ABOUT BANKRUPTS
Swaling-time had come, red patches of fire flickered every night on
Dartmoor, and the furze-prickles crackled in the flames. The annual war
between man and the prickly shrub was being waged, and the atmosphere
was always clouded and tainted with bitter smoke. Every one seemed to be
infected with the idea of furze destruction, from the granite-cracker
who as he went to his labours would push the match with which he had
just lighted his pipe into some thick brake, to the small boys who
begged or stole boxes of matches and went out after dark to make the
moor fiery. With those huge bonfires flaming it looked as if not a
particle of furze would survive; and yet when summer arrived there would
be apparently as much as ever; and not a bush would be killed; only
burnt to the ground, and the roots still living in the peat would soon
send forth green shoots.
People who looked down into the hollow thought Helmen Barton a peaceful
place, but they were wrong; there was plenty of passion beneath the
surface, and at night often there was noise. It was dark down there; a
watcher on the top of the hill might have seen no light, though he could
hardly have failed to hear the noise, which was made by a drunken woman
railing at a silent man; at least the man appeared to be silent, as his
voice did not carry out of the hollow. Possibly he did nothing but
mumble.
Annie was degenerating rapidly; cider satisfied her no longer; and she
went into the village to procure fiercer liquors. Pendoggat had become
more reserved, and there was craftiness in his every movement. He kept
his temper somehow and refused to answer the woman's taunts, which made
her scream louder. He could stand it; he was nearly ready to go; only
one little matter was detaining him, and when that was settled he could
let himself out in the night, walk down to Tavistock, and the first
train westward or eastward--he did not care which--would carry him away.
Thomasine had left Mrs. Fuzzey's hospitable roof. Pendoggat had seen
her, and at once made the discovery that he loved her no longer. The
girl had changed so much; she seemed to have lost her blood, her
wonderful ripeness, her soft flesh, and her passion-provoking look. She
had become thin and quite unattractive. Pendoggat wondered how he could
ever have been so wildly in love with her, and he told her so, adding
that his conscience would not permit him to take her away with him, and
it would be nothing less than a grievous sin if he married her without
love. He admitted he had sinned occasionally in the past, and he did not
wish to add to the number of his transgressions. The wretched girl
implored him to make her a decent woman, as she called it, to keep his
promises, to remember all the oaths that he had sworn. People more than
suspected the truth; the Chegwiddens would not have her back and had
refused her a character; her father had greeted her with an austere
countenance, had opened his Bible and read for her benefit a damnatory
verse or two from the Revelations of St. John the Divine, and then had
shown her the way out, while her mother had locked the door behind her.
Her appearance suggested to them how she had been occupied during her
retirement. Measles wouldn't go down with them. She had left Ashland too
soon, but Mrs. Fuzzey would not keep her any longer. The old witch had
kissed and embraced her, had wheedled every penny of her wages out of
her, had declared that she loved her as she had never loved anybody else
in her life, and had then told her to get out. She had no place to go
to. She hung to Pendoggat, and implored him to remember what had passed
between them; but he naturally wanted to forget it. He told Thomasine
she was a sinful woman, and when she made a scene he lost his temper,
and reminded her that a girl could make a living on the streets of
Plymouth if she walked them long enough. Afterwards he had a feeling
that he had acted without charity, so he went to chapel and repented,
and was forgiven in the usual way. Still he decided he could have
nothing more to do with Thomasine. His conscience would not permit it.
His thorn in the flesh was Annie, but he let her rave, thinking she
would be less dangerous while she barked. The little matter which
detained him at the Barton was a mercenary one. He could not leave the
furniture for strangers to seize or Annie to profit by. His beasts he
had sold already to two different persons, which was not a dishonest
act, but merely good business; it was for the two men to settle the
question of ownership when they came together. The furniture was not
worth much, but he could not leave the place without getting value for
it. So he sent for a dealer from Tavistock to come and make him an
offer, taking precautions to get Annie out of the way during the time of
his visit; but she heard of it, and instinct told her the truth again.
One morning a letter came, Annie saw the name on the flap of the
envelope, and knew that it was from the dealer. Probably he had bought
what few chattels she possessed and had brought with her when she came
to live with Pendoggat. She was silent all the morning; it was a dark
day, there had been no sun for some time, and a spell of frost had set
in; it was black above and white below, a black unbroken sky and a white
sheet of frost. She shivered as she crept about the kitchen, listening
for the movements of the master. He did not speak to her; when she
passed he put his head lower than ever.
Later in the day it became difficult to see on account of the smoke.
Swaling was going on all round, and there was a choking mist over the
Barton, even inside as if the house itself was smouldering. Pendoggat
could scarcely breathe. He had become horribly afraid of fire since
Peter made the mommet, which he had tried to purchase but had failed
because the little savage carried too many wits for him. He determined
to get away that night, obtaining what money he could from the mercenary
dealer as he went through Tavistock. The atmosphere was getting tainted
with things stronger than smoke. He had often wondered whether his
conscience would permit him to murder Annie, but he was beginning to
fear then she might attempt to murder him. He went out into the court
with a feeling that he was trying to escape from a burning building; and
Annie followed him without a sound. She saw him standing as if dazed,
peering into the smoke, clutching at his breast pocket where the capital
of the Nickel Mining Company was hidden in the form of notes. He did not
know which way to turn that he might escape from the multitude of little
clay dolls which seemed to him to be dancing upon the hills. Then he
remembered it was chapel evening. He could not go away until he had been
to Ebenezer to seek a blessing and absolution, to give Pezzack one more
grasp of the good right hand of fellowship, to remind the congregation
of the certainty of hell-fire. He did not see Annie until she came up
softly and touched him.
"Where be ye going?" she said in a smooth manner, which suggested that
she still loved him.
"Nowhere," he muttered, wishing the smoke would clear away and make an
opening for his escape.
"That be a long way," she said, with pleasant humour. "'Tis where I've
been going the last twenty years. Reckon I be purty nigh there."
He made no reply, only moved away, but she followed, saying: "How about
that letter yew had this morning?"
"'Tis my business," he said.
"Yew never did nought that warn't your business. You'm selling up the
home. That's what I ses. You'm going away. Who be going wi' ye?"
"Nobody," he muttered.
"Hark to 'en," said Annie in the same smooth voice. "He'm going nowhere
wi' nobody. I knows some one who be going wi' yew."
"You're a liar."
"Times I be. I've played a lie for twenty years, and mebbe it comes
nat'ral. I reckon I be telling the truth now. When you start some one
will be behind yew, and her wun't be dumb neither. Yew took me twenty
years ago, and you'm going to tak' me now."
"I'm not going away," he said hoarsely. He was afraid of the woman while
she was soft and gentle. He had been so crafty and done nothing to
arouse her suspicions; at least he thought so; but he was acquainted
only with the bodily parts of women, not with their instincts and their
minds.
"If one of us be a liar it bain't me," said Annie. "What be yew leaving
me? When a woman gets past forty her don't want clothes. Her can cover
herself wi' her grey hairs, and her don't want a roof over her and food.
Only young maids want such. Be I a liar, man?"
"Get back into your kitchen," he muttered, still moving away, but she
steadily followed.
"I've been in the kitchen twenty years, and I reckon I want a change,"
she answered. "A wife bides in the kitchen 'cause her's willing, and a
servant 'cause her has to, but I bain't a wife and I bain't a servant,
though volks think I be the one, and yew think I be the other. Be ye
going, man? I've got a pair o' boots, a bit worn, but they'll du. Reckon
I'll get 'em on."
"Get inside and keep your mouth shut," he said roughly.
"I bain't going under. Dartmoor be a free place, and my tongue be my own
yet. Hit me, man. Pick up thikky stick and hit me wi' 'en. It wun't be
the first time you've hit some one weaker than yourself."
Pendoggat was losing his temper and seeing red flames in the smoke,
though they were not there. If she continued in that soft voice he would
strike her, perhaps too hard, and silence her for ever. It was a pity he
had not done so before, only his conscience, or fear of the law, had
kept him from it. Now she was at his side, pulling at his arm, quite
gently, for she was sober and in full possession of her senses, and she
was pointing to a side of the Barton where the brake of furze stood, not
black, but shrouded in smoke and starched with frost, and she was saying
in an amiable voice: "You'm a vule, man. A woman bain't so easy beat. I
ses you'm a vule, man, as every man be a vule who gives a woman power
over 'en. I bain't a going to follow yew. I can get men to du it vor me.
You'm a murderer, man," she said in a caressing way.
Pendoggat shrank away, not so much from her, as from her horrible words.
She had insulted him before, but never like that. It was true he had
committed indiscretions in the past, sins even, but he had always gone
to chapel with the big Bible under his arm, and he had always repented
in bitterness of spirit, and he had always been forgiven. It was time
indeed for him to break away from such a woman. He could not listen to
such vile language. A little more of it, and his conscience would permit
him to silence her. He began to walk towards the gate of the court, but
she was holding on to him and saying: "You'm in a cruel hurry, man, and
it bain't chapel time. Twenty years us ha' lived together as man and
wife, and now you'm in a hurry to go. Chegwidden's maid can bide 'cause
yew don't want she. I can bide 'cause I knows yew wun't get far avore
they fetch ye back to hear what I got to say about ye. Tak' thikky
stick," she said, picking it up from the lifting-stock and pushing it
into his hand. "Mebbe 'twill be a help to ye, mak' yew walk a bit
faster, and yew can keep policeman off wi' 'en."
He grasped the stick, clenched his teeth, and struck her on the head,
across the ear; the first actual blow he had ever given her, and he was
only sorry that the stick was so light and small. She screamed once, not
so much in anger, as with pain. Her head went dizzy and her ear became
red-hot. After the scream she said nothing, but steadying herself went
back to the house, into the kitchen, and took down a bottle from the top
shelf; while he walked on mumbling towards the gate. The vile creature
deserved it because she had called him a murderer. It was not only
wicked of her but foolish, because she had no evidence against him,
beyond what was hidden in the furze; and those remains would incriminate
herself more strongly than him. She never attended to her religious
duties, while he was the light and foundation stone of Ebenezer, and
nobody could accept her word against his. Still it would be advisable,
if possible, to remove every trace of her guilt from that thick brake of
furze. To abandon her would be a sufficient punishment. He did not want
to get her into more trouble.
Out of the smoke two figures advanced towards the Barton gate; a short
round man and a tall lean one. Pendoggat hesitated, and would have
turned back, for they were strangers, and he could not know what they
wanted him for, but he had been seen, one of the men called him by name,
and he could not find a way to escape. He went to them, and the stout
man became the retired grocer, uncle of Pezzack, chairman of the Nickel
Mining Company, while the other was his friend and a principal
shareholder. Neither showed friendliness and both were agitated. They
were running after their savings and didn't know where to find them. The
grocer would not shake hands, but stood struggling to find words. His
had not been a liberal education, and had not included lessons in
elocution.
"It's what I call a dirty business," he shouted, then gasped and panted
with rage and fast walking, and repeated the expression, adding
blasphemy; while the lean man panted also, and stated that he too called
the scheme a dirty business, and added that he had come for satisfaction
and a full explanation.
Pendoggat was himself again when confronted by these two wise men of
Bromley who had been meddling in matters which they didn't understand.
The entire company of shareholders would not have terrified him because
the nickel mine was Pezzack's affair, not his. People seemed to be in
the mood for accusing him of sins which had long ago ceased to weigh
upon his conscience. He remarked that he was at a loss to understand why
the gentlemen had brought their complaints to him.
"What about that dirty mine?" shouted the grocer, although he did not
use the adjective dirty, but something less clean. "What about the
nickel that you said was going to make our fortunes?"
"The minister tells me it is there. He's waiting for fine weather to
start," said Pendoggat.
"The minister says he knows nothing about it. You put him up to the
scheme," said the lean man.
Pendoggat shook his head and looked stupid. He did not seem able to
understand that.
"You've got the money. Every penny of it, and we've come to make you
fork out," spluttered the grocer.
Pendoggat could not understand that either.
"I've been writing every week, and hearing nothing, except always going
to begin and never beginning," went on the fat grocer. "I've been
worrying till I couldn't sleep, and till there ain't hardly an ounce o'
flesh on my bones. I couldn't stand it no longer, and I says to my
friend here, I'm a going down to see what their little game is, and my
friend said he was coming too, and it's just about time we did come from
what my nephew Eli tells me. Says you found this here mine and put him
up to getting money to work it. Says he's given the money to you. Says
you've been like a madman, and pulled him up here one night, and pretty
near punched his blooming head off."
Pendoggat made up his mind that the grocer was an untruthful and a
vulgar person. All that he said was: "I hope the minister hasn't been
telling you that."
"Are you going to deny it?" cried the lean man.
"I don't understand you, gentlemen," said Pendoggat. "I'll take you down
to the mine if you like. I don't know if nickel is to be found there.
The minister says there's plenty, and I believed him."
The grocer was whirling round and round after the manner of a dancing
dervish and huzzing like a monstrous bee. He felt that he was losing his
savings, and that sort of knowledge makes a man dance. "What do he know
about nickel? He's a minister of the Gospel, not a dirty miner," he
howled.
"Are you telling us the minister hasn't given you the money?" demanded
the other man, who made his living by buying cheap vegetables and
turning them out as high-class jam.
"Pezzack never told you that, gentlemen. He's treated me fair enough,
and paid my wages regular as working manager, and I'm not going to think
he's put that tale on you," Pendoggat answered.
"He did," shouted the grocer, but in a less fiery manner, because he was
impressed by the simple countryman. "He told us he'd given you every
penny."
"I'll not believe it of him, not till he stands before me, and I hear
him say it."
"If you ain't got the blooming oof, who has?" cried the vulgar little
chairman.
"Judge for yourself," Pendoggat answered. "Here am I, a poor man,
scratching a bit of moor for my living, and pressed so hard that I've
just had to sell my beasts, and now I'm selling most of my furniture to
meet a debt. I've a letter in my pocket making me an offer, and you can
see it if you like. There's the minister living comfortable, and
married, gentlemen, married since this business started and since the
money came."
"I always wondered what he had to marry on," the grocer muttered.
"Go and ask him. Tell him I'll meet him face to face and answer him word
for word. I know nothing about mining. If you put a bit of nickel and a
bit of tin before me I couldn't tell one from the other. Stay a bit and
I'll come with you. It's near chapel time," said Pendoggat, righteous in
his indignation. "I'll meet him in the chapel and answer him there."
"What about that sample you gave me when I came down before? Knocked it
off the wall, you did, before me, and that was nickel, for I had it
analysed, and paid the chap five bob for doing it."
Pendoggat looked confused and did not have an answer ready. He kicked
his boot against the gatepost, and turned away, shaking his head.
"Got him there," muttered the jam-maker.
"Well, I'll tell you," said Pendoggat roughly. "I wouldn't have said a
word if the minister had played fair, but if it's true he's gone against
me to save himself I'll tell you. He gave me that bit of stuff and told
me what I was to do with it. I didn't know what it was, and I don't know
now. I did what I was told to do, and got an extra ten shillings for
doing it."
The grocer and his friend looked at one another, and the uncle muttered
something about the nephew which Eli would have wept to hear. Some one
had uttered particularly gross lies to him, and he had an idea Pendoggat
was telling the truth. The grocer and jam-maker were men easily deceived
by a smooth manner; and Pendoggat's story had impressed them far more
than Pezzack's, just because the countryman had a straightforward
confession, while the minister rambled and spoke foolishly.
"Gave him ten bob for doing it," whispered the jam-maker, nudging the
grocer.
"I'm ready to come with you, gentlemen," said Pendoggat.
It was nearly dark, and by the time they reached the village the chapel
doors would be open. Pendoggat knew he must get away that night because
he was afraid of Annie. He had struck her at last, and she had been at
the liquor ever since. He could hear her screaming in the house; she
might get hold of his gun and blaze at him during the night. It was
going to be clear and frosty, a good night for a long walk, and the
notes were packed away in his pocket. There was only one duty
remaining--the unmasking of Pezzack, who apparently had been trying to
blacken his character. Annie would quiet down when she found herself
alone. She would not follow him, or give information against him; and if
she did the one thing he could outwit her, and if she did the other it
would go hard with her. "I'll come with you, gentlemen," he repeated.
"The soul that sinneth it shall die. That's a true saying, and it comes
from the true word."
"What about my blooming money, though?" muttered the grocer; while his
friend was wondering whether an extra halfpenny on jam would recoup him
for his losses.
They met no one as they crossed the smoky stretch of moor. It was going
to be a hard night, and already the peat felt as unyielding as granite.
The grocer slapped his arms across his unwieldy chest, and said it was
"a bit parky" in his vulgar way, and longed for his snug jerry-built
villa; while his friend agreed that Dartmoor was a place of horror and
great darkness, and wished himself back in his gas-scented factory
superintending the transformation of carrots into marmalade. They walked
in single file along a narrow pony track, Pendoggat leading with his
eyes upon his boots.
Pezzack was in the chapel when the little party arrived. He was whiter
than ever, not altogether with cold, though Ebenezer was like a damp
cave by the sea, but with nervousness, with fear of his rotund uncle and
dread of the mysterious Pendoggat. He did not know even then whether
Pendoggat was his friend or his enemy. He could not explain the fit of
madness which had come upon the man that night they had left the chapel
together, and had made him use his wretched self so shamefully; but then
he could explain nothing, not even a simple text of Scripture. He could
only bleat and flounder, and tumble about hurting himself; but he was
still a happy man, he told himself. Partner Pendoggat was a rough
creature, almost a brute sometimes, but he would not desert him when the
pinch came.
The visitors did not approve of Ebenezer, and expressed themselves to
that effect in disdainful whispers. It was altogether unlike the
comfortable tabernacle where the grocer thanked God he was not like
other men; and as for the jam-maker he was of the Anglican brood, a
sidesman of his church, a distributer of hymn-books, a collector of
alms, and all the ways of Nonconformity he utterly abhorred. He settled
himself in an Established Church attitude, in a corner with his head
lolling against the wall and his legs stretched out; while the grocer
adopted the devotional pose of Wesleyanism, sitting upright with his
hands folded across his watch-chain and his chin upon his chest.
"Brother Pendoggat will lead in prayer," said Eli nervously.
The grocer admitted afterwards that the prayer had been strong, and had
overlooked few of those weaknesses to which the flesh occasionally
succumbs. He especially admired the phrase alluding to honest and
respectable tradesmen who after leading a life of integrity in business
were able to retire with a blessing upon their labours and devote the
remainder of their lives to good works. He was surprised to find a
countryman with such a keen insight into human character. Pendoggat
prayed also for pastors and teachers, and especially for those shepherds
who led members of their flock astray; while Pezzack grew whiter, and
the grocer went on nodding his head like a ridiculous automaton. The
jam-maker had wrapped himself up in his greatcoat and gone to sleep, so
that he should not be defiled by listening to false doctrine. He was a
prosperous man and the handful of sovereigns he had lost in "Wheal
Pezzack" did not trouble him much. A few florid advertisements would
bring them back again.
The service came to an end, and Pendoggat rose to address the meeting.
He asked the people to remain in their places for a few moments, and he
turned to Eli, who was still at the reading-desk, and said, with his
eyes upon the walls which were sweating moisture--
"You called a meeting here last summer, minister. You said you had found
nickel on Dartmoor, and you wanted to start a company to work it."
"No, no," cried Eli, beginning to flap his big hands as if he was
learning to fly. He had expected something was going to happen, but not
this. "That is not true, Mr. Pendoggat."
"Let him talk," muttered the grocer. "Your time's coming."
"I say you called a meeting, and I came to it," Pendoggat went on.
"There are folks here to-night who came to that meeting, and they will
remember what happened. You sent round a sample of nickel, and then I
got up and said there was no money in the scheme, and I said I would
have nothing to do with it, and I told the others they would be fools if
they invested anything in it. I ask any one here to get up and say
whether that is true or not."
"It was your mine, Mr. Pendoggat. It was your scheme. Oh, Mr. Pendoggat,
'ow can you talk like this, and uncle listening?" cried the miserable
Eli.
Up got the old farmer, who had been present at the meeting, and said in
his rambling way that Pendoggat had spoken nothing but the truth; and he
added, for the benefit of the visitors, what his uncle, who had been a
miner in the old days, had told him concerning the various wheals, and
the water in them, and the difficulty of working them on account of that
water. And when he had repeated his remarks, so that there might be no
misunderstanding, the grocer sent his elbow into the jam-maker's ribs,
and whispered in his deplorable phraseology that his nephew had been up
to a blooming lot o' dirty tricks and no error; while the jam-maker
awoke, with a curt remark about the increasing protuberance of his
wife's bones, and found himself in cold lamp-lighted Ebenezer, looking
at Eli's countenance which was beginning to exude moisture like the
stones of the walls.
"Friends, uncle, and Mr. Pendoggat--" stammered the poor minister,
trying to be oratorical; but the grocer only muttered: "Stow your gab
and let the man talk."
"After the meeting we stopped behind, and you told me you were going to
run the mine, and you asked me in this place if I would be your
manager," Pendoggat went on. "I said I would if there wasn't any risk,
and then you told me you could get the money from friends, from your
uncle in Bromley--"
Eli cut him off with wailings. It was his peculiarity to be unable to
speak with coherence when he was excited. He could only gasp and
stammer: "It's not true. It's the other way about. I never 'ad nothing
to do with it. You are telling 'orrid, shameful lies, Mr. Pendoggat;"
but the grocer muttered audibly: "A dirty rascal," while the jam-maker
muttered something about penal servitude which made him smile.
"You told me you had an uncle retired from business," said Pendoggat. "A
simple old chap you called him, an old fool who would believe anything."
The grocer began to splutter like a squib, while his companion laughed
beneath his hand, pleased to hear his friend's weaknesses clearly
indicated; and Eli, losing all self-control, came tumbling from the desk
and sprawled at his relation's feet, sobbing like the weak fool he was,
and saying: "Oh, Mr. Pendoggat, 'ow can you talk so shameful? Oh, uncle,
I never did."
The people behind were standing up and pressing forward, shocked to
discover that their minister had been standing on such feet of clay.
Pendoggat looked at his watch and smiled. He had judged Pezzack
accurately; the weak fool was in his hands. The grocer, scarlet to the
tip of his nose, caught his nephew by the neck, shook him, and,
forgetting everything but his own losses desecrated the chapel by his
mercenary shouts: "Where's my money, you rascal? Give me back my money,
every penny of it, or I'll turn you out of house and home, and make a
beggar of you."
"I 'aven't got it, uncle. I never 'ad a penny of it. I 'anded it over as
fast as it come to Mr. Pendoggat, and he 'ave got it now."
This was literally true, as the money was in Pendoggat's pocket, but the
grocer had formed his own impressions and these were entirely
unfavourable to Eli. He went on shaking his nephew, while the jam-maker
in moving his foot kicked the bankrupt, and found the operation so
soothing to his nerves that he repeated the act with intention.
"I ain't got none o' the money. I gave it 'im, and he's been keeping
wife and me. I thought he was my friend. He've a shook me by the 'and
many a time, and we've been like brothers. I didn't never call you a
simple old chap, uncle. I love you and respect you. I've always tried to
do my duty, and my wife's expecting, uncle."
"You married on my money. Don't tell me you didn't. 'Twas a trick of
yours to get married. If you don't pay it back, I'll turn you out, you
and your wife, into the street. I'll get a bit of my own back that way,
sure as I'm a Christian."
"Ask Jeconiah," sobbed Eli. "I've 'ad no secrets from her. She'll tell
you I 'aven't touched a penny of your money 'cept what Mr. Pendoggat
gave us."
The jam-maker kicked again, finding a softer spot, and muttered
something about one being as bad as the other, and that if he couldn't
find a more likely story he had better keep his mouth shut.
Pendoggat stepped forward, took the wretched man by the shoulders,
making him shudder, and asked reproachfully: "Why did you tell these
gentlemen I have the money?"
"God 'elp you, Mr. Pendoggat," moaned Eli. "You have used me for your
own ends, and now you turn against me. I don't understand it. 'Tis
cruelty that passes understanding. I will just wait and 'ope. If I am
not cleared now I shall be some day, I shall be when we stand together
before the judgment seat of God. There will be no money there, Mr.
Pendoggat, nothing that corrupteth or maketh a lie, only justice and
mercy, and I won't be the one to suffer then."
Had the grocer been less angry he must have been impressed by his
nephew's earnestness. As it was he pushed him aside and said--
"I'll get my own back. Pay us our money, or you go to prison. I'll give
you till to-morrow, and if I don't have it before evening I'll get a
warrant out."
"Oh, 'elp me, Mr. Pendoggat. 'Elp me in the name of friendship, for my
poor wife's sake," sobbed Eli.
"I'll forgive you," Pendoggat muttered. "I don't bear you any
ill-feeling. Here's my hand on it."
But Eli wanted no more grasps of good fellowship. He buried his big
hands between his knees, and put his simple head down, and wept like a
child.
The chapel emptied slowly, and the people stood about the road talking
of the great scandal. Some thought the minister innocent, but the
majority inclined towards his guilt. All agreed that it would be
advisable, for the sake of the chapel's reputation, to ask him to accept
another pulpit, which was a polite euphemism for telling him to go to
the dogs. They did not like Pendoggat, but they believed he had spoken
the truth when they remembered how strongly he had opposed the minister
when the scheme of the nickel mine was first suggested. The grocer and
jam-maker drove away in a rage and a small cart, to put up for the night
in Tavistock; and Pendoggat walked away by himself towards the
swaling-fires. His time had come. He had only to put a few things
together, and then depart through the frosty night to find a new home.
But before going he thought it best to make himself absolutely safe by
burning the brake of furze, and burying in some secret spot upon the
moor what had been hidden there.
Before morning Pezzack had fled from his uncle's anger. Always a weak
man, he could not face the strong; and so he set the seal of guilt upon
himself by flight. He was going to work his way out to Canada, and when
he succeeded there, if he did, he would send for his wife. They could
think of no better plan. His wife went back to her parents, to become
their drudge as before, with the burden of a child to nurse added to her
lot. It was a dreary ending to their romance; there was no "happy ever
after" for them; but then they were both poor things, and the light of
imagination had never shone across their paths.