us not go,” urged Martin. “They will do very wellwithout us, I am sure.”

But John’s only answer was to pull on his driving gloves. Heanticipated some satisfaction from the committee meeting; he suspected,indeed, that he would be asked to take the chair at it, and, like most men,he was not averse to the exercise of a little power in a small corner.

“We must go,” he said. “I have important suggestions tomake, especially concerning the volunteers. A sham fight on Scorhill would bea happy thought. We’ll drive fast, and only be twenty minuteslate.”

A dog-cart had been waiting half an hour, and soon the brothers quicklywhirled down Red House avenue. A groom dropped from behind and opened thegate; then it was all his agility could accomplish to scramble into his seatagain as a fine horse, swinging along at twenty miles an hour, trottedtowards Chagford.

CHAPTER XV
A BATTLE

Silent and motionless sat Blanchard, on the fringe of a bank at thecoppice edge. He watched the stars move onward and the shadows cast bymoonlight creep from west to north, from north to east. Hawthorn scented thenight and stood like masses of virgin silver under the moon; from the RedHouse ’owl tree’—a pollarded elm, sacred to the wisebird—came mewing of brown owls; and once a white one struck, swift as astreak of feathered moonlight, on the copse edge, and passed so near toBlanchard that he saw the wretched shrew-mouse in its talons.“’Tis for the young birds somewheers,” he thought;“an’ so they’ll thrive an’ turn out braave owletscome bimebye; but the li’l, squeakin’, blind shrews,what’ll they do when no mother comes home-along to’em?”

He mused drearily upon this theme, but suddenly started, for there camethe echo of slow steps in the underwood behind him. They sank into silenceand set Will wondering as to what they might mean. Then another sound, thatof a galloping horse and the crisp ring of wheels, reached him, and,believing that John Grimbal was come, he strung himself to the matter inhand. But the vehicle did not stop. A flash of yellow light leapt through thedistance as a mail-cart rattled past upon its way to Moreton. Thiscircumstance told Will the hour and he knew that his vigil could not be muchlonger protracted.

Then death stalked abroad again, but this time in a form that awoke thewatcher’s deep-rooted instincts, took him clean out of himself, andangered him to passion, not in his own cause but another’s. There camethe sudden scream of a trapped hare,—that sound where terror and agonymingle in a cry half human,—and so still was the hour that Blanchardheard the beast’s struggles though it was fifty yards distant. A harein a trap at any season meant a poacher—a hated enemy of society inBlanchard’s mind; and his instant thought was to bring the rascal tojustice if he could. Now the recent footfall was explained and Will doubtednot that the cruel cry which had scattered his reveries would quickly attractsome hidden man responsible for it. The hare was caught by a wire set in arun at the edge of the wood, and now Blanchard crawled along on his stomachto within ten yards of the tragedy, and there waited under the shadow of awhite-thorn at the edge of the woods. Within two minutes the bushes partedand, where the foliage of a young silver birch showered above lesserbrushwood, a man with a small head and huge shoulders appeared. Seeing nodanger he crept into the open, lifted his head to the moon, and revealed theperson and features of Sam Bonus, the labourer with whom Will had quarrelledin times long past. Here, then, right ahead of him, appeared such a battle asBlanchard had desired, but with another foe than he anticipated. Thataccident mattered nothing, however. Will only saw a poacher, and to settlethe business of such an one out of hand if possible was, in his judgment, adefinite duty to be undertaken by every true man at any moment whenopportunity offered.

He walked suddenly from shadow and stood within three yards of the robberas Bonus raised the butt of his gun to kill the shrieking beast at hisfeet.

“You! An’ red-handed, by God! I knawed ’t was no liesthey told of ’e.”

The other started and turned and saw who stood against him.

“Blanchard, is it? An’ what be you doin’ here? Come forsame reason, p’r’aps?”

“I’d make you pay, if ’t was awnly for sayin’that! I’m a man to steal others’ fur out of season, ban’tI? But I doan’t have no words wi’ the likes o’ you.I’ve took you fair an’ square, anyways, an’ will just ax ifyou be comin’ wi’out a fuss, or am I to make ’e?”

The other snarled.

“You—you come a yard nearer an’ I’ll blaw yourdamned head—”

But the threat was left unfinished, and its execution failed, for Will hadbeen taught to take an armed man in his early days on the river, and had seenan old hand capture more than one desperate character. He knew thatinstantaneous action might get him within the muzzle of the gun and out ofdanger, and while Bonus spoke, he flew straight upon him with such unexpectedcelerity that Sam had no time to accomplish his purpose. He came down heavilywith Blanchard on top of him, and his weapon fell from his hand. But thepoacher was not done with. As they lay struggling, he found his foot clearand managed to kick Will twice on the leg above the knee. Then Blanchard,hanging like a dog to his foe, freed an arm, and hit hard more than once intoSam’s face. A blow on the nose brought red blood that spurted over bothmen black as ink under the moonlight.

It was not long before they broke away and rose from their first struggleon the ground, but Bonus finally got to his knees, then to his feet, andWill, as he did the same, knew by a sudden twinge in his leg that if thepoacher made off it must now be beyond his power to follow.

“No odds,” he gasped, answering his thought aloud, while theywrestled. “If you’ve brawk me somewheers ’t is no matter,for you ’m marked all right, an’ them squinting eyes ofyourn’ll be blacker ’n sloes come marnin’.”

This obvious truth infuriated Bonus. He did not attempt to depart, but,catching sight of his gun, made a tremendous effort to reach it. The othersaw this aim and exerted his strength in an opposite direction. They foughtin silence awhile—growled and cursed, sweated and swayed, stamped andslipped and dripped blood under the dewy and hawthorn-scented night. Bonusused all his strength to reach the gun; Will sacrificed everything to hishold. He suffered the greater punishment for a while, because Sam fought withall his limbs, like a beast; but presently Blanchard threw the poacherheavily, and again they came down together, this time almost on the wretchedbeast that still struggled, held by the wire at hand. It had dragged the furoff its leg, and white nerve fibres, torn bare, glimmered in the red fleshunder the moon.

Both fighters were now growing weaker, and each knew that a few minutesmore must decide the fortune of the battle. Bonus still fought for the gun,and now his weight began to tell. Then, as he got within reach, and stretchedhand to grasp it, Blanchard, instead of dragging against him, threw all hisforce in the same direction, and Sam was shot clean over the gun. This timethey twisted and Will fell underneath. Both simultaneously thrust a hand forthe weapon; both gripped it, and then exerted their strength for possession.Will meant using it as a club if fate was kind; the other man, rating his ownlife at nothing, and, believing that he bore Blanchard the grudge of his ownruin, intended, at that red-hot moment, to keep his word and blow theother’s brains out if he got a chance to do so.

Then, unheard by the combatants, a distant gate was thrown open, twobrilliant yellow discs of fire shone along the avenue below, and John Grimbalreturned to his home. Suddenly, seeing figures fighting furiously on the edgeof the hill not fifty yards away, he pulled up, and a din of conflict soundedin his ears as the rattle of hoof and wheel and harness ceased. Leaping downhe ran to the scene of the conflict as fast as possible, but it was endedbefore he arrived. A gun suddenly exploded and flashed a red-hot tongue offlame across the night. A hundred echoes caught the detonation and as thedischarge reverberated along the stony hills to Fingle Gorge, Will Blanchardstaggered backwards and fell in a heap, while the poacher reeled, thensteadied himself, and vanished under the woods.

“Bring a lamp,” shouted Grimbal, and a moment later his groomobeyed; but the fallen man was sitting up by the time John reached him, andthe gun that had exploded was at his feet.

“You ’m tu late by half a second,” he gasped. “Ifired myself when I seed the muzzle clear. Poachin’ he was, but the man’s marked all right. Send p’liceman for Sam Bonus to-morrer,an’ I lay you’ll find a picter.”

“Blanchard!”

“Ess fay, an’ no harm done ’cept a stiff leg. Best toknock thicky poor twoad on the head. I heard the scream of un and comed alongan’ waited an’ catched my gen’leman in the act.”

The groom held a light to the mangled hare.

“Scat it on the head,” said Will, “then give me ahand.”

He was helped to his feet; the servant went on before with the lamp, andBlanchard, finding himself able to walk without difficulty, proceeded, slowlysupporting himself by the poacher’s gun.

Grimbal waited for him to speak and presently he did so.

“Things falls out so different in this maze of a world from what manmay count on.”

“How came it that you were here?”

“Blamed if I can tell ’e till I gather my wits together.’Pears half a century or so since I comed; yet ban’t above twohour agone.”

“You didn’t come to see Sam Bonus, I suppose?”

“No fay! Never a man farther from my thought than him when I seed unpoke up his carrot head under the moon. I was ’pon my awn affairsan’ comed to see you. I wanted straight speech an’ straighthitting; an’ I got ’em, for that matter. An’ fightin’’s gude for the blood, I reckon—anyway for my fashionblood.”

“You came to fight me, then?”

“I did—if I could make ’e fight.”

“With that gun?”

“With nought but a savage heart an’ my two fistes. The gunbelongs to Sam Bonus. Leastways it did, but ’t is mine now—oryours, as the party most wronged.”

“Come this way and drink a drop of brandy before you go home. Gladyou had some fighting as you wanted it so bad. I know what it feels like tobe that way, too. But there wouldn’t have been blows between us. Mymind was made up. I wrote to Plymouth this afternoon. I wrote, and an hourlater decided not to post the letter. I’ve changed my intentionsaltogether, because the point begins to appear in a new light. I’msorry for a good few things that have happened of late years.”

Will breathed hard a moment; then he spoke slowly and not without moreemotion than his words indicated.

“That’s straight speech—if you mean it. I never knawedhow ’t was that a sportsman, same as you be, could keep rakin’awver a job an’ drive a plain chap o’ the soil like me into hellfor what I done ten year agone.”

“Let the past go. Forget it; banish it for all time as far as youhave the power. Blame must be buried both sides. Here’s the letter uponmy desk. I’ll burn it, and I’ll try to burn the memory oftenyears with it. Your road’s clear for me.”

“Thank you,” said Blanchard, very slowly. “I layI’ll never hear no better news than that on this airth. Now I’mfree—free to do how I please, free to do it undriven.”

There was a long silence. Grimbal poured out half a tumbler of brandy,added soda water, then handed the stimulant to Will; and Blauchard, afterdrinking, sat in comfort a while, rubbed his swollen jaw, and scraped thedried blood of Bonus off his hands.

“Why for did you chaange so sudden?” he asked, as Grimbalturned to his desk.

“I could tell you, but it doesn’t matter. A letter in the mindlooks different to one on paper; and duty often changes its appearance, too,when a man is honest with himself. To be honest with yourself is the hardestsort of honesty. I’ve had speech with others about this—mybrother more particularly.”

“I wish to God us could have settled it without no help fromoutside.”

Grimbal rang the bell, then answered.

“As to settling it, I know nothing about that. I’ve settledwith my own conscience—such as it is.”

“I’d come for ‘Yes’ or‘No.’”

“Now you have a definite answer.”

“An’ thank you. Then what ’s it to be between us, when Icome back? May I ax that? Them as ban’t enemies no more might grow tobe friends—eh?”

What response Grimbal would have made is doubtful. He did not reply, forhis servant, Lawrence Vallack, entered at the moment, and he turned abruptlyupon the old man.

“Where ’s the letter I left upon my desk? It was directed toPlymouth.”

“All right, sir, all right; don’t worrit. I’ve eyes inmy head for my betters still, thank God. I seed un when I come to shut theshutters an’ sent Joe post-haste to the box. ’T was in plenty oftime for the mail.”

John emptied his lungs in a great respiration, half-sigh, half-groan. Hecould not speak. Only his fingers closed and he half lifted his hand asthough to crush the smirking ancient. Then he dropped his arm and looked atBlanchard, asking the question with his eyes that he could find no wordsfor.

“I heard the mail go just ’fore the hare squealed,” saidWill stolidly, “an’ the letter with it for certain.”

Grimbal started up and rushed to the hall while the other limped afterhim.

“Doan’t ’e do nothin’ fulish. I believe you nevermeant to post un. Ess, I’ll take your solemn word for that. An’if you didn’t mean to send letter, ’t is as if you hadn’tsent un. For my mind weer fixed, whatever you might do.”

“Don’t jaw, now! There ’s time to stop the mail yet. Ican get to Moreton as soon or sooner than that crawling cart if I ride. Iwon’t be fooled like this!”

He ran to the stables, called to the groom, clapped a saddle on the horsethat had just brought him home, and in about three minutes was riding downthe avenue, while his lad reached the gate and swung it open just in time.Then Grimbal galloped into the night, with heart and soul fixed upon hisletter. He meant to recover it at any reasonable cost. The white roadstreaked away beneath him, and a breeze created by his own rapid progresssteadied him as he hastened on. Presently at a hill-foot, he saw how to savea mile or more by short cuts over meadow-land, so left the highway, rodethrough a hayfield, and dashed from it by a gap into a second. Then hegrunted and the sound was one of satisfaction, for his tremendous rate ofprogress had served its object and already, creeping on the main road farahead, he saw the vehicle which held the mail.

Meanwhile Blanchard and the man-servant stood and watched JohnGrimbal’s furious departure.

“Pity,” said Will. “No call to do it. I’ve tookhis word, an’ the end ’s the same, letter or no letter. Now letme finish that theer brandy, then I’ll go home.”

But Mr. Vallack heard nothing. He was gazing out into the night andshaking with fear.

“High treason ’gainst the law of the land to lay a finger onthe mail. A letter posted be like a stone flinged or a word spoken—outof our keeping for all time. An’ me to blame for it. I’m a ruinedman along o’ taking tu much ’pon myself an’ being tu eagerfor others. He’ll fling me out, sure ’s death. ’T is all upwi’ me.”

“As to that, I reckon many a dog gets a kick wheer he thinks he’s earned a pat,” said Will; “that’s life, that is.An’ maybe theer’s sore hearts in dumb beasts, tu, sometimes, fora dog loves praise like a woman. He won’t sack ’e. You done what’peared your duty.”

Blanchard then left the house, slowly proceeded along the avenue andpresently passed out on to the highroad. As he walked the pain of his legdiminished, but he put no strain upon it and proceeded very leisurely towardshome. Great happiness broke into his mind, undimmed by aching bones andbruises. The reflection that he was reconciled to John Grimbal crowded outlesser thoughts. He knew the other had spoken truth, and accepted hisheadlong flight to arrest the mail as sufficient proof of it. Then he thoughtof the possibility of giving himself up before Grimbal’s letter shouldcome to be read.

At home Phoebe was lying awake in misery waiting for him. She had broughtup to their bedroom a great plate of cold bacon with vegetables and a pint ofbeer; and as Will slowly appeared she uttered a cry and embraced him withthanksgivings. Upon Blanchard’s mind the return to his wife impressedvarious strange thoughts. He soothed her, comforted her, and assured her ofhis safety. But to him it seemed that he spoke with a stranger, for half acentury of experience appeared to stretch between the present and hisdeparture from Monks Barton about three hours before. His wife experiencedsimilar sensations. That this cheerful, battered, hungry man could be thesame who had stormed from her into the night a few short hours before,appeared impossible.

CHAPTER XVI
A PAIR OF HANDCUFFS

Mr. Blee, to do him justice, was usually the first afoot at Monks Barton,both winter and summer. The maids who slept near him needed no alarum, forhis step on the stair and his high-pitched summons, “Now then, you lazygals, what be snorin’ theer for, an’ the day broke?” wasalways sufficient to ensure their wakening.

At an early hour of the morning that dawned upon Will’s nocturnaladventures, Billy stood in the farmyard and surveyed the shining river to anaccompaniment of many musical sounds. On Monks Barton thatches the pigeonscooed and bowed and gurgled to their ladies, cows lowed from the byres, cockscrew, and the mill-wheel, already launched upon the business of the day,panted from its dark habitation of dripping moss and fern.

Billy sniffed the morning, then proceeded to a pig’s sty, opened adoor within it, and chuckled at the spectacle that greeted him.

“Burnish it all! auld sow ’s farrowed at last, then. Busynight for her, sure ’nough! An’ so fine a litter as ever I seed,by the looks of it.”

He bustled off to get refreshment for the gaunt, new-made mother, and ashe did so met Ted Chown, who now worked at Mr. Lyddon’s, and had justarrived from his home in Chagford.

“Marnin’, sir; have ’e heard the news? Gert tidingsup-long I ’sure ’e.”

“Not so gert as what I’ve got, I’ll lay. Butivul litter’t is. Come an’ give me a hand.”

“Bonus was catched poachin’ last night to the Red House.An’ he’ve had his faace smashed in, nose broke, an’ all. Heescaped arter; but he went to Doctor fust thing to-day an’ got hisselfplastered; an’ then, knawin’ ’t weern’t no use tohide, comed right along an’ gived hisself up to faither.”

“My stars! An’ no more’n what he desarved, that’scertain.”

“But that ban’t all, even. Maister Jan Grimbal’smissing! He rode off last night, Laard knaws wheer, an’ never a sign ofun seed since. They’ve sent to the station ’bout ita’ready; an’ they ’m scourin’ the airth for un.An’ ’t was Maister Blanchard as fought wi’ Bonus, for Samsaid so.”

“Guy Fawkes an’ angels! Here, you mix this. I must tell Milleran’ run about a bit. Gwaine to be a gert day, by the looks ofit!”

He hurried into the house, met his master and began with breathlesshaste,—

“Awful doin’s! Awful doin’s, Miller. Such asweet-smellin’ marnin’, tu! Bear yourself stiff against it, forus caan’t say what remains to be told.”

“What’s wrong now? Doan’t choke yourself. You ’mgrawin’ tu auld for all the excitements of modern life, Billy.Wheer’s Will?”

“You may well ax. Sleepin’ still, I reckon, for he comed inlong arter midnight. I was stirrin’ at the time an’ heard un.Sleepin’ arter black deeds, if all they tell be true.”

“Black deeds!”

“The bwoy Ted’s just comed wi’ it. ’T is this way:Bonus be at death’s door wi’ a smashed nose, an’ Blancharddone it; an’ Jan Grimbal’s vanished off the faace o’ theairth. Not a sign of un seed arter he drove away last night from the Jubileegathering. An’ if ’t is murder, you’ll be in thewitness-box, knawin’ the parties same as you do; an’ the sow’s got a braave litter, though what’s that arter suchnews?”

“Guess you ’m dreamin’, Blee,” said Mr. Lyddon, ashe took his hat and walked into the farmyard.

Billy was hurt.

“Dreamin’, be I? I’m a man as dreams blue murders, ofcoourse! Tu auld to be relied on now, I s’pose. Theer! Theer!” hechanged his voice and it ran into a cracked scream of excitement.“Theer! P’r’aps I’m dreamin’, as InspectorChown an’ Constable Lamacraft be walkin’ in the gate this instantmoment!”

But there was no mistaking this fact. Abraham Chown entered, marchedsolemnly to the party at the door, cried “Halt!” to hissubordinate, then turned to Mr. Lyddon.

“Good-day to you, Miller,” he said, “though ’t isa bad day, I’m fearin’. I be here for Will Blanchard,alias Tom Newcombe.”

“If you mean my son-in-law, he ’s not out of bed to myknawledge.”

“Dear sawls! Doan’t ’e say ’t is bluemurder—doan’t ’e say that!” implored Mr. Blee. Hishead shook and his tongue revolved round his lips.

“Not as I knaws. We ’m actin’ on instructions from themilitary to Plymouth.”

“Theer ’s allus wickedness hid under a aliasnotwithstanding,” declared Billy, rather disappointed; “have’e found Jan Grimbal?”

“They be searchin’ for un. Jim Luke, Inspector to Moreton,an’ his men be out beatin’ the country. But I’m here,wi’ my staff, for William Blanchard. March!”

Lamacraft, thus addressed, proceeded a pace or two until stopped by Mr.Lyddon.

“No call to go in. He’ll come down. But I’m sore puzzledto knaw what this means, for awnly last night I heard tell from JanGrimbal’s awn lips that he’d chaanged his mind about a privatematter bearin’ on this.”

“I want the man, anyways, an’ I be gwaine to have un,”declared Inspector Chown. He brought a pair of handcuffs from his pocket andgave them to the constable.

“Put up them gashly things, Abraham Chown,” said the millersternly. “Doan’t ’e knaw Blanchard better ’nthat?”

“Handcuffed he’ll be, whether he likes it or not,”answered the other; “an’ if theer’s trouble, I bid allpresent an’ any able-bodied men ’pon the premises to help me takehim in the Queen’s name.”

Billy hobbled round the corner, thrust two fingers into his mouth, andblew a quavering whistle; whereupon two labourers, working a few hundredyards off, immediately dropped their tools and joined him.

“Run you here,” he cried. “P’lice be corned totaake Will Blanchard, an’ us must all give the Law a hand, fortheer’ll be blows struck if I knaw un.”

“Will Blanchard! What have he done?”

“Been under a alias—that’s the least of it,but—God, He knaws—it may rise to murder. ’T is our boundenduty to help Chown against un.”

“Be danged if I do!” said one of the men.

“Nor me,” declared the other. “Let Chown do his jobhisself—an’ get his jaw broke for his trouble.”

But they followed Mr. Blee to where the miller still argued againstLamacraft’s entrance.

“Why didn’t they send soldiers for un? That’s what hereckoned on,” said Mr. Lyddon.

“’T is my job fust.”

“I’m sorry you’ve come in this high spirit. You knaw theman and ought to taake his word he’d go quiet and my guarantee forit.”

“I knaw my duty, an’ doan’t want no teachin’ fromyou.”

“You’re a fule!” said Miller, in some anger.“An’ ’t will take more ’n you an’ thatmoon-faced lout to put them things on the man, or I’m muchmistaken.”

He went indoors while the labourers laughed, and the younger constableblushed at the insult.

“How do ’e like that, Peter Lamacraft?” asked alabourer.

“No odds to me,” answered the policeman, licking his handsnervously and looking at the door. “I ban’t feared of nought saidor done if I’ve got the Law behind me. An’ you’m liableyourself if you doan’t help.”

“Caan’t wait no more,” declared Mr. Chown. “Ifhe’s in bed, us’ll take un in bed. Come on, you!”

Thus ordered to proceed, Lamacraft set his face resolutely forward and wasjust entering the farm when Phoebe appeared. Her tears were dry, though hervoice was unsteady and her eyelids red.

“Gude mornin’, Mr. Chown,” she said.

“Marnin’, ma’am. Let us pass, if you please.”

“Are you coming in? Why?”

“Us caan’t bide no more, an’ us caan’t give nomore reasons. The Law ban’t ’spected to give reasons for itsdeeds, an’ us won’t be bamboozled an’ put off a minutelonger,” answered Chown grimly. “March, I tell ’e, PeterLamacraft.”

“You caan’t see my husband.”

“But we’m gwaine to see un. He’ve got to see me,an’ come along wi’ me, tu. An’ if he’s wise,he’ll come quiet an’ keep his mouth shut. That much I’lltell un for his gude.”

“If you’ll listen, I might make you onderstand how ’tisyou caan’t see Will,” said Phoebe quietly. “You must knawhe runned away an’ went soldiering before he married me. Then he comedback for love of me wi’out axin’ any man’sleave.”

“So much the worse, ma’am; he’m a desarter!”

“The dark wickedness!” gasped Mr. Blee; “an’ himdumb as a newt ’bout it all these years an’ years! The conscienceof un!”

“Well, you needn’t trouble any more,” continued Phoebeto the policemen. “My husband be gwaine to take this matter into hisawn hands now.”

Inspector Chown laughed.

“That’s gude, that is!—now he ’m blawnupon!”

“He ’s gwaine to give himself up—he caan’t domore,” said Phoebe, turning to her father who now reappeared.

“Coourse he caan’t do more. What more do ’e want?”the miller inquired.

“Him,” answered Mr. Chown. “No more an’ no less;an’ everything said will be used against him.”

“You glumpy auld Dowl!” growled a labouring man.

“All right, all right. You just wait, all of ’e! Wheer’sthe man? How much longer be I to bide his pleasure? March! Damn it all! bethe Law a laughing-stock?” The Inspector was growing very hot andexcited.

“He’s gone,” said Phoebe, as Mr. Lamacraft entered thefarm, put one foot on the bottom step of the stairs, then turned for furtherorders. “He’s gone, before light. He rested two hours or so, thenus harnessed the trap an’ he drove away to Moreton to take fust trainto Plymouth by way o’ Newton Abbot. An’ he said as Ted Chown wasto go in arter breakfast an’ drive the trap home.”

“Couldn’t tell me nothin’ as had pleased mebetter,” said the miller. “’T is a weight offme—an’ off him I reckon. Now you ’m answered, my son; youcan telegraph back as you corned wi’ your auld handcuffs tu late byhours, an’ that the man’s on his way to give hisselfup.”

“I’ve only got your word for it.”

“An’ what better word should ’e have?” pipedBilly, who in the space of half a minute had ranged himself alongside hismaster. “You to question the word o’ Miller Lyddon, youcrooked-hearted raven! Who was it spoke for ’e fifteen year agoan’ got ’em to make ’e p’liceman ’cause you wastu big a fule to larn any other trade? Gert, thankless twoad! An’ whowas it let ’em keep the ’Green Man’ awpen two nights in wanweek arter closin’ time, ’cause he wanted another drophisself?”

“Come you away,” said the Inspector to his constable.“Ban’t for the likes of we to have any talk wi’ the likeso’ they. But they’ll hear more of this; an’ iftheer’s been any hookem-snivey dealin’s with the Law,they’ll live to be sorry. An’ you follow me likewise,” headded to his son, who stood hard by. “You come wi’ me, Ted, foryou doan’t do no more work for runaway soldiers, nor yet bald-headedauld antics like this here!”

He pointed to Mr. Blee, then turned to depart.

“Get off honest man’s land, you black-bearded beast!”screamed Billy. “You ’m most like of any wan ever I heard tell ofto do murder yourself; an’ auld as I be, I’d crawl on my handsan’ knees to see you scragged for ’t, if ’t was so far asthe sun in heaven!”

“That’s libel,” answered Mr. Chown, with cold andhaughty authority; “an’ you’ve put yourself in the grip ofthe Law by sayin’ it, as you’ll knaw before you ’m muchaulder.”

Then, with this trifling advantage, he retreated, while Lamacraft and Tedbrought up the rear.

“So theer’s an end of that. Now us’ll fall to wi’no worse appetites,” declared Miller. “An’ as toWill,” he added, “’fore you chaps go, just mind an’judge no man till you knaw what’s proved against him. Onlesstheer’s worse behind than I’ve larned so far, I’m gwaine tostand by un.”

“An’ me, tu!” said Mr. Blee, with a fine disregard forhis recent utterances. “I’ve teached the chap purty nigh all heknaws an’ I ban’t gwaine to turn on un now, onless ’t isproved blue murder. An’ that Chown ’s a disgrace to his cloth;an’ I’d pull his ugly bat’s ears on my awn behalf if I wasa younger an’ spryer man.”

CHAPTER XVII
SUSPENSE

The fate of John Grimbal was learned within an hour or two of InspectorChown’s departure from Monks Barton; and by the time that MartinGrimbal had been apprised of the matter his brother already lay at the RedHouse.

John had been found at daybreak upon the grass-land where he rodeovernight on his journey to intercept the mail. A moment after he descriedthe distant cart, his horse had set foot in a hole; and upon the accidentbeing discovered, the beast was found lying with a broken leg within twentyyards of its insensible master. His horse was shot, John Grimbal carried homewith all despatch, and Doctor Parsons arrived as quickly as possible, to doall that might be done for the sufferer until an abler physician than himselfreached the scene.

Three dreary days saw Grimbal at the door of death, then a brief intervalof consciousness rewarded unceasing care, and a rumour spread that he mightyet survive. Martin, when immediate fear for his brother’s life wasrelieved, busied himself about Blanchard, and went to Plymouth. There he sawWill, learned all facts concerning the letter, and did his best to wininformation of the prisoner’s probable punishment. Fears, magnifiedrumours, expressed opinions, mostly erroneous, buzzed in the ears of theanxious party at Monks Barton. Then Martin Grimbal returned to Chagford andthere came an evening when those most interested met after supper at the farmto hear all he could tell them.

Long faces grouped round Martin as he made his statement in a grey Junetwilight. Mr. Blee and the miller smoked, Mrs. Blanchard sat with her hand inher daughter’s, and Phoebe occupied a comfortable arm-chair by the woodfire. Between intervals of long silence came loud, juicy, sounds fromBilly’s pipe, and when light waned they still talked on until Chrisstirred herself and sought the lamp.

“They tell me,” began Martin, “that a deserting soldieris punished according to his character and with regard to the fact whether hesurrenders himself or is apprehended. Of course we know Will gave himself up,but then they will find out that he knew poor John’s unfortunate letterhad reached its destination—or at any rate started for it; and they mayargue, not knowing the truth, that it was the fact of the information beingfinally despatched made Will surrender. They will say, I am afraid, as theysaid to me: ’Why did he wait until now if he meant to do the rightthing? Why did he not give himself up long ago?’”

“That’s easy answered: to please others,” explained Mr.Lyddon. “Fust theer was his promise to Phoebe, then his mother’sillness, then his other promise, to bide till his wife was brought to bed.Looking back I see we was wrong to use our power against his awn wish; but soit stands.”

“I ought to go; I ought to be alongside un,” moaned Phoebe;“I was at the bottom of everything from fust to last. For me he runaway; for me he stopped away. Mine’s the blame, an’ them as judgehim should knaw it an’ hear me say so.”

“Caan’t do no such vain thing as that,” declared Mr.Blee. “’T was never allowed as a wife should be heard ’ponthe doin’s of her awn husband. ’Cause why? She’d beone-sided—either plump for un through thick an’ thin, or else allagainst un, as the case might stand.”

“As to the sentence,” continued Martin, “if a man with agood character deserts and thinks better of it and goes back to his regiment,he is not as a rule tried by court-martial at all. Instead, he loses all hisformer service and has to begin to reckon his period of engagement—sixor seven years perhaps—all over again. But a notoriously bad characteris tried by court-martial in any case, whether he gives himself up or not;and he gets a punishment according to the badness of his past record. Such aman would have from eighty-four days’ imprisonment, with hard labour,up to six months, or even a year, if he had deserted more than once. Then theout-and-out rascals are sentenced to be ‘dismissed her Majesty’sservice.’”

“But the real gude men,” pleaded Phoebe—“them ashad no whisper ’gainst ’em, same as Will? They couldn’t behard ’pon them, ’specially if they knawed all?”

“I should hope not; I’m sure not. You see the case is sounusual, as an officer explained to me, and such a great length of time haselapsed between the action and the judgment upon it. That is in Will’sfavour. A good soldier with a clean record who deserts and is apprehendeddoes not get more than three months with hard labour and sometimes less.That’s the worst that can happen, I hope.”

“What’s hard labour to him?” murmured Billy, whose tacton occasions of universal sorrow was sometimes faulty. “’Tis therankle of bein’ in every blackguard’s mouth that’ll cutWill to the quick.”

“What blackguards say and think ban’t no odds,” declaredMrs. Blanchard. “’Tis better—far better he should do whathe must do. The disgrace is in the minds of them that lick theer lips uponhis sorrow. Let him pay for a wrong deed done, for the evil he did that gudemight come of it. I see the right hand o’ God holding’ theli’l strings of my son’s life, an’ I knaw better’nany of ’e what’ll be in the bwoy’s heart now.”

“Yet, when all’s said, ’tis a mournful sarcumstancean’ sent for our chastening,” contended Mr. Blee stoutly.“Us mustn’t argue away the torment of it an’ pretend’tis nought. Ban’t a pleasing thing, ’specially at such atime when all the airth s gwaine daft wi’ joy for the gracious gudenesso’ God to the Queen o’ England. In plain speech, ’t is adamn dismal come-along-of-it, an’ I’ve cried by night, auldthough I am, to think o’ the man’s babes grawin’ upwi’ this round theer necks. An’ wan to be born while he ’mput away! Theer ’s a black picksher for ’e! Him doin’ hardlabour as the Law directs, an’ his wife doin’ hard labour,tu—in her lonely bed! Why, gormed if I—”

“For God’s sake shut your mouth, you horrible old man!”burst out Martin, as Phoebe hurried away in tears and Chris followed her.“You’re a disgrace to humanity and I don’t hesitate—Idon’t hesitate at all to say you have no proper feeling inyou!”

“Martin’s right, Billy,” declared Mr. Lyddon withoutemotion. “You ’m a thought tu quick to meet other people’stroubles half way, as I’ve told ’e before to-night. Ban’t acomely trait in ’e. You’ve made her run off sobbing her poor,bruised heart out. As if she hadn’t wept enough o’ late. Do’e think us caan’t see what it all means an’ the wishtcloud that’s awver all our heads, lookin’ darker by contrastwi’ the happiness of the land, owing to the Jubilee of a gert Queen?Coourse we knaw. But’t is poor wisdom to talk ’bout the blacknessof a cloud to them as be tryin’ to find its silver lining. If youcaan’t lighten trouble, best to hold your peace.”

“What’s the use of cryin’ ‘peace’ when usknaws in our hearts ’tis war? Us must look inside an’ outside,an’ count the cost same as I be doin’ now,” declared Mr.Blee. “Then to be catched up so harsh ’mong friends! Well, well,gude-night, all; I’ll go to my rest. Hard words doan’t break,though they may bruise. But I’ll do my duty, whether or no.”

He rose and shuffled to the door, then looked round and opened his mouthto speak again. But he changed his mind, shook his head, snortedexpressively, and disappeared.

“A straange-fashioned chap,” commented Mrs. Blanchard,“wi’ sometimes a wise word stuck in his sour speech, like a gudecurrant in a bad dumpling.”

CHAPTER XVIII
THE NIGHT OF JUBILEE

Unnumbered joy fires were writing the nation’s thanksgiving acrossthe starry darkness of a night in June. Throughout the confines ofBritain—on knolls arising beside populous towns, above the wild cliffsof our coasts, in low-lying lands, upon the banks of rivers, at the fringesof forests and over a thousand barren heaths, lonely wastes, and stonypinnacles of untamed hills, like some mundane galaxy of stars or many-tonguedoutbreak of conflagration, the bonfires glimmered. And their golden seed wassown so thickly, that from no pile of those hundreds then brightening thehours of darkness had it been possible to gaze into the night and see noother.

Upon the shaggy fastnesses of Devon’s central waste, within thebounds, metes, and precincts of Dartmoor Forest, there shone a wholeconstellation of little suns, and a wanderer in air might have counted ahundred without difficulty, whilst, for the beholders perched upon Yes Tor,High Wilhays, or the bosom of Cosdon during the fairness and clearness ofthat memorable night, fully threescore beacons flamed. All those granitegiants within the field of man’s activities, all the monsters whoseenormous shades fell at dawn or evening time upon the hamlets and villages ofthe Moor, now carried on their lofty crowns the flames of rejoicing. Bonfiresof varying size, according to the energy and importance of the communitiesresponsible for them, dotted the circumference of the lonely region in avast, irregular figure, but thinned and ceased towards the unpeopled heart ofthe waste. On Wattern, at Cranmere, upon Fur Tor, and under the hoary,haunted woods of Wistman, no glad beacons blazed or voices rang. ThereNature, ignorant of epochs and heeding neither olympiad nor lustrum, cyclenor century, ruled alone; there, all self-centred, self-contained, unwittingof conscious existence and its little joys, her perfection above praise andmore enduring than any chronicle of it, asking for no earthborn acclamationsof her eternal reign, demanding only obedience from all on penalty of death,the Mother swayed her sceptre unseen. Seed and stone, blade and berry, hotblood and cold, did her bidding and slept or stirred at her ordinance. Anightjar harshly whirred beneath her footstool; wan tongues of flame rose andfell upon her quaking altars; a mountain fox, pattering quick-footed to therabbit warren, caught light from those exhalations in his round, green eyesand barked.

Humanity thronged and made merry around numberless crackling piles offire. Men and women, boys and girls, most noisily rejoiced, and from eachflaming centre of festivity a thin sound of human shouting and laughterstreamed starward with the smoke.

Removed by brief distance in space, the onlooker, without overmuch strainor imagination, might stride a pace or two backward in time and conceivehimself for a moment as in the presence of those who similarly tended beaconson these granite heights of old. Then, truly, the object and occasion werewidely different; then, perchance, in answer to evil rumour moving zigzag onblack bat-wings through nights of fear, many a bale-fire had shot upwards,upon the keystone of Cosdon’s solemn arch, beckoned like a bloody handtowards north and south, and cried danger to a thousand British warriorslurking in moor, and fen, and forest. Answering flames had leapt from HayTor, from Buckland Beacon, from Great Mis Tor in the west; and their warning,caught up elsewhere, would quickly penetrate to the heart of the South Hams,to the outlying ramparts of the Cornish wastes, to Exmoor and the coast-lineof the north. But no laughter echoed about those old-time fires. Their luridlight smeared wolfskins, splashed on metal and untanned hide, illuminedbarbaric adornments, fierce faces, wild locks, and savage eyes. AnxiousCeltic mothers and maidens stood beside their men, while fear and rage leaptalong from woman’s face to woman’s face, as some gasping wretch,with twoscore miles of wilderness behind him, told of high-beaked monstersmoving under banks of oars, of dire peril, of death and ruin, suddenly sprungin a night from behind the rim of the sea.

Since then the peaks of the Moor have smiled or scowled under countlesshuman fires, have flashed glad tidings or flamed ill news to manygenerations. And now, perched upon one enormous mass of stone, there toweredupward a beacon of blazing furze and pine. In its heart were tar barrels andthe monster bred heat enough to remind the granite beneath it of those firesthat first moulded its elvan ingredients to a concrete whole and hurled themhither.

About this eye of flame crowded those who had built it, and the roaringmass of red-hot timber and seething pitch represented the consummation ofChagford’s festivities on the night of Jubilee. The flames, obedient tosuch light airs as were blowing, bent in unison with the black billows ofsmoke that wound above them. Great, trembling tongues separated from the massand soared upward, gleaming as they vanished; sparks and jets, streams andstars of light, shot from the pile to illuminate the rolling depths of thesmoke cloud, to fret its curtain with spangles and jewels of gold atid ruby,to weave strange, lurid lights into the very fabric of its volume. Far away,as the breezes drew them, fell a red glimmer of fire, where those charredfragments caught in the rush and hurled aloft, returned again to earth; andthe whole incandescent structure, perched as it was upon the apex of Yes Tor,suggested at a brief distance a fiery top-knot of streaming flame on somevast and demoniac head thrust upward from the nether world.

Great splendour of light gleamed upon a ring of human beings. Adventurousspirits leapt forth, fed the flames with faggots and furze and risked theirhairy faces within the range of the bonfire’s scorching breath.Alternate gleam and glow played fantastically upon the spectators, and,though for the most part they moved but little while their joy fire was atits height, the conflagration caused a sheer devil’s dance of impishlight and shadow to race over every face and form in the assemblage. Thefantastic magician of the fire threw humps on to straight backs, flattenedgood round breasts, wrote wrinkles on smooth faces, turned eyes and lips intoshining gems, made white teeth yellow, cast a grotesque spell of the unrealon young shapes, of the horrible upon old ones. A sort of monkey coarsenesscrept into the red, upturned faces; their proportions were distorted, theirdelicacy destroyed. Essential lines of figures were concealed by the inkyshadows; unimportant features were thrown into a violent prominence; theclean fire impinged abruptly on a night of black shade, as sunrise on themoon. There was no atmosphere. Human noses poked weirdly out of nothing,human hands waved without arms, human heads moved without bodies, bodiesbobbed along without legs. The heart-beat and furnace roar of the fire wastremendous, but the shouts of men, the shriller laughter of women, and thescreams and yells of children could be heard through it, together with thepistol-like explosion of sap turned to steam, and rending its way from greenwood. Other sounds also fretted the air, for a hundred yards distant—ina hut-circle—the Chagford drum-and-fife band lent its throb and squeakto the hour, and struggled amain to increase universal joy. So the fireflourished, and the plutonian rock-mass of the tor arose, the centre of ascene itself plutonian.

Removed by many yards from the ring of human spectators, and scattered inwide order upon the flanks of the hill, stood tame beasts. Sheep huddledthere and bleated amazement, their fleeces touched by the flicker of thedistant fire; red heifers and steers also faced the flame and chewed the cudupon a spectacle outside all former experience; while inquisitive ponies drewup in a wide radius, snorted and sniffed with delicate, dilated nostrils atthe unfamiliar smell of the breeze, threw up their little heads, fetched acompass at top speed and so returned; then crowded flank to flank, shoulderto shoulder, and again blankly gazed at the fire which reflected itself inthe whites of their shifty eyes.

Fitting the freakish antics of the red light, a carnival spirit, hard torouse in northern hearts, awakened within this crowd of Devon men and women,old men and children. There was in their exhilaration some inspiration fromthe joyous circumstance they celebrated; and something, too, from the barrel.Dancing began and games, feeble by day but not lacking devil when pursuedunder cover of darkness. There were hugging and kissing, and yells oflaughter when amorous couples who believed themselves safe were suddenlyrevealed lip to lip and heart to heart by an unkind flash of fire. Some, astheir nature was, danced and screamed that flaming hour away; some satblankly and smoked and gazed with less interest than the outer audience ofdumb animals; some laboured amain to keep the bonfire at blaze. These lastworked from habit and forgot their broadcloth. None bade them, but it wastheir life to be toiling; it came naturally to mind and muscle, and theylaughed while they laboured and sweated. A dozen staid groups witnessed thescene from surrounding eminences, but did not join the merrymakers. Mr.Shorto-Champernowne, Doctor Parsons, and the ladies of their houses stoodwith their feet on a tumulus apart; and elsewhere Mr. Chapple, CharlesCoomstock, Mr. Blee, and others, mostly ancient, sat on the granite,inspected the pandemonium spread before them, and criticised as experts whohad seen bonfires lighted before the greater part of the present gatheringwas out of its cradle. But no cynic praising of past time to thedisparagement of the present marked their opinions. Mr. Chapple indeedpronounced the fire brilliantly successful, and did not hesitate to declarethat it capped all his experience in this direction.

“A braave blaze,” he said, “a blaze as gives thethoughtful eye an’ nose a tidy guess at what the Pit’s like tobe. Ess, indeed, a religious fire, so to say; an’ I warrant the prophetsat along just such another when he said man was born to trouble sure as thesparks fly up’ard.”

Somewhat earlier on the same night, under the northern ramparts ofDartmoor, and upon the long, creeping hill that rises aloft from Okehampton,then dips again, passes beneath the Belstones, and winds by Sticklepath andZeal under Cosdon, there rattled a trap holding two men. From theirconversation it appeared that one was a traveller who now returned southwardfrom a journey.

“Gert, gay, fanciful doin’s to-night,” said the driver,looking aloft where Cosdon Beacon swelled. “You can see the light fromthe blaze up-long, an’ now an’ again you can note a sign in thenight like a red-hot wire drawed up out the airth. They ’m sky-rockets,I judge.”

“’T is a joyful night, sure ’nough.”

The driver illustrated a political ignorance quite common in ruraldistricts ten years ago and not conspicuously rare to-day. He laboured underuneasy suspicions that the support of monarchy was a direct and dismal taxupon the pockets of the poor.

“Pity all the fuss ban’t about a better job,” he said.“Wan auld, elderly lady ’s so gude as another, come to think ofit. Why shouldn’t my mother have a jubilee?”

“What for? ’Cause she’ve borne a damned fule?”asked the other man angrily. “If that’s your way o’thought, best keep it in your thoughts. Anyhow, I’ll knock your sillyhead off if I hears another word to that tune, so now you knaw.”

The speaker was above medium height and breadth, the man who drove himhappened to be unusually small.

“Well, well, no offence,” said the latter.

“There is offence; an’ it I heard a lord o’ the landtalk that way to-night, I’d make un swallow every dirty word of it. Tohell wi’ your treason!”

The driver changed the subject.

“Now you can see a gude few new fires,” he said.“That’s the Throwleigh blaze; an’ that, long ways off,be—”

“Yes Tor by the look of it. All Chagford’s traapsed up-long, Iwarn ’e, to-night.”

They were now approaching a turning of the ways and the traveller suddenlychanged his destination.

“Come to think of it, I’ll go straight on,” he said.“That’ll save you a matter o’ ten miles, tu. Drive ahead abit Berry Down way. Theer I’ll leave ’e an’ you’ll beback home in time to have some fun yet.”

The driver, rejoicing at this unhoped diminution of his labours, soonreached the foot of a rough by-road that ascends to the Moor between thehomesteads of Berry Down and Creber.

Yes Tor now arose on the left under its cap of flame, and the wayfarer,who carried no luggage, paid his fare, bid the other“good-night,” and then vanished into the darkness.

He passed between the sleeping farms, and only watch-dogs barked out ofthe silence, for Gidleigh folks were all abroad that night. Pressing onwards,the native hurried to Scorhill, then crossed the Teign below Batworthy Farm,passed through the farmyard, and so proceeded to the common beneath Yes Tor.He whistled as he went, then stopped a moment to listen. The first drone ofmusic and remote laughter reached his ear. He hurried onwards until a gleamlighted his face; then he passed through the ring of beasts, still glaringfascinated around the fire; and finally he pushed among the people.

He stood revealed and there arose a sudden whisper among some who knewhim, but whom he knew not. One or two uttered startled cries at thisapparition, for all associated the newcomer with events and occurrenceswidely remote from the joy of the hour. How he came among them now, and whatevent made it possible for him to stand in their midst a free man, not thewisest could guess.

A name was carried from mouth to mouth, then shouted aloud, then greetedwith a little cheer. It fell upon Mr. Blee’s ear as he prepared tostart homewards; and scarcely had the sound of it set him gasping when a bigman grew out of the flame and shadow and stood before him with extendedhand.

“Burnish it all! You! Be it Blanchard or the ghost of un?”

“The man hisself—so big as bull’s beef, an’ sofree as thicky fire!” said Will.

Riotous joy sprang and bubbled in his voice. He gripped Billy’s handtill the old man jumped and wriggled.

“Free! Gude God! Doan’t tell me you’ve brawkeloose—doan’t ’e say that! Christ! if you haven’tsquashed my hand till theer’s no feeling in it! Doan’t ’esay you’ve runned away?”

“No such thing,” answered Will, now the centre of a littlecrowd. “I’ll tell ’e, sawls all, if you mind to hear.’Tis this way: Queen Victoria, as have given of the best she’vegot wi’ both hands to the high men of the land, so they tell me,caan’t forget nought, even at such a time as this here. She’vemade gert additions to all manner o’ men; an’ to me, an’the likes o’ me she’ve given what’s more precious thanbein’ lords or dukes. I’m free—me an’ all as runnedfrom the ranks. The Sovereign Queen’s let deserters go free, if you cancredit it; an’ that’s how I stand here this minute.”

A buzz and hum with cheers and some laughter and congratulations followedWill’s announcement. Then the people scattered to spread his story, andMr. Blee spoke.

“Come you down home to wance. Ban’t none up here as cares arush ’bout ’e but me. But theer ’s a many anxious folksbelow. I comed up for auld sake’s sake an’ because ban’t inreason to suppose I’ll ever see another joy fire ’pon Yes Torrock, at my time o’ life. But us’ll go an’ carry this rarenews to Chagford an’ the Barton.”

They faded from the red radius of the fire and left it slowly dying. Willhelped Billy off rough ground to the road. Then he set off at a speedaltogether beyond the old man’s power, so Mr. Blee resorted tostratagem.

“’Bate your pace; ’bate your pace; I caan’t travelthat gait an’ talk same time. Yet theer’s a power o’ finethings I might tell ’e if you’d listen.”

“’T is hard to walk slow towards a mother an’ wife likewhat mine be, after near a month from ’em; but let’s have yournews, Billy, an’ doan’t croak, for God’s sake. Sayall’s well wi’ all.”

“I ban’t no croaker, as you knaws. Happy, are’e?—happy for wance? I suppose you’ll say now, asyou’ve said plenty times a’ready, that you ’m to the tailof your troubles for gude an’ all—just in your auld, sillyfashion?”

“Not me, auld chap, never no more—so long as you ’malive! Ha, ha, ha—that’s wan for you! Theer! if ’tisn’t gude to laugh again!”

“I be main glad as I’ve got no news to make ’e doanything else, though ban’t often us can be prophets of gude nowadays.But if you’ve grawed a streak wiser of late, then theer’s hope,even for a scatterbrain like you, the Lard bein’ all-powerful. Not thatjokes against such as me would please Him the better.”

“I’ve thought a lot in my time, Billy; an’ Ihaven’t done thinking yet. I’ve comed to reckon as I caan’tdo very well wi’out the world, though the world would fare easy enoughwi’out me.”

Billy nodded.

“That’s sense so far as it goes,” he admitted.“Obedience be hard to the young; to the auld it comes natural; to meallus was easy as dirt from my youth up. Obedience to betters in heavenan’ airth. But you—you with your born luck—never heard tellof nothin’ like it ’t all. What’s a fix to you? You goes inwan end an’ walks out t’ other, like a rabbit through a hedge.Theer you was—in such a tight pass as you might say neither God norangels could get ’e free wi’out a Bible miracle, when, burnish itall! if the Jubilee Queen o’ England doan’t busy herself’bout ’e!”

“’T is true as I’m walkin’ by your side. I’dgive a year o’ my wages to knaw how I could shaw what I think aboutit.”

“You might thank her. ’T is all as humble folks can do mosttimes when Queens or Squires or the A’mighty Hisself spares a thoughtto better us. Us can awnly say ’thank you.’”

There was a silence of some duration; then Billy again bid his companionmoderate his pace.

“I’m forgetting all I’ve got to tell ’e, thoughI’ve news enough for a buke,” he said.

“How’s Jan Grimbal, fust plaace?”

“On his legs again an’ out o’ danger if the Lunnondoctor knaws anything. A hunderd guineas they say that chap have had! Yourname was danced to a mad tune ’pon Grimbal’s lips ’fore hissenses corned back to un. Why for I caan’t tell ’e. He’veshook hands wi’ Death for sartain while you was away.”

“An’ mother, an’ wife, an’ Miller?”

“Your mother be well—a steadfast woman her be. Joydoan’t lift her up, an’ sorrow doan’t crush her.Theer’s gert wisdom in her way of life. ’T is my awn, for thatmatter. Then Miller—well, he ’m grawin’ auld an’doan’t rate me quite so high as formerly—not that I judge anybodybut myself. An’ your missis—theer, if I haven’t kept it forthe last! ’Tis news four-an-twenty hour old now an’ they wrote to’e essterday, but I lay you missed the letter awin’ tome—”

“Get on!”

“Well, she’ve brought ’e a bwoy—so nowyou’ve got both sorts—bwoy an’ cheel. An’ alldoin’ well as can be, though wisht work for her, thinkin’’pon you the while.”

Will stood still and uttered a triumphant but inarticulatesound—half-laugh, half-sob, half-thanksgiving. Then the man spoke, slowand deep,—

“He shall go for a soldier!”

“Theer! Now I knaw ’t is Blanchard back an’ no other!Hear me, will ’e; doan’t plan no such uneven way of life forun.”

“By God, he shall!”

The words came back over Will Blanchard’s shoulder, for he was fastvanishing.

“Might have knawed he wouldn’t walk along wi’ me arterthat,” thought Billy. Then he lifted up his voice and bawled to thediminishing figure, already no more than a darker blot on the darkness ofnight.

“For the Lard’s love go in quiet an’ gradual, oryou’ll scare the life out of ’em all.”

And the answer came back,—

“I knaw, I knaw; I ban’t the man to do a rash deed!”

Mr. Blee chuckled and plodded on through the night while Will strode farahead.

Presently he stood beside the wicket of Mrs. Blanchard’s cottage andhesitated between two women. Despite circumstances, there came no uncertainanswer from the deepest well-springs of him. He could not pass that gate justthen. And so he stopped and turned and entered; and she, his mother, sittingin thought alone, heard a footfall upon the great nightly silence—asudden, familiar footfall that echoed to her heart the music it lovedbest.

THE END.

Footnotes:

Footnote 1: (return)

At Chagford. The place of the poet’s passing is believed tohave been an ancient dwelling-house adjacent to St. Michael’s Church.At that date it was a private residence of the Whiddon family; but duringlater times it became known as the “Black Swan Inn,” or tavern (ablack swan being the crest of Sir John Whiddon, Judge of Queen’s Benchin the first Mary’s reign); while to-day this restored Mansion appearsas the hostelry of the “Three Crowns.”

Footnote 2: (return)

The sweet poet.

“Wassaile the trees, that they may beare
You many a Plum, and many a Peare;
For more or lesse fruites they will bring,
As you doe give them Wassailing.”

Hesperides.

Footnote 3: (return)

Rames = skeleton; remains.

Footnote 4: (return)

Muty-hearted = soft-hearted.

Footnote 5: (return)

Caddling = loafing, idling.

Footnote 6: (return)

Venwell rights = Venville rights.

Footnote 7: (return)

Hatch-mouthed = foul mouthed; profane.

Footnote 8: (return)

Awnself=selfish.

Footnote 9: (return)

Playing = swarming.

Footnote 10: (return)

Bosky-eyed = intoxicated.

Footnote 11: (return)

Things = beasts; sheep and cattle.

Footnote 12: (return)

Mommet = scarecrow.

Footnote 13: (return)

Scad = the outer rind of the peat, with ling and grass stilladhering to it.