CHAPTER I

[Frontispiece: RUDDYFORD.]

THE

WHIRLWIND

BY

EDEN PHILLPOTTS

LONDON

CHAPMAN AND HALL, LTD.

1907

RICHARD CLAY & SONS, LIMITED,

BREAD STREET HILL, E.C., AND

BUNGAY, SUFFOLK.

CONTENTS

BOOK I

CHAP.

I. THE MAN ON THE CAIRN

II. RUDDYFORD

III. A THEATRE OF FAILURE

IV. SYMPATHY

V. THE KEEPER OF THE CASTLE

VI. WATTERN OKE

VII. PLAIN SPEAKING

VIII. A REPRIMAND

IX. THE COMMITTEE MEETS

X. 'DARLING BLUE-EYES!'

XI. SUSAN BEINGS THE NEWS

XII. THE PRICE OF SARAH JANE

BOOK II

I. FIRST BLOOD TO BRENDON

II. THE GATES OF THE MORNING

III. PROGRESS IN IDEAS

IV. SATURDAY NIGHT

V. VISIT TO A HERMIT

VI. AWAKENING OF WOODROW

VII. IN COMMITTEE

VIII. ADVENT

IX. A HUNGRY MAN

X. KIT'S STEPS

XI. TROUBLE AT AMICOMBE HILL

XII. THE HERMIT PASSES

XIII. BURSTING OF THE SPRINGS

XIV. A LUNAR RAINBOW

BOOK III

I. BRENDON STOPS AT RUDDYFORD

II. AFTER CHAPEL

III. JARRATT BECOMES A FATHER

IV. THE FARMER COMES HOME

V. THE FRUIT OF FAITH

VI. PHILIP FALLS

VII. A CHRISTIAN CONVERT

VIII. THE LOAN

IX. THE MEMORY OF MR. HUGGINS

X. FAREWELL

XI. THE DOLLS

XII. THE MOCK BURIAL

XIII. ANOTHER EFFIGY

XIV. THE LONELY ALTARS

XV. SET OF MOON

LIST OF ILLUSTRATIONS

RUDDYFORD (Frontispiece)

THE CAIRNS ON WHITE HILL

THE OLD PEAT WORKS

TAVY CLEEVE

LYDFORD CASTLE

LYDFORD

DUNNAGOAT COT

GREAT LINKS

KIT'S STEPS

RUDDYFORD

BENEATH GREAT LINKS

THE WHIRLWIND

BOOK I

CHAPTER I

THE MAN ON THE CAIRN

Fifty years ago a wild and stormy sky spread above the gorges of Lyd,

and the vale was flooded in silver mist, dazzling by contrast with

the darkness round about. Great welter of vapour, here radiant, here

gloomy, obscured the sinking sun; but whence he shone, vans of wet

light fell through the tumultuous clouds, and touched into sudden,

humid, and luminous brilliancy the forests and hills beneath.

A high wind raged along the sky and roared over the grave-crowned

bosom of White Hill on Northern Dartmoor. Before it, like an autumn

leaf, one solitary soul appeared to be blown. Beheld from afar, he

presented an elongated spot driven between earth and air; but viewed

more closely, the man revealed unusual stature and great physical

strength. The storm was not thrusting him before it; accident merely

willed that the wind and he should be fellow-travellers.

Grey cairns of the stone heroes of old lie together on the crest of

White Hill, and the man now climbed one of these heaps of granite,

and stood there, and gazed upon an immense vision outspread easterly

against oncoming night. It was as though the hours of darkness,

tramping lowly in the sun's wake, had thrown before them pioneers of

cloud. Two ranges of jagged tors swept across the skyline and rose,

grey and shadowy, against the purple of the air. Already their

pinnacles were dissolved into gloom, and from Great Links, the warden

of the range, right and left to lower elevations, the fog banks

rolled and crept along under the naked shoulders of the hills. Over

this huge amphitheatre the man's eyes passed; then, where Ger Tor

lifts its crags above Tavy, another spirit was manifest, and

evidences of humanity became apparent upon the fringes of the Moor.

Here trivial detail threaded the confines of inviolate space; walls

stretched hither and thither; a scatter of white dots showed where

the sheep roamed; and, at valley-bottom, a mile under the barrows of

White Hill, folded in peace, with its crofts and arable land about

it, lay a homestead. Rounded clumps of beech and sycamore concealed

the dwelling; the farm itself stood at the apex of a triangle, whose

base widened out into fertile regions southerly. Meadows, very

verdant after hay harvest, extended here, and about the invisible

house stood ricks, out-buildings, that glimmered cold as water under

corrugated iron roofs, and a glaucous patch of garden green, where

flourished half an acre of cabbage. One field had geese upon it; in

another, two horses grazed. A leat drawn from Tavy wound into the

domains of the farm, and a second rivulet fell out of the Moor beside

it. Cows were being driven into the yard. An earth-coloured man

tended them, and a black and white speck raced violently about in

their rear. A dog's faint barking might be heard upon the hill when

the wind lulled.

[Illustration: THE CAIRNS ON WHITE HILL]

The contrast between the ambient desolation and this sequestered

abode of human life impressed itself upon the spectator's slow mind.

Again he ranged the ring of hills with his eyes; then lowered them to

Ruddyford Farm. Despite the turmoil of the hour and the hum and roar

of the wind; despite the savage glories of a silver sunset westerly

and the bleak and leaden aspect of the east; despite the rain that

now touched his nape coldly and flogged the forgotten tomb on which

he stood; this man's heart was warm, and he smiled into the

comfortable valley and nodded his head with appreciation.

The rain and the wind had been his companions from childhood; the

sunshine and the seasons belonged to him as environment of daily

life. He minded the manifestations of nature as little as the ponies

that now scampered past him in a whinnying drove; he was young and as

yet knew no pain; he regarded the advent of winter without fear, and

welcomed the equinox of autumn as indifferently as the first frost or

the spring rain. These things only concerned him when they bore upon

husbandry and the business of life.

Now, like a map rolled out before his eyes, lay the man's new home

and extended the theatre of his future days. Upon this great stage

he would move henceforth, pursue hope, fulfil destiny, and perchance

win the things that he desired to win.

The accidents of wind and storm surrounding this introduction did not

influence the newcomer or affect his mind. Intensity and rare powers

of faith belonged to him; but imagination was little indicated in his

character. His interest now poured out upon the cultivated earth

spread below, and had his actual future habitation been visible

instead of hidden, it had not attracted him. That behind the

sycamores there stood a roof-tree henceforth to shield his head,

mattered nothing; that within its walls were now congregated his

future master and companions, did not impress itself upon his

thoughts. He was occupied with the fertile acres, now fading into

night, and with the cattle that pastured round about upon the Moor.

Familiar with the face of the earth seen afar off, he calculated to a

few tons what hay had recently been saved here, appreciated certain

evidences of prosperity, as revealed by the aspect and position of

the fields; noted with satisfaction the marks of agricultural wisdom;

frowned at signs that argued other views than his own.

He pictured himself at work, longed to be at it, yearned for outlets

to his great, natural energies and vigorous bent of mind. Death had

thrown him into the market of men, and, after three months' idleness,

he found a new task, on a part of the Moor remote from his former

labours. But the familiar aspects of the waste attracted him

irresistibly. He rejoiced to return, to feel the heath under his

feet, and see the manner of his future toil clearly written under his

eyes. It seemed to him that Ruddyford, with its garden, tenements,

and outlying fields, was but an unfinished thing waiting for his sure

hand to complete. He would strengthen the walls, widen the borders,

heighten the welfare of this farm. No glance backward into the

glories of the sunset did he give, for he was young. The peace of

Lydford's woodland glades and the lush, low lands beneath, drew no

desire from him. Villages, hamlets, and the gregarious life of them,

attracted him not at all. The sky to live under, a roof to sleep

under, Dartmoor to work upon: these were the things that he found

precious at this season. And Fate had granted them all.

Clouds touched his face coldly; the nightly mists swept down and

concealed the hills and valleys spread between. For a moment

Ruddyford peeped, like a picture, from a frame of cobweb colour.

Then it was hidden by sheets of rain.

The man leapt off the grave of that other man, whose ashes in the

morning of days had here been buried. So long had he stood

motionless that it seemed as though a statue, set up to some vanished

hero, grew suddenly incarnate, and, animated by the spirit of the

mighty dead, now hastened from this uplifted loneliness down into the

highways of life.

A fierce torrent scourged the hill as the traveller hurried from it.

He was drenched before he reached the farmhouse door. A dog ran out

and growled and showed its teeth at him. Then, in answer to his

knock, an old man came slowly down the stone-paved passage.

"Ah, you'll be Mr. Daniel Brendon, no doubt? Your box was fetched up

from Mary Tavy this marning. You catched that scat o' rain, I'm

afraid. Come in an' welcome, an' I'll show you where you'm to lie."

CHAPTER II

RUDDYFORD

A feature of Devon are those cultivated peninsulas of land that

thrust forward up the surrounding coombs and point into Dartmoor's

bosom. The foothills of this great tableland are fledged with

forests and rich with fertile earth; but here and there, greatly

daring, the farms have fought upward and reclaimed a little of the

actual desolation.

Ruddyford was driven like a wedge into that stony wilderness beneath

the Moor's north-western ramparts. White Hill sheltered it from the

west; the flank of Ger Tor sloped easterly; to the south flowed Tavy

through fertile tilth, grey hamlets, and green woods. Only northward

was little immediate shelter; and upon the north Daniel Brendon

opened his eyes when dawned the first day of his new life.

His chamber window showed him the glitter of a soaking world spread

under grey of dawn. His little room was sparsely furnished, and the

whitewashed walls were naked. He dressed, prayed, then turned to a

wooden box and unpacked his few possessions. He stowed his clothes

in a yellow chest-of-drawers with white china handles; his desk he

put in the window, on a deep sill, the breadth of the wall. His

boots and a pair of felt slippers he placed in a row. Some pictures

remained. One represented his father and mother, both six years

dead. The photograph was smeared with yellow, but the stain had

missed the faces. An old, dogged man, in his Sunday black, sat in a

chair and stared stolidly at the beholder; beside him stood a thin,

tall woman of anxious eyes and gentle mouth. The face of the man

explained the expression of his wife. This picture Daniel hung up on

a nail; and beside it he placed another--the portrait of his only

sister. There had been but two of them. His sister resembled her

mother, and was married to a small tradesman at Plymouth. Her health

caused Daniel uneasiness, for it was indifferent. Lastly, from the

bottom of his box, he took an illuminated text, and set it over the

head of his bed. His father had given it to him.

"The fear of the Lord is the beginning of Wisdom."

Daniel often reflected that at least he might claim the beginning of

wisdom, for greatly he feared.

Outwardly Brendon was well made, and handsome on a mighty scale. If

he ever gloried it was in his strength. He stood four inches over

six feet, yet, until another was placed beside him, did not appear

very tall, by reason of his just proportions. He was a brown man

with small, triangular whiskers and a moustache that he cut straight

across his lip, like a tooth-brush. The cropped hair on his face

spoilt it, for the features were finely moulded, and, in repose,

revealed something of the large, soulless, physical beauty of a Greek

statue of youth. His mind, after the manner of huge men, moved

slowly. His eyes were of the character of a dog's: large, brown,

innocent, and trustful, yet capable of flashing into passionate wrath

or smouldering with emotion.

A noise, that Daniel made in hammering up his text, brought somebody

to the door. It was the man who had welcomed him overnight, and he

entered the newcomer's private chamber without ceremony.

"Hold on, my son!" he said. "You'll wake master, then us shall all

have a very unrestful day. Mr. Woodrow be a poor sleeper, like his

faither afore him, and mustn't be roused till half after seven. He

bides in the room below this, so I hope as you'll always go about so

gentle of a morning as your gert bulk will let 'e."

"So I will then," said Daniel. "'Tis lucky I've been moving wi'out

my boots. I tread that heavy, Mr. Prout."

Old John Prout looked with admiration and some envy at the young man.

"'Tis a great gift of Providence to have such a fine body and such

power of arm. But things be pretty evenly divided, when you've wit

to see all round 'em. You'll have to go afoot all your life; no

horse will ever carry you."

Daniel laughed.

"Nought but a cart-horse, for sartain. But my own legs be very good

to travel upon."

"Without a doubt--now; wait till you'm up my age. Then the miles get

dreadful long if you've got to trust to your feet. I've my own pony

here, and I should be no more use than the dead branch of a tree

without him."

The withered but hard old man looked round Daniel's room. He had

lived all his life at Ruddyford; he was a bachelor, and devoted his

life to his master. Reynold Woodrow, the present farmer's father,

Prout had obeyed, but secretly disliked. Hilary Woodrow, the living

owner of Ruddyford, he worshipped with devoutness and profoundly

admired. The man could do no wrong in his servant's eyes.

Now John regarded Daniel's text, where it shone with tarnished

crimson and gold.

"You'm a religious man, then?"

"I hope so."

"Well, why not? For my part, I like to see the chaps go to church or

chapel of a Sunday. Master don't go, but he's no objection to it.

He'd so soon have a Roman as a Plymouth Brother, so long as they

stood to work weekdays and earned their money. 'Tis a tidy tramp to

worship, however."

"Why, Lydford ban't above four miles."

"That's the distance. As for me, I don't say I'm not right with God,

for I hope that I am. But, touching outward observances, I don't

follow 'em. More do Mr. Woodrow, though a better man never had a bad

cough."

"I'd fear to face a day's work until I'd gone on my knees," declared

Brendon, without self-consciousness.

"Ah! at my time of life, us bow the heart rather than the

knee--specially if the rheumatics be harboured at that joint, as in

my case. But a very fine text for a bed-head, 'The fear of the Lord

is the beginning of Wisdom.' And I'll tell you another thing. The

love of the Lord is the end of it. That ban't in the Bible, yet a

living word as my life have taught me. I go my even way and ban't

particular about prayer, nor worship, nor none of that. And as for

the bread and wine, I haven't touched 'em for a score of years; yet I

love the Lord an' trust Him, for all the world like a babby trusts

its mother's breast for breakfast. 'Tis an awful simple religion."

"Simple enough to lose your salvation, I should reckon. If you

believe, you did ought to tremble. 'Tis for God A'mighty to love

you, not for you to love Him so loud, and yet do nought to show it.

No prayers, no sacrament, no worship--what's that but to be a heathen

man--begging your pardon?"

"You'll see different if you stop along of us. 'Tis a good working

faith that breeds my peace of mind and master's. My fault is that

I'm too easy with you chaps. Even the dogs know what a soft old

silly I be."

Brendon considered this confession, and it brought him to a subject

now upon his mind.

"What's my job exactly? How do I stand? I'd hoped to have a bit of

authority myself here, along of my good papers."

"Farmer will tell 'e all about that after his breakfast. The

things[1] will be your job, I suppose. But he'll explain himself.

He's made of kindness, yet no common sort of man. Them as know him

would go through fire an' water for him. However, 'tis an art to

know him, and only comes with patience."

[1] _Things_. Cattle. A moor-man always speaks of 'things' when he

means flocks and herds.

"Not married?"

"No, nor like to be. He offered hisself to a cat-hearted minx down

to Peter Tavy; and she took him; and 'twas all settled. Then there

comed along, a cousin of hers, who has a linen-draper's shop near

London, and be damned if she didn't change her mind! It set Hilary

Woodrow against women, as well it might. There's only one female in

this house, and you can hardly say she's a woman. Merely a voice and

a pair of eyes and a pair of hands, and a few bones tied up in a

petticoat. My sister, Tabitha--as good a soul as ever fretted a

houseful of males. 'Bachelors' Hall' they call this place down to

Lydford. And so 'tis, for only the ploughman, Joe Tapson, have ever

been married; and he'll tell you plainly, without false feeling, that

the day that made him a widow-man, was the first he ever thanked his

God for."

A thin voice came up the stairs.

"John--breaksis!"

"Come to breakfast," said Mr. Prout. "Then I'll walk around the

place with 'e, afore the master be ready."

So dull was the dawn, that firelight shone in the polished surfaces

of the kitchen, and its genial glow made the morning chill and

lifeless by contrast.

Three men already sat at the table, and John Prout took the head of

it. The newcomer was listened to with courtesy, and his

extraordinary size won him open admiration.

"A good big un's the best that woman breeds," said the widower,

Tapson. He was himself a man somewhat undersized. He had but one

eye, a wrinkled brown skin, and a little goat-beard; but the rest of

his face was shaved clean once a week--on Sunday morning.

"No tender spot?" he asked. "So often you gert whackers have a soft

place somewhere that brings you down to the level of common men when

it comes to work. 'Tis the heart gets tired most often, along wi'

the power o' pumping the blood to the frame."

"No weak spot that I know about, thank God," said Daniel.

"Us'll have to get up a wraslin' bout betwixt you and the 'Infant,'"

declared another labourer, called Agg. He was a red man of average

size, with a pleasant and simple countenance.

"The 'Infant's' a chap to Lydford," he explained. "He was at a shop

up in London, but got home-sick an' come back to the country. Very

near so large as you be."

"I know about him," answered Brendon. "'Tis William Churchward, the

schoolmaster's son. There's a bit more of him below the waist than

what there is of me; but I'm a lot harder and I stand two inch

taller."

"You could throw him across the river," said Joe Tapson.

There came a knock at the door while breakfast progressed, and a girl

appeared. She was a wild-looking, rough-haired little thing of

sixteen. She entered with great self-possession, took off her

sunbonnet, shook her black hair out of her eyes, and set down a large

round bundle in a red handkerchief.

The men laughed; Miss Prout's voice rose to its highest cadences, and

her thin shape swayed with indignation.

"Again, Susan! Twice in two months. 'Tis beyond belief, and a

disgrace to the family!"

"Well, Aunt Tab, who wouldn't? Last night Aunt Hepsy didn't give me

no supper, because I dropped the salt-cellar in the apple-tart--a

thing anybody might do. And I'm leery as a hawk, so I am."

"There's no patience in you," grumbled Mr. Prout's sister. "Why for

can't you understand the nature of your Aunt Hepsy, and make due

allowances for it? Such a trollop as you--such a fuzzy-poll,

down-at-heels maid--be the very one to drive her daft. 'Twas a

Christian act to take you--friendless orphan that you be; but as to

service--how you think you'll ever rise to it, I can't say."

Susan's uncle had given her some breakfast, and she ate heartily, and

showed herself quite at home.

"Aunt Hepsy's always a bit kinder after I've runned away, however,"

exclaimed the girl; "that is, after she've told me what she thinks

about me."

Daniel Brendon observed Susan closely, for she sat on a kitchen form

beside him at Mr. Prout's right hand. A neat little budding shape

she had, and small brown hands, like a monkey's.

Presently she looked up at him inquiringly.

"This here's Mr. Brendon," explained Agg. Then he turned to Daniel.

"The maiden be Mr. Prout's niece, you must know. She's with the

family of Weekes to Lydford, learning to get clever for sarvice. But

she'm always running away--ban't you, Susan? Here's the mustard to

your bacon, my dear."

"I run away when I'm that pushed," explained Susan, with her mouth

full. "'Tis a lesson to 'em. I wouldn't run from Uncle Weekes, for

a kinder man never lives; but Aunt Hepsy's different."

"For that matter, I dare say Phil Weekes would be jolly glad to run

along with you sometimes, if he could," said Tapson. But the remark

annoyed Miss Prout, and she reproved him sharply.

"You'll do better to mind your own affairs, Joe. Ban't no business

of yours to talk rude about other people's families; an' I'll thank

you not to do so. No man ever had a better wife than Philip Weekes

have got; which I say, though she is my own flesh and blood; and 'tis

a very improper thing all you men siding with this here silly little

toad; and you ought to stop it, John, as well you know."

"So I ought," admitted Mr. Prout. "Now, up an' away. And, after

dinner, I be going into Lydford, so you can come back along wi' me,

Susan."

"Let me bide one day," pleaded the girl. "Then I can help Aunt Tab

wi' the washing."

"Right well you know the time to come here, you cunning wench!" said

her aunt. "Some of these days, Susie, Hephzibah Weekes won't take 'e

back at all. Her patience ban't her first virtue, as you ought to

know by this time."

"So I do. But her power of keeping money in her pocket be. She'll

always take me back, because I'm the only maiden as she'll ever get

for nought. She says I ought to pay her!"

"So you ought, if you could. Didn't you go to her after your mother

died, wi'out a smurry to your back? There's no gratitude in girls

nowadays. Well, you can bide till to-morrow; and, so soon as you've

done, you'd best to light wash-house fire, while I clear up."

Brendon walked round Ruddyford presently with the head man, and saw

much to admire and not a little to regret. He longed to be at work

that he might reveal his modern principles and knowledge; but Mr.

Prout was not much impressed by Daniel's opinions, and showed a

stout, conservative spirit.

"You'm a great man for new-fangled notions, I see," he remarked.

"Well, you must tell master 'bout it. For my part, I've made up my

mind on most questions of farming by now, and can't change no more.

But he'll hear you. Trust him for that. He hears us all with

wonderful large patience for a young man of his age. I'm glad you

like the place. 'Tis a funny old sort of a spot, but I wouldn't go

nowheres else for a hat of money."

At ten o'clock Hilary Woodrow came into the kitchen, where his new

man was waiting for him.

"Morning, Tabitha,' said the farmer. Then he turned to Brendon.

"Come this way, please. We'll talk in the air."

They walked together beside the great patch of cabbage that Daniel

had marked from the hills.

"Your character was very good, and I'm glad to have you here," began

the farmer.

He indicated the work he expected, and the general rules, hours and

regulations of Ruddyford, while Daniel listened in silence.

Hilary Woodrow was a thin man of medium height and rather refined

appearance. His colour was dark and his face clearly cut, with

small, delicate features. His voice was gentle, and an air of

lassitude sat upon him, as though life already tended to weariness.

His age was thirty-five, but he looked rather more, and a touch of

grey already appeared about the sides of his head. To Daniel he

appeared a very fragile being, and yet his clear, cold voice and his

choice of words impressed the labourer, though he knew not why.

Brendon felt that his master possessed a master's power. He found

himself touching his forelock instinctively, when the other stopped

sometimes and looked him straight in the face.

This secret of strength was built upon dual foundations. Woodrow

possessed a strong will, and he had enjoyed an unusual education.

His father and mother, fired by ambition for their only child, had

sent him to Tavistock Grammar School. Thence he went to London to

read law, but neither the place nor the profession suited him. He

learnt much, but gladly returned to Dartmoor when his father died

suddenly and left his mother alone. At her husband's death, Hester

Woodrow's dreams for the boy instantly crumbled, and she was well

content that her son should succeed Reynold Woodrow and remain beside

her. Hilary's health offered another reason, for London had done him

little good in respect of that. He was a sensual man.

The large events of his life numbered few. First came experience of

the metropolis; and since one must wither a while in cities before

the full, far-reaching message of nature can be read, his years in

London largely helped to teach young Woodrow the meaning and the

blessing of his home. Then fell a father's death; and it awoke him

to experience of grief and the weight of responsibility. Following

upon these enlightenments came love. He was accepted, and jilted

after the wedding-day had been named. Lastly, just before his

thirtieth birthday, his mother died and left him alone in the world,

for he had no near relations. Ruddyford was a freehold farm, and now

Hilary Woodrow owned it. On his mother's death he had felt disposed

to throw up all and travel. But he found himself uneasy in mind and

body if long absent from the high grounds of the Moor; and finally he

determined to spend his days as his father had done before him.

Much did the Prouts desire a mistress at Ruddyford for the comfort of

everybody concerned there; but Hilary, after his reverse, held aloof

from women. Indeed, his life was very solitary for so young a man.

He did not make friends, and, among his equals, was cold and

reserved. He felt a little nervous of his health, and showed a

sensitiveness to weather that puzzled the folk who are superior to

that weakness.

Thus he stood, at the limits of youth, and gazed ahead without much

enthusiasm or interest. He found great pleasure in books and in

riding. He did not smoke, and drank but little. His heart was kind,

and he performed good deeds, if they were easy to perform. His mind

was of a sceptic bent, but he prided himself justly on a generous

tolerance. Most men liked him and wished that they knew him better;

but he was a character more likely to be understood by women than men.

Daniel Brendon listened to his duties, and found himself

disappointed. No special department awaited him; no control was

destined to be placed in his hands. He had come to help with the

rough and varied work of the farm. It was expected of him to turn

his hand to anything and everything; to take his daily task from John

Prout, and to stand on the same footing as the other labourers.

"Mr. Prout said something about the beasts," he explained, slowly.

"'Twas my hope, master, as you'd put a bit of trust in me, seeing my

papers."

"I put trust in everybody. You'll never find a more trustful man.

It's a secret of farming to trust--when you can."

"But I had the handling of a power of things at Postbridge."

"So you will have with me."

"A man an' a boy under my orders, too."

Woodrow laughed.

"I see. You'll only have three dogs under your orders here."

"Not that I want----"

"Yes, you do--we all do. You'll get power enough, Brendon, if 'tis

in you. Power comes out of ourselves. Go ahead and do your work.

Perhaps, six months hence, you'll be so powerful that we shall have

to part company--eh?"

"I know my job very well."

"Of course you do. I shouldn't want you otherwise. If your will is

as strong as your legs and arms, you ought to have a farm of your own

before long. How old are you?"

"Twenty-five, master."

"I'd give Ruddyford twice over to have your limbs."

"They are so good as yours, while you pay for 'em."

"Go ahead, then. Take a tramp round before dinner, and see what you

think of those heifers up the hill. I've had an offer for them, but

don't feel quite satisfied. Tell me what you reckon they are

worth--taking the whole five-and-twenty together."

In two minutes Daniel was away with a couple of sheepdogs after him.

He reflected on this, his first piece of work, and it pleased him.

He was an accurate judge of stock and knew that he could estimate

very closely the value of the heifers.

CHAPTER III

A THEATRE OF FAILURE

With his thoughts for company Brendon strode upon an errand to the

high Moor. He had been at Ruddyford a fortnight, and liked the

people, but his master troubled him, for he did not understand Mr.

Woodrow's attitude. The farmer's silence puzzled Daniel more than

hard words had done. His consolation was that a like reticence and

apparent indifference were displayed to all.

[Illustration: THE OLD PEAT WORKS]

Now Brendon climbed aloft to the lonely bosom of Amicombe Hill. He

breasted the eastern shoulder of Great Links, and then stood a

moment, startled by the strangeness of the scene before him. This

field of industry had already passed into the catalogue of man's

failures upon Dartmoor, and ruin marked the spot. Round about, as

though torn by giant ploughs, the shaggy slope of the hill was seamed

and ripped with long lines of darkness. A broken wall or two rose

here and there, and radiating amid the desolation of bog and mire,

old tramways ran red. In the midst of these morasses stood the peat

works, like a mass of simmering, molten metal poured out upon the

Moor and left to rust there. Low stone buildings with rotten roofs,

gleaming corrugated iron still white, black walls, broken chimneys,

and scattered debris of stone and steel huddled here in mournful

decay. Everywhere cracked wheels, broken trolleys, twisted

tram-lines, and dilapidated plant, sank into wreck and rot amid the

growing things. Like a sea the waste billowed round about and began

to swallow and smother this futile enterprise. Leaks and cracks

gaped everywhere. Raw mountains of peat slowly grew green again

under heath and grass and the wild sorrel. Here were miles of rusty

wire in huge red tangles, that looked as though the lightning had

played at cat's-cradle with them; here washes of dim and dingy green

swept the hills; here flat liverworts and tumid fungus ate the

woodwork like cancers; here beds of emerald sphagnum swallowed the

old peat-knives and spades. Sections of the peat laid bare showed a

gradual change in quality, from the tough and fibrous integument of

heather-root and grass, to a pure cake, growing heavier and darker,

until, two yards from the surface, it was inky black and soft as

butter. From six to ten feet of this fuel spread in a layer of many

million tons over the granite bones of Amicombe Hill. Immense

quantities were already removed, but the enterprise failed utterly,

and the great hill, where so much of sanguine toil had been expended,

still stretched under the sky with little more than scratches on its

face.

Brendon approached this cemetery of hope, to find a ghost there. The

buildings, dwarfed by distance, soon towered above him as he reached

them, and he found that they contained huge chambers internally

blackened by the peat, yet illuminated by shafts of outer light that

pierced into them. Through broken windows and gaping walls day came,

and revealed immense, silent wheels, and bars thrust out of hollows,

and deep pits. Great pipes stretched from darkness into darkness

again; drums and tanks and forges stood up about him; mysterious

apertures sundered the walls and gaped in the floors; strange

implements appeared; stacks of peat-cake rose, piled orderly; broken

bricks, silent machinery, hillocks of rubbish and dirt, heaps of

metal and balks of timber loomed together from a dusky twilight, and

choked these stricken and shadowy halls.

Dead silence reigned here to Daniel's ears, fresh from the songs of

the wind on the Moor. But, as his eyes grew accustomed to the

velvety darkness and fitful illumination of these earth-stained

chambers, so his ears also were presently tuned to the peace of the

place. Then, through the stillness, there came a sound, like some

great creature breathing in sleep. It was too regular for the wind,

too loud for any life. It panted steadily, and the noise appeared to

come from beneath the listener's feet.

Daniel lifted his voice, and it thundered and clanged about him, like

a sudden explosion. A dozen echoes wakened, and he guessed that no

such volume of sound had rolled through these iron-vaulted chambers

since the machinery ceased.

"Be you here, Mr. Friend?" he shouted, and all the stagnant air rang.

No answering voice reached him; but the stertorous breathing ceased,

and presently came the fall of slow feet. A head rose out of the

earth; then it emerged, and a body and legs followed.

"Come down below, will 'e? I can't leave my work," said the

apparition; then it sank again, and Brendon followed it down a flight

of wooden steps. One cracked under his weight.

"Mind what you'm doing," called back the leader. "They'm rotten as

touchwood in places."

Below was a forge, which Daniel had heard panting, and beside it

stood retorts and various rough chemical appliances. The operator

returned to his bellows and a great ray of hot, red light flashed and

waned, flashed and waned.

Like some ancient alchemist amid his alembics, the older man now

appeared, and his countenance lent aid to the simile, for it was

bearded and harsh and bright of eye. Gregory Friend might have been

sixty, and looked almost aged under these conditions. His natural

colour was fair, but a life in the atmosphere of the great fuel-beds

had stained his visible parts to redness. His very beard, folk said,

was dyed darker than nature. He stood there, a strange man of

fanatic spirit; and his eyes showed it. They burnt with

unconquerable hope; they indicated a being to whom some sort of faith

must be the breath of life. It remained for Daniel to discover the

articles of that faith; and they were not far to seek.

"I be come from Ruddyford," said the labourer. "Master wants four

journeys o' peat, and I was to say that the carts will be up Tuesday."

Friend nodded.

"'Tis ready; and a thousand journeys for that matter. Look here.

The Company have sent these samples from Wales. What do 'e think of

'em?"

"I ban't skilled in peat," said Daniel. "It seems all right."

"Not to my eye. Peat be sent up to me from Scotland and Wales and

Ireland; and I try it with my tools here. But 'tis trash--all

trash--alongside our peat. There's less tar to it, an' less gas to

it, an' less power o' heat to it. Do 'e see these?"

The expert handed Daniel a number of little, heavy, black cakes, as

hard as a brick.

"You've made 'em, I suppose?"

"'Tis Amicombe peat--the best in the world. Better than coal, you

might almost say. We dry and we powder; then we build the cakes an'

put 'em in thicky press till they are squeezed as hard as stone.

There's your fuel! 'Twill smelt iron in the furnace! What other

fashion o' peat but ours can do it? None as ever I heard tell about.

Look at this here tar. What other peat will give you such stuff?

None--none but Amicombe Hill. Millions of tons waiting--thousands of

pounds of good money lying here under this heath--waiting."

"And 'twill have to wait, seemingly."

"That's the point. People think the Company's dead. But it ban't

dead. I've seen the whole history. I was among the first they took

on. I helped from the beginning. It ban't dead, only in low water.

They may start again--they must. 'Tis madness to stop now."

"You believe in it?"

"I'd stake my last shilling in it. For that matter, I have done so.

Company owes me fifty pounds less three, this very minute. But if

the wise ones have their way, I'll get five hundred for my fifty yet."

Mr. Friend's fire had sunk low; into the darkness from above shot one

ray of daylight, blue by contrast with the gloom of the laboratory.

"Come an' have a look at the engine," said the caretaker. "'Tis near

twenty year since steam was up; and I've given such watchful heed to

it that us might be running again in a week--but for a plate here and

there that's eaten away."

Brendon had wit to perceive that Mr. Friend's perspective was

distorted in this matter. As one who lives intimately with a

companion, and cleaves too close to mark the truth of Time's sure

carving on a loved face, so this enthusiast quite failed to

appreciate the real state of the peat works, or their absolute and

utter ruination.

The Company indeed lingered, but any likelihood of reconstruction was

remote. From time to time engineers appeared upon the scene, made

suggestions, and revived Gregory Friend; but nought came of these

visits: everything remained stationary save the hand of Nature.

Daniel praised a fifteen-horse-power engine, which the guardian of

this desolation kept oiled and clean; he heard the peat expert's

story, and discovered that, while Friend's belief in man had long

since perished, his belief in Amicombe Hill and its hoarded

possibilities was boundless and unshaken. This shaggy monster,

heather-clad, with unctuous black fen rolling ten feet thick over its

granite ribs, was his God. He worshipped it, ministered to it,

played high priest to it. They walked together presently over the

shining ridges where black pools lay and chocolate-coloured cuttings

shone, fringed with the pink bog-heather. Mr. Friend thrust his

fingers into the peat and reviewed a thousand great scads, where they

stood upright, propped together to dry. In Gregory's eyes, as they

wandered upon that scene forlorn, were the reverence of a worshipper

and the pride of a parent.

"They've never yet proved it," he said. "But I have. Not an acre of

these miles but I've tested. 'Tis all good, right through."

"But master was talking a bit ago, and he said that your peat-cake be

more expensive than coals, when all's said."

"He's wrong, then. Ton per ton you could have the pressed cake for a

thought less than coal--if they'd only listen to me. But there 'tis;

they'm stiff-necked, and send down empty fools instead of practical

people. They talk folly and pocket their cash and go; and nothing

comes of it; and I be left to wait till they hear me. A sensible man

will happen along presently. Until then, the place is in my hands.

Only I and the God that made this here hill, know what be in it.

China clay, mind you, as well! I've showed it to 'em. I've put it

under their noses, but they won't hearken."

"D'you live up here?"

"I do--across to Dunnagoat Cottage. Us'll go back that way and I'll

give 'e a drink."

Friend washed his hands in a pool. Then he returned to the works,

extinguished his lamp and fire, locked the outer door of the great

chambers, and set off southward beside Brendon.

He learnt the newcomer's name, remarked on his size, and then

returned to peat. But Daniel was weary of the subject and strove to

change it.

"You'm lonely up here, I reckon, an' not another house for miles," he

said.

"I keep up here and bide honest," answered Friend. "If you go

down-along among the rogues, your honesty wears away, an' you never

know it have gone, till somebody stands up to your face and tells you

so. I've seen young men slide from it without ever meaning to. As

to being lonely, I've got my darter and my work. I go to Lydford

once a week for letters. But a town drives me mad--all the noise and

business and silly talk."

They tramped over coarse fen, spattered with ling and the ragged

white tufts of the cotton grass. Upon the waste shone cheerful

light, where the blades of rough moor herbage began to perish from

their tips and burn orange-red. Through the midst ran a pathway on

which the gravel of granite glittered. Pools extended round about,

and beneath them the infant Rattle-brook, newcome from her cradle

under Hunter Tor, purred southward to Tavy.

[Illustration: TAVY CLEEVE.]

The men followed this stream, and so approached a solitary grey

cottage that stood nakedly in the very heart of the wilderness.

Stark space surrounded it. At first sight it looked no more than a

boulder, larger than common, that had been hurled hither from the

neighbouring hill at some seismic convulsion of olden days. But,

unlike the stones around it, this lump of lifted granite was hollow,

had windows pierced in its lowly chambers, and a hearth upon its

floor. It seemed a thing lifted by some sleight of power unknown,

for it rose here utterly unexpected and, as it appeared, without

purpose. No trace was left of the means by which it came. Not a

wall, not a bank or alignment encircled it; no enclosure of any kind

approached it; no outer rampart fenced it from the desolation.

Heather-clad ridges of peat ran to the very threshold; rough natural

clitters of rock tumbled to its walls; door and windows opened upon

primal chaos, rolling and rising, sinking and falling in leagues on

every side. Heavy morasses stretched to north and east; westward

rose Dunnagoat Tor, that gave a name to the cot, and past the

entrance Rattle-brook rippled noisily. Away, whence morning came,

the great hogged back of Cut Hill swelled skyward, and the towers and

battlements of Fur Tor arose; while southerly, brown, featureless,

interminable undulations drifted along the horizon and faded upon

air, or climbed to the far distant crags and precipices of Great Mis.

The door of Gregory Friend's home faced west; and now it framed a

woman.

CHAPTER IV

SYMPATHY

Sarah Jane Friend's eyes opened wide to see so mighty a stranger

approaching with her father. But he was of their own class, for his

raiment proclaimed him. Therefore the woman left the doorstep and

walked a little way to meet them.

Of purest Saxon type was she. One might have guessed that some

strain of blood from the Heptarchy had been handed onward through the

centuries, unalloyed with any Celtic or Norman addition. So did not

the aboriginal Danmonii look; for the women who herded in the old

granite lodges aforetime and logged the stoneman's babies in a

wolf-skin were swarthy and small. Sarah Jane stood five feet ten,

and was fair of face. Her hair shone of the palest gold that a

woman's hair can be; her skin was white. Only the summer suns and

the wind from the ocean warmed it to clear redness. When winter came

again and the light was low, her face grew pale once more. But

pallid it was not. Health shone in her radiant blue eyes and on her

lips. She revealed great riches of natural beauty, but they were

displayed to no artificial advantage, and her generous breast and

stately hips went uncontrolled. She was clad in a dirty print gown,

over which, for apron, hung an old sack with "Amicombe Peat Works"

stamped in faded black letters across it. Her sleeves were rolled

up; her hair was wild about her nape.

Mr. Friend had found Daniel to his taste, for a steadfast listener

always cheered him and made him amiable.

"This be Mr. Daniel Brendon," he said. "He'm working to Ruddyford,

and comes up with a message. Give us a drink o' cider."

Sarah nodded, cast a swift glance at the labourer, and returned to

her house.

"Won't come in--I be in such a muck o' dirt," declared Dan; but the

other insisted.

"Peat ban't dirt," he said. "'Tis sweet, wholesome stuff, an' good

anywhere."

They sat at a deal table presently, and Gregory's daughter brought

two large stone-ware mugs decorated with black trees on a blue

ground. She poured out their cider and spoke to the visitor.

"How do 'e like it down-along then, mister?"

"Very nice, thank you kindly," he answered, looking into her eyes and

wondering at the colour of them.

"John Prout's a good old chap," she said.

"So he is, then. Never met a better."

"How his sister can keep all you men in order I don't know, I'm sure."

"She's a very patient creature. Here's luck, Mr. Friend."

He turned to the peat-master and lifted his mug. Gregory thanked him.

"You'm an understanding chap, seemingly; though they'm rare in the

rising generation. What's your work to Ruddyford?"

Dan's face fell.

"To be plain with you, not all I could wish. Master 'pears to think

a man of my inches can't be no good in the head. He puts nought but

heavy work upon me--not that I mind that, for I can do what it takes

two others to do--to say it without boasting, being built so. But

I'm an understanding man, as you be good enough to allow, and I'd

hoped that he'd have seen it, too, and let me have authority here an'

there."

"Of course," said Sarah Jane. "If you can do two men's work, you

ought to have the ordering of people."

"But a big arm be nought nowadays, along o' steam power," he

explained. "I haven't a word against Tapson, or Agg, or yet

Lethbridge: they'm very good fellows all. But, if I may say so

without being thought ill of, they'm simple men, and want a better

man to watch 'em. Now such as they would bide here, for instance,

and talk the minute-hand round the clock--from no badness in them,

but just empty minds."

He rose and prepared to go.

"Your parts will come to be knowed, if you're skilled in 'em and bide

your time," said Mr. Friend; "though if you balance patience against

the shortness of life, 'tis often a question whether some among us

don't push patience too far. I've been patient too long for one; but

that's because I can't be nothing else. I've told 'em the great

truth--God knows. But ban't my part to lead. I must obey. Yet,

knowing what I know about Amicombe Hill, 'tis hard to wait.

Sometimes I think the Promised Land ban't for me at all."

"I should hope the Promised Land was for all of us," ventured Daniel.

"That Land--yes. I mean yonder hill, bursting with fatness."

He waved up the valley in the direction of the peat works.

They came to the door and Sarah spoke again.

"I should think Mr. Woodrow wouldn't stand in your way. He rode up

to see father last year, and was a very kindly man, though rather

sorrowful-looking."

"He is a kindly man," said Brendon, "and a good master, which we all

allow. But he'm only half alive, so to say. At least, the other

half of him be hidden from us. He'm not one of us, along of his

education. A great reader of books and a great secret thinker."

"I'm sure he'll come to know your vartues, if he's such a clever man

as all that," said Sarah Jane frankly.

The compliment took Daniel's breath away. He laughed foolishly.

"'Tis terrible kind of you to say so, and I thank you very much for

them words," he answered.

The father eyed them, and saw Mr. Brendon's neck and cheeks grow red.

The young men often revealed these phenomena before his daughter's

good wishes. She was amiable and generous-hearted. Her exceedingly

sequestered life might have made some women shy; but to her it lent a

candour and unconventional singleness of mind, that rendered more

sophisticated spirits uneasy. The doors of her nature were thrown

open; she almost thought aloud. Numerous suitors courted her in

consequence, and a clown or two had erred before Sarah Jane, because

they imagined that her good-natured interest in their affairs must be

significant and special. Brendon, however, was not the man to make

any such mistake. He departed, impressed and flattered at her

sympathy; yet his mind did not dwell upon that. He sought rather to

think a picture of her young face, and strove to find a just simile

for her hair. He decided that it was the colour of kerning corn,

when first the green fades and the milky grain begins to feel the

kiss of summer.

A man cried to him before he had gone more than a hundred yards from

Dunnagoat Cottage, and, rather gladly, he retraced his steps. But

Sarah Jane had disappeared, and Mr. Friend was alone. Gregory

advanced to meet him as he returned.

"I like you," said the elder. "You'm serious-minded and might wish

to hear more about the truth of peat. What do you do of a Sunday?"

"I go to church mornings; then there's a few odd bits o' work; but

I've nought between three o'clock and supper."

"Next Sunday, if the day's fine, I'm going over to Wattern Oke."

"I know the hill."

"You can meet me an' my darter there an' have a tell, if you mind to."

"I'm sure nothing would please me better, Mr. Friend--'tis a very

great act of kindness to propose it."

Gregory nodded and said no more, while Brendon, gratified by the

invitation, went his way.

He had no thought for the immensity of the earth vision now rolling

under his feet. His eye turned inward to regard impressions recently

registered by memory. Friend's strange, peat-smeared face, his

shining beard, and wild eyes; Sarah Jane's neck and shoulders and

straight back; her hands that held the cider-jug; her voice, so

kindly--these things quite filled the man's slow brain.

Of a devout intensity under religious influence, Brendon's strenuous

nature developed less favourably beneath pressure of mundane affairs.

He could be passionate and he could be harsh. He found it uncommonly

difficult to forgive injury, and sometimes sulked before imaginary

injustice. He was somewhat sensitive and given to brooding. He knew

his own good qualities, but while too modest to push them, felt

secret sense of wrong when others failed to discover them swiftly.

Like all men, he delighted to be taken at his own valuation; but

though his humility would not publish that valuation, yet, when his

cause was not advanced, he resented it and made a grievance of

neglect.

It was early at present to predict his future at Ruddyford. The

place proceeded automatically. Nobody was ambitious of power, or of

work; each did his toll of toil, and all were friends. Nominally Mr.

Prout ruled; in reality the little commonwealth had no head under the

master. In time of rare disputes John Prout laid down the law and

none questioned him. Few difficulties arose, for Woodrow paid well

and kept the farm in a state of culture unusually high. A very rare

standard of comfort prevailed, and neighbours always held that Hilary

Woodrow was rather an amateur, or gentleman-farmer, than one who

lived by his labours and worked for bread. But none could say of him

that he neglected his business. He knew the possibilities of

Ruddyford, spent only upon the land what it was worth, and devoted

the greater part of his money and care to raising of sheep and cattle.

Brendon strode down the great side of Hare Tor, then suddenly

perceiving that he was walking out of his way, turned right-handed.

The wind blew up rain roughly from the south, and separate

cloud-banks slunk along the hills, as though they hastened to some

place of secret meeting. Daniel passed down among them, and was

within a hundred yards of the farm, when Prout, on a grey pony, met

him.

"You've seed Friend and told him about the peat?" he asked.

"Ess; 'twill be ready--'tis ready now, for that matter."

"A curious human be Greg Friend," commented Mr. Prout. "Peat! Why,

he's made of peat--body and bones--just the same as me an' you be

made of earth. He thinks peat, and dreams peat, and talks peat--the

wonder is he don't eat peat!"

John Prout lived alone in a cottage thirty yards from the main

building of Ruddyford. It contained four rooms, of which he only

occupied two. Now and again Tabitha insisted upon tidying up for

him, but he dreaded her visitations, and avoided them as much as

possible.

Brendon stopped at his door, and John spoke again before he alighted.

"Not but what Friend isn't a very good sort of man. The peat's a bee

in his bonnet, yet never an honester or straighter chap walked among

us. He looks to Amicombe Hill to make everybody's fortune presently."

"He calls it the Promised Land," said Daniel.

"He do--poor fellow! He's out there. It don't promise nothing and

won't yield nothing. They bogs have swallowed a long sight more

solid money than anybody will ever dig up out of 'em again; and

'twould be well for Greg's peace of mind if he could see it; but he

won't. He goes messing about with his bottles and bellows, and gets

gas and tar out of the stuff, and makes such a fuss, as though he'd

found diamonds; but 'tis all one. Peat's good, but coal's better,

and God A'mighty meant it to be. You can't turn peat into coal, or

hurry up nature. She won't be hurried, and there's an end of it."

"He've got a fine darter, seemingly."

Mr. Prout laughed.

"Ah! you met her--eh? Yes, she's a proper maiden--a regular wonder

in her way--so open, and clear-minded as a bird. Never yet heard a

girl speak so frank--'tis like a child more than what you'd expect

from a grown-up woman. But ban't she lovely in her Sunday

frill-de-dills! I was up over last spring, and drinked a dish of tea

with 'em. Lucky the chap as gets her--bachelor though I am, I say

it."

"Be she tokened?"

"A good few's after her, I believe; but there's only one in the

running. I mean Jarratt Weekes to Lydford--the castle keeper there."

"I know the man--why, he's old!"

"Doan't you say that. 'Tis hard thing for my ears to hear. If he's

old at forty, what be I at sixty-five? I won't let nobody say I'm

old, Daniel!"

"Old for her, I mean. There must be best part of twenty year between

'em."

"It often works very well an' keeps down the family."

"Can't fancy her along with that man."

"She won't ax your leave, my son. But her father's rather of your

mind, I fancy. Gregory never did like Jarratt Weekes--nor any of the

Weekes breed, for that matter. Jarratt was spoiled as a child. He'm

the only son of his parents, and more hard than soft--just as you

would expect the child of Hepsy Weekes to be. She's stamped herself

upon him."

"Us'll be late for dinner if us talk any more; though what you tell

me is very interesting," answered Brendon.

CHAPTER V

THE KEEPER OF THE CASTLE

The former glories of Lydford have long since vanished away; yet once

it was among the most ancient of Devon boroughs, and stood only

second to Exeter in credit and renown. Before the Norman Conquest

Lydford flourished as a fortified town; when, "for largeness in lands

and liberties" no western centre of civilization might compare with

it. But hither came the bloody Danes by way of Tavistock, to consume

with fire and sword, and raze this Saxon stronghold to the ground.

From these blows the borough recovered, and upon the ruins of the

settlement arose a mediæval town wherein, for certain centuries,

there reigned a measure of prosperity. The late Norman castle

belonged to the twelfth century. It was a true "keep" and a stout

border fortress. Within its walls were held the Courts, beneath its

floors were hidden the dungeon, of the Stannaries. From the

Commonwealth until two hundred years ago, the castle lay in ruins;

then a partial restoration overtook it; Manor and Borough Courts were

held there; prisoners again languished within its walls. But when

Prince Town rose, at the heart of Dartmoor's central wastes, all

seats of local authority were moved thither; Lydford Castle fell back

into final neglect, and the story of many centuries was ended.

[Illustration: LYDFORD CASTLE]

To-day this survival of ancient pride and power lies gaunt, ruined,

hideous, and, in unvenerable age, still squats and scowls four-square

to all the winds that blow. From its ugly window-holes to its

tattered crown there is no beautiful thing about it, save the

tapestry of nature that sucks life from its bones and helps to hide

them. Grass and ferns, hawkweed, sweet yarrow, toadflax, and

fragrant wormwood thrive within its rents and crevices; seedling ash

and elder find foothold in the deep embrasures; ivy mantles the

masonry and conceals its meanness. The place sulks, like an

untamable and unlovely beast dying. It reflects to the imagination

the dolours and agonies of forlorn wretches--innocent and guilty--who

have pined and perished within its dungeons. Now these subterranean

dens, stripped to the light, are crumbling between the thumb and

forefinger of Time; their gloomy corners glimmer green with moss and

tongues of fern and moisture oozing; briars drape the walls from

which hung staples; wood strawberries, like rubies, glitter among the

riven stones. Windows and a door still gape in the thickness of the

walls; and above, where once were floors, low entrances open upon

air. In the midst extends a square of grass; aloft, a spectator may

climb to the decayed stump of the ruin, and survey Lydford's present

humility; her church, dwarfed largely by the bulk of the castle; her

single row of little dwellings; the dimpled land of orchards and

meadows round about her; and the wide amphitheatre of Dartmoor

towering semi-circular to the East.

Fifty years ago, as now, the village straggled away from the feet of

the castle under roofs of grey thatch and tar-pitched slate. Many of

the cottages had little gardens before them, and one dwelling, larger

than the rest, stood with a bright, rosy-washed face, low windows and

low brow of grey thatch, behind luxuriance of autumn flowers. To the

door of it there led a blue slate path, and on either side smiled red

phloxes, bell-flowers, tiger-lilies with scarlet, black-spattered

chalices, and pansies of many shades. A little golden yew, clipped

into a pyramid, stood on one side of the door; upon the other sat a

man peeling potatoes.

Philip Weekes was short and square and round in the back. His black

beard, cut close to the chin, began to turn white; his hair was also

grizzled. His cheeks were red and round; his large grey eyes had a

wistful expression, as of eyes that ached with hope of a sight long

delayed. His voice, but seldom heard, was mournful in its cadence.

Now Mr. Weekes dropped his last potato into a pail of water; then he

picked up the pail, and a second, that contained the peelings. With

these he went to the rear of his house. It was necessary to go out

through the front gate, and as he did so a friend stopped him.

"Nice weather, schoolmaster," he said in his mild tones. "Very

seasonable indeed. And I observe your son up at the ruin with a

party every time I pass. He must be doing well, Mr. Weekes."

"Nothing to complain about, I believe; but Jarratt--to say it

friendly--is terrible close. I don't know what he's worth, Mr.

Churchward."

"I expect your good lady does, however."

The father nodded.

"Very likely. I ban't in all their councils."

The schoolmaster--a tall, stout man, with a pedagogic manner and some

reputation for knowledge--made no comment upon this speech, but

discreetly pursued his way. He stopped at the Castle Inn, however,

for the half-pint of ale he always allowed himself after morning

school. The little public-house stood almost under the castle walls;

and beyond it rose a bower of ancient trees, through which appeared

the crocketed turrets of St. Petrock's. Adam Churchward was a

widower and enjoyed high esteem at Lydford. People thought more of

him than the vicar, because though of lesser learning, he displayed

it to better advantage and denied himself to none. He was

self-conscious under his large and heavy manner, but he concealed the

fact, and nobody knew the uneasiness that often sat behind his white

shirt-front and black tie, when accident threatened the foundations

of his fame.

As he emptied potato peelings into a barrel, there came to the master

of this flowery garden a wild and untidy brown maid, easily to be

recognized as the runaway Susan.

"Pleace, Uncle Phil, aunt says if you've done them 'taters she'd like

'em to see the fire, if us be going to have dinner come presently."

"They'm done," he said. "I be bringing of 'em."

A voice like a guinea-hen's came through the open door.

"Now, master, if you've finished looking at the sky, I'll thank you

to fetch a dollop o' peat. An' be them fowls killed yet? You know

what Mrs. Swain said last Saturday? Yours be the bestest fowls as

ever come into Plymouth Market, Hephzibah,' she said. 'I'd go miles

for such poultry; an' you sell 'em too cheap most times; but if your

husband would only kill 'em a thought sooner, to improve their

softness----' 'He shall do it, ma'am,' I said; but well I knowed all

the time I might so soon speak to a pig in his sty as you--such a

lazy rogue you be."

"I'll kill 'em after dinner--plenty of time."

"'Plenty of time'! Always your wicked, loafing way. Put off--put

off--where's that gal? Go an' sweep the best bedroom, Susan.

'Plenty of time.' You'll come to eternity presently--with nothing to

show for it. Then, when they ax what you've been doing with your

time, you'll cut a pretty cheap figure, Philip Weekes."

Her husband exhibited a startling indifference to this attack; but it

was the indifference that an artilleryman displays to the roar and

thunder of ordnance. His wife talked all day long--often half the

night also; and her language was invariably hyperbolic and

sensational. Nobody ever took her tragic diction seriously, least of

all her husband. His position in the home circle was long since

defined. He did a great deal of women's work, suffered immense

indignities with philosophic indifference, and brightened into some

semblance of content and satisfaction once a week. This was upon

Saturday nights, when his partner invariably slept at Plymouth. Her

husband and she were hucksters; but since, among its other

disabilities, Lydford was denied the comfort of a market, they had to

seek farther for customers, and it was to Plymouth that they took

their produce.

Every Friday Mr. Weekes harnessed his pony and drove a little cart

from Lydford into Bridgetstowe, through certain hamlets. He paid a

succession of visits, and collected from the folk good store of eggs,

butter, rabbits, ducks, honey, apples and other fruit, according to

the season. His own contributions to the store were poultry and

cream. He had one cow, and kept a strain of large Indian game fowls

which were noted amongst the customers of Mrs. Weekes. On Saturday

the market woman was driven to Lydford Station with her stores, and

after a busy day in Plymouth, she slept with a married niece there,

and returned to her home again on the following morning.

This programme had continued for nearly forty years. On rare

occasions Philip Weekes himself went to market; but, as his wife

declared, "master was not a good salesman," and she never let him

take her place at the stall if she could help it.

[Illustration: LYDFORD.]

Hephzibah was a little, lean woman, with white, wild locks sticking

out round her head, like a silver aureole that had been drawn through

a bramble-bush. She had bright pink cheeks, a long upper lip, a hard

mouth with very few teeth left therein, and eyes that feared nothing

and dropped before nothing. She was proud of herself and her house.

She had a mania for sweeping her carpets; and if at any moment Susan

was discovered at rest, her aunt instantly despatched her to the

broom. After a good market Hephzibah was busier than ever, and drove

her niece and her husband hither and thither before her, like leaves

in a gale of wind; if the market had been bad, the strain became

terrific, and Susan generally found it necessary, to run away. Mr.

Weekes could not thus escape; but he bowed under the tempest,

anticipated his wife's commands to the best of his power, and

contrived to be much in the company of his Indian game fowls. After

each week of tragical clacking and frantic sweeping Saturday came,

and the peace of the grave descended upon Mr. Weekes. During

Saturday he would not even suffer Susan to open her mouth.

"'Pon Saturdays give me silence," he said. "The ear wants rest, like

any other member."

While his wife's shrill tongue echoed about her corner of the

market-place and lured customers from far, he sat at home in a

profound reverie and soaked in silence. By eventide he felt greatly

refreshed, and generally spent an hour or two at the Castle Inn--a

practice forbidden to him on other days.

"Go," said Mrs. Weekes; "go this instant moment, afore dinner, an'

kill the properest brace you can catch. If you won't work, you

shan't eat, and that's common-sense and Bible both. Mrs. Swain

said----"

Her husband nodded, felt that his penknife was in his pocket, and

went out. The poultry-run stood close at hand at the top of Philip's

solitary field. Sacks were nailed along the bottom of the gate, to

keep safe the chicks, and a large fowl-house filled one corner. As

the master entered, a hundred handsome birds, with shining plumage of

cinnamon and ebony, ran and swooped round him in hope. But he had

brought death, not dinner. A gallows stood in a corner, and soon two

fine fowls hung from it by their long yellow legs and fulfilled

destiny. Then Mr. Weekes girt an apron about him, took the corpses

into a shed, spread a cloth for the feathers, sat down upon a

milking-stool and began to pluck them.

Meantime the other occupant of his home had returned to dinner.

Jarratt Weekes, the huckster's son, came back from his morning's work

at the castle and called to his mother to hasten the meal.

"There's quite a lot of people about to-day," he said, "and a party

of a dozen be coming up at three o'clock to look over the ruin."

"Then you must make hay while the sun shines," declared Mrs. Weekes.

Hephzibah's only child had now reached the age of forty, and the

understanding between them was very close and intimate. Reticent to

all else, he found his mother so much of his own way of thinking,

that from her he had no secrets. She admired his thrift, and held

his penuriousness a virtue. Despite her garrulity, Mrs. Weekes could

keep close counsel where it suited her to do so; and neither her

son's affairs nor her own ever made matter for speech. They enjoyed

an inner compact from which even the head of the house was excluded.

Jarratt Weekes despised his father, and failed to note the older

man's virtues. The castle-keeper himself could boast a personable

exterior; but he was mean, and his countenance, though not

unhandsome, betrayed it. He loved money for itself, and had saved

ever since he was a boy. His clean-shorn, strongly featured face was

spoiled by the eyes. They were bright and very keen, but too close

together. He looked all his years by reason of a system of netted

lines that were stamped over his forehead, upon his cheeks and round

the corners of his lips. He lent money, ran sheep upon Dartmoor, and

was busy in many small ways that helped his pocket. He paid his

mother five shillings a week for board and lodging; and she tried

almost every day of her life to make him give seven-and-six, yet

secretly admired him for refusing to do so. He was of medium height,

and in figure not unlike his father, but still straight in the back

and of upright bearing.

Jarratt sat down at the kitchen table, while his mother made ready a

meal for him. The room was empty, and overhead sounded the regular

stroke of Susan's broom.

"Glad you're alone," he said, "for I wanted to talk a moment. I saw

Sarah Jane to Bridgetstowe yesterday. She'd come down with a message

from her father. Sunday week she's going to take her dinner with us.

Then I shall ax her."

Mrs. Weekes nodded, and for a moment her tongue was silent. She

looked at her son, and a shadow of something akin to emotion swept

over her high-coloured cheeks and bold eyes.

"What a change 'twill be! I suppose you'll take the house to the

corner? Mrs. Routleigh can't hold out over Christmas."

"Yes, I shall take it. But there's Sarah Jane to be managed first."

"Not much trouble there. She ban't a fool. She'll jump at you."

"You're not often wrong; but I'm doubtful. Sarah's not like other

girls. She don't care for comfort and luxury."

"Give her the chance! She's young yet. They all like comfort, and

they all want a husband. Quite right too."

"She can have her pick of twenty husbands--such a rare piece as her."

"Them pretty ones all think that; an' they often come to grief over

it. They put off choosing year after year till suddenly they find

'emselves wrong side of thirty, and the flat chits, that was childern

yesterday, grown up into wife-old maidens. Then they run about after

the men they used to despise. But the men be looking for something

younger by that time. You men--the years betwixt thirty to forty

don't hit you; and what you lose in juice an' comeliness, you make up

at the bank. But ban't so with us. There's no interest on good

looks--all the other way. These things I've told Sarah Jane myself;

so be sure she knows 'em. You'm a thought old for her: that's my

only fear."

"Would you go at it like a bull at a gate, or wind round it? She

knows well enough what I feel. Why, I gived her a brooch that cost

five shillings and sixpence come her last birthday."

"Dash at her! She's the sort that must be stormed. Don't dwell

over-much on the advantages, because she's too young to prize 'em.

Catch fire an' blaze like a young 'un. They like it best that way.

Don't take 'no' for an answer. 'Twas a dash that caught me; though

you'd never think it to see your father now-a-days."

He listened respectfully.

"I'm not the dashing sort, however."

"No, you ban't. Still, that's the best way with she. Many a woman's

been surprised into saying 'yes.' Do anything but write it. Sarah

Jane wouldn't stand writing. For that matter, 'tis a question if she

can read penmanship. An ignorant girl along of her bringing up."

"Good at figures, however; for Gregory Friend told me so."

"What does he know about figures? Still, 'tis very much in her

favour if true."

Mrs. Weekes now went to the window and looked out of it. Down the

street stood an ivy-covered cottage where two ways met. Beside it

men were working in the road.

"The water-leat will run through your back orchard, won't it?"

"Yes; I'd counted upon that. The new leat goes from one side to

t'other. 'Twill be a great source of strength and improve the value

of the property."

"The sooner you buy the better then--afore Widow Routleigh

understands--eh?"

He hesitated a moment, then confessed.

"I have bought," he said.

"Well done you! Why didn't you tell me?"

"I was going to. But keep silent as the pit about it. Only me, an'

her, and her lawyer knows. As a matter of fact, I bought before the

leat got near the place. I knowed 'twas coming; they never thought

of it."

"You'm a wonder!"

She looked at the house destined for her son and his bride.

"You won't be far off--that's to the good. You an' me must always be

close cronies, Jar. Who else have I got?"

"No fear of that."

She went to the oven, put a stew upon the table, and lifted her voice

to the accustomed penetrating note.

"Dinner! Dinner! Come, master! Us can't bide about all afternoon

for you. Susan, get down house, will 'e, an' let me see the dustpan.

I know what your sweeping be like--only too well."

Mr. Weekes received a volume of reproaches as he entered five minutes

later, and took his place at the head of the table.

"I've been plucking fowls, an' had to wash," he said.

"Then I hope to God you chose the right ones. Mrs. Swain _will_ have

'em the same size to a hair. If they come to table a thought uneven,

her pleasure's spoilt. And the best customer I've got in the Three

Towns. But what do you care...? Susan, you dirty imp, can't you...

Tchut! If your parents don't turn in their graves, it ban't no fault

of yours...!"

So she played chorus to the banquet. How Mrs. Weekes ever found time

to eat none knew.

CHAPTER VI

WATTERN OKE

When Daniel Brendon stepped out of the world into church, a change

came upon his spirit, and he had the power of absorbing himself in

religious fervour. He lived under the permanent sense of a divine

presence, and when life prospered with him and nothing hurt or

angered him, the labourer's mind was cheered by the companionship of

his Maker. Only if overtaken by a dark mood, or conscious of

wrong-doing, did he feel solitary. The experience was rare, yet he

faced it without self-delusion, and assured himself that when God

forsook his heart, the fault was his own.

In a temper amiable and at peace he kept the Sunday appointment with

Gregory Friend. During morning worship he had heard a sermon that

comforted his disquiet, and served for a time to mask from his sight

the ambitions proper to his nature. He had been told to do with his

might the thing that his hand found to do; he had been warned against

casting his desires in too large a mould; he had heard of the dignity

of patience.

Brendon's mind was therefore contented, and as he strode through the

evening of the year's work and marked the sun turn westward over a

mighty pageant of autumn, he felt resignation brooding within him.

Nature, for once, chimed with the things of his soul and blazoned a

commentary upon the cherished dogmas of his faith.

He stood where the little Rattle leapt to Tavy, flung a last loop of

light, and, laughing to the end of her short life, poured her crystal

into a greater sister's bosom. Sinuously, by many falls, they glided

together under the crags and battlements of the Cleeve; and the

September sun beat straight into that nest of rivers, to touch each

lesser rill that threaded glittering downward and hung like a silver

rope over shelf of stone, or in some channel cut by ancient floods.

Their ways were marked by verdure; by sphagnum, in sheets of emerald

or rose, orange or palest lemon; by dark rushes, stiffly springing,

and by the happiness of secret flowers. Heath and grey, granite

shone together; a smooth, green coomb stretched beside water's meet,

but beyond it all was confusion of steep hills and stony precipices.

Over their bosoms the breath of autumn hung in misty fire, while

strange, poised boulders crouched upon them threateningly and

sparkled in the sun. Haze of blue brake-fern shimmered here and

burnt at points to sudden gold, where death had already touched it.

Light streamed down, mingling with the air, until all things were

transfigured and the darkest shadows abounded in warm tones. The

ling still shone, and its familiar, fleeting mantle of pale amethyst

answered the brilliance of the sky with radiant flower-light that

refreshed the jewels of the late furze by splendour of contrast. The

unclouded firmament lent its proper glory to this vale. Even under

the sun's throne air was made visible, and hung like a transparent

curtain over the world--a curtain less than cloud and more than

clarity. It obscured nothing, yet informed the great hills and

distant, sunk horizon with its own azure magic; it transfused the

far-off undulations of the earth, and so wrought upon leagues of

sun-warmed ether that they washed away material details and

particulars. There remained only huge generality of light aloft, and

delicate, vague delineation of opal and of pearl in the valleys

beneath.

The rivers, spattered with rocks and wholly unshadowed, ran together

in a skein of molten gold. Behind the murmuring hills they vanished

westerly; and though these waters gleamed with the highest light

under the sky, yet even in the dazzling force of sheer sunshine,

flung direct upon their liquid mirrors, were degrees of

brilliance--from the pure and steady sheen of pools, through

splendour of broken waters, up to blinding flashes of foam, where the

sun met a million simultaneous bubbles and stamped the tiny, blazing

image of himself upon each.

Sunshine indeed poured out upon all created things. It lighted the

majesty of the hills and flamed above each granite tower and heather

ridge; it brightened the coats of the wandering herds and shone upon

little rough calves and foals that crept beside their mothers; it

touched the solitary heron's pinion, as he flapped heavily to his

haunt; and forgot not the wonder of Vanessa's wings, nor the snake on

the stone, nor the lizard in the herbage. Each diurnal life was

glorified by the splendour of day; and when there fell presently a

cloud-shadow, like a bridge across the Cleeve, it heightened the

surrounding brilliance and, passing, made the light more admirable.

Upward, like the music from a golden shell, came Tavy's immemorial

song; and it echoed most musical on the ear of him who, crowning this

vision with conscious intelligence, could dimly apprehend some part

of what he saw.

Daniel seated himself on rocks overlooking the Cleeve. His massive

body felt the sun's heat strike through it; and now he stared

unblinking upward, and now scanned the glen upon his right. That

way, round, featureless hills climbed one behind the other, until

they rose to a distant gap upon the northern horizon where stood

Dunnagoat cot against the sky. Low tors broke out of the hills about

it, and upon their summits, like graven images, the cattle stood in

motionless groups, according to their wont on days of great heat.

Brendon rose presently, stretched himself, and, seen far off,

appeared to be saluting the sun. Then he turned to the hills and

passed a little way along them. His eye had marked two specks, a

mile distant, and as they approached they grew into a man and woman.

[Illustration: DUNNAGOAT COT.]

Gregory Friend, with his daughter, met Daniel beside a green barrow.

He shook hands and remarked on the splendour of the hour. The

peat-man had put off his enthusiasm with his working clothes. He

wore black and appeared somewhat bored and listless, for the

week-days only found him worshipping.

"He hates Sabbaths," explained Sarah. "To keep off his business be a

great trouble to him; but he says as we must mark the day outwardly

as well as inwardly. So he dons his black, an' twiddles his thumbs,

an' looks up the valley to the works, but holds away from 'em."

She wore a crude blue dress that chimed with nothing in nature and

fitted ill. Brendon, however, admired it exceedingly.

"'Tis very nice 'pon top of Wattern Oke, if you care to come so far,"

he said.

They returned to the place where Daniel had sat.

"I'll spread my coat for 'e, so as you shan't soil thicky lovely

gown," he suggested to Sarah Jane.

"No call to do that, thank you. I'll sit 'pon this stone. I'm glad

you like the dress. I put it on for you to see. My word, 'tis

summer come back again to-day!"

The labourer was fluttered, but could think of nothing to say. Both

men smoked their pipes, and Friend began to thrust his stick into the

earth. They spoke of general subjects, then Daniel remembered a

remark that the other had made upon their first meeting. He had no

desire to hear more concerning peat; but his heart told him that the

theme must at least give one of the party pleasure, and therefore he

led to it. Moreover, he felt a strong desire to please Gregory, yet

scarcely knew his reason.

"You was going to give me a little of your large knowledge 'bout

Amicombe Hill, master," he said, after an interval of silence.

Mr. Friend's somewhat lethargic attitude instantly changed. He sat

up briskly and his eyes brightened.

"So I was then; and so I will. To think that within eye-shot at this

moment there's more'n enough fuel to fill every hearth in England!

There's a masterpiece of a thought--eh? If people only realized

that.... And Amicombe Hill peat be the very cream and marrow of it

all--the fatness of the land's up there--better than granite, or tin,

or anything a man may delve in all Dartymoor."

"Not a doubt of it--not a doubt," said the listener; but Sarah Jane

shook her head.

"Don't you encourage him, Mr. Brendon, or I'll not have you up the

hill no more. Ban't six days a week enough for one subject? Can't

us tell about something different Sundays?"

"Plenty of time," answered her father. "Peat's a high matter enough

in my opinion. If us knowed all there is to know about it, us should

see nearer into the ways of God in the earth, I'm sure. There's

things concerning Amicombe peat no man has yet found out, and perhaps

no man ever will."

"On week-days he lives up to his eyes in the peat, an' 'pon Sundays

he preaches it," said Sarah. "That is when any man's silly enough to

let him," she added pointedly.

Her father began to show a little annoyance at these interruptions.

"You'd best to go and walk about, an' leave me an' Brendon to talk,"

he said.

"So I will, then, my dear," she answered, laughing; "an' when you've

done, one of you can stand up on a rock an' wave his handkercher;

then I'll come back."

To Daniel's dismay, she rose and strolled off. Friend chattered

eagerly; Sarah Jane's blue shape dwindled, and was presently lost to

sight.

For half-an-hour the elder kept up a ceaseless discourse; but, since

Daniel did nothing more than listen, and scarcely asked a question to

help the matter, Gregory Friend began to tire. He stopped, then

proceeded. He stopped again, yawned, and relighted his pipe.

"That's just the beginning about peat," he said. "But don't think

you know nothing yet. My darter knows more than that--ignorant

though she is."

"Not ignorant, I'm sure. But--well, shall I tell her that, just for

the present, we've done wi' peat, or would you rather----?"

Gregory felt that Brendon had fairly earned a respite and reward.

Moreover, the sunshine was making him sleepy.

"Go an' look after her," he said. "An' come back to me presently.

I'll have forty winks. Nought on earth makes me so dog-tired as

laziness."

Daniel was gone in a moment, yet, as he strode whence the girl had

disappeared, he found time to ask himself what this must mean. He

had never looked round after a woman in his life. Women about a

place made him uneasy, and acted as a restraint on comfort. He knew

nothing whatever concerning them, and was quite content to believe

the opinions of John Prout: that, upon the whole, a man might be

better single. Yet this woman had interested him from the first

moment that he saw her; he had thought of her not seldom since; he

had anticipated another meeting with interest that was pleasure.

He crossed Wattern Oke, then looked down where Tavy winds beneath the

stony side of Fur Tor. A bright blue spot appeared motionless at the

brink of the river. Daniel, feeling surprise to think that she had

wandered so far, hastened forward and, in a quarter of an hour, stood

beside her. She smiled at him.

"I knowed you'd come for me," she said. "There was that in your face

made me feel it. You was sorry when I went off?"

"So I was then."

"I rather wanted to see if you would be. It shows friendship. I

like men to be friends with me. I often wish I'd been born a man

myself--'stead of a woman. I'm such a big maiden, an' awful

strong--not but what I look more than a fly beside you. You could

pick me up in they gert arms, I reckon?"

"I suppose I could for that matter. I carried a pig

yesterday--lifted un clean up an' got un on my back; but it took two

other chaps to move it. 'Twas Agg and Tapson. 'Here, let me get to

his carcase,' I said; an' I lifted it clear into the butcher's cart,

while they two was wiping their foreheads!"

She nodded with evident approval.

Suddenly his slow mind worked backwards.

"All the same," he said, "I didn't ought to have mentioned your name

in the same breath with a pig. 'Twas a hole in my manners, and I

hope you'll overlook it."

Sarah Jane laughed.

"What a man! Where was you brought up to? Ban't many so civil in

these parts."

"I was teached to be civil by my mother. But I know nought beyond my

business--not like Mister Woodrow. He has grammer-school larning,

an' London larning, and reads books that I can't understand a word

about."

She told him of her own childhood, of her mother, of her few friends.

"Girls don't seem to like me," she said. "I hardly know above

half-a-dozen of 'em. There's Minnie Taverner to Lydford, and Mary

Churchward--nobody much else. Mary's brother's nearly as big as you

be. But t'others I used to know, when I went to school, are all

married or gone to service now."

"Very interesting," said Daniel. "I never had but one sister. She's

down to Plymouth--a greengrocer's wife there."

They talked freely together, and presently rose and set out to rejoin

Mr. Friend. Under their feet Daniel suddenly saw a piece of white

ling, and stopped and picked it.

"May I make bold to ax you to take it?" he said. "'Tis an old saying

that it brings fortune."

"Then I won't accept of it," she said. "Thank you all the same; but

fortune's in the wind for me already; an' I don't want it very much.

I'm happy enough where I be along with my father."

"Tell me about the fortune," he said, flinging the heath away.

Thereupon she reminded him that, despite her masculine aspirations

and amazing frankness, she was a woman after all.

Her eyes fell, then rose to his face again. A glorious, gentle,

gentian blue they were.

"You want to know such a lot, Mr. Brendon," she said.

He was crushed instantly, and poured forth a string of apologies.

"You all do it," she answered. "I don't know what there is about me;

but you chaps get so friendly--I feel as if I'd got about fifty

brothers among you. But there's things you can't tell even brothers,

you know."

"I'm terrible sorry. Just like my impudence to go pushing forward

so. I deserve a clip on the side o' the head--same as my mother used

to box my ears when I was a little one, an' hungry to ax too many

questions."

Mr. Friend was awake and ready to walk homeward. Daniel accepted an

invitation to tea, and accompanied them.

They ascended slowly by the steep channels of the Rattle-brook, and

presently Gregory rested awhile.

"I can't travel same as once I could," he explained. Then he

moralized.

"The world's an up an' down sort of place, like this here fen," he

said. "Some holds the good and evil be balanced to a hair, so that

every man have his proper share of each; but for my part I can't

think it."

"The balance be struck hereafter. That trust a man must cling to--or

else he'll get no happiness out of living," answered Daniel; and the

other nodded.

"'Tis the only thought as can breed content in the mind; yet for the

thousands that profess to believe it, you'll not find tens who really

do so."

"I'm sure I do," asserted Brendon.

"At your time of life 'tis easy enough. But wait till you'm

threescore and over. Then the spirit gets impatient, and it takes a

very large pattern of faith to set such store on the next world that

failure in this one don't sting. If I am took from yonder peat works

afore their fame be established to the nation, I shall go reluctant,

and I own it. There'll be nought so interesting in Heaven--from my

point of view--as Amicombe Hill."

"You'll have something better to think of and better to do, master."

"Maybe I shall; but my mind will turn that way, and I shall think it

terrible hard if all knowledge touching the future of the place be

withholden from me."

"We shall know so much of things down here as be good for our peace

of mind, I reckon?" ventured Daniel.

"'Twould be wisht to have all blank," declared Sarah Jane. "Take the

mothers an' wives. What's the joy of heaven to them if they don't

know things is going well with their children an' husbands?"

"'Tis almost too high a subject for common people, though I could

wish for light upon it myself," said her father.

"Of course they know!" cried the woman. "Don't you believe as mother

holds us in her thoughts and watches our goings? Such a worrying

spirit as hers! Heaven wouldn't be no better than a foreign country,

where she couldn't get letters, if you an' me was hidden from her."

Daniel felt uneasy.

"Knowing what she knows now, she would be content to leave it with

God," he said.

"Not her," answered Sarah Jane. "A very suspicious nature, where

those she loved was concerned."

"True. My wife could believe nought but her own eyes. She was built

so. That's why she never would share my great opinions of Amicombe

Hill. A very damping woman to a hopeful heart. A great trust in

arithmetic she had; but for my part nought chills me like black

figures on white paper. You can't draw much comfort from 'em most

times."

"I'm like her," said Sarah Jane. "All for saying what I think.

Father here's a dreamer."

"Hope's very good to work on, however; I hold with Mr. Friend there."

"Not so good as wages," said Sarah Jane.

"Sometimes in my uplifted moments I've wondered whether truth's made

known to my wife now, and whether, looking down 'pon Dartymoor, she

knows that I was right touching Amicombe Hill, and she was wrong,"

mused Gregory.

"Perhaps she knows she was right and you are wrong, my old dear,"

suggested Sarah Jane.

But her father shook his head.

"I ban't feared of that," he answered.

After a cup of tea, Daniel Brendon made a faltering proposal, and met

with a startling reply.

"I wonder now, if you and Miss here would take a walk along o' me

next Sunday?" he asked. "I'll meet 'e where you please. And I'm

sure I should be terrible proud if you could lend me your company."

"I can't--not next Sunday," declared the girl. "'Tis like this: I'm

going to Lydford to spend the day along with the Weekes family. And

Jarratt Weekes be going to ax me to marry him."

Dan's eyes grew round.

"Good Lord!" he said, with surprise and reverence mingled.

"That's what the man's going to do, if I know him. 'Tis all planned

out in his mind. I could most tell the words he'm going to say it

in--knowing him so well as I do."

A natural question leapt to Brendon's lips, but he restrained it. He

wanted to ask, "And shall you take him?" but resisted the burning

temptation. This news, however, was a source of very active

disquiet. He drank his tea, and was glad when Gregory Friend broke

the silence.

"And you'll do well to think twice afore you say 'yes,' Sarah Jane.

A successful and a church-going man. A good son, I believe, and

honest--as honesty goes in towns. But----"

"I'd never get a husband if I waited for you to find one, faither."

"Perhaps not. Good husbands are just as rare as good wives."

"Then--then perhaps Sunday after----?" persisted Brendon, whose mind

had not wandered far from the mam proposition.

"Perhaps," answered Sarah Jane. "You'm burning to hear tell what I

shall say to the castle-keeper--ban't 'e now?"

"Who wouldn't be--such a fateful thing! But I know my manners better

than to ax, I hope."

"I don't know what I'm going to say," declared she. "D'you know

Jarratt Weekes?"

"No, I don't."

"Does anybody to Ruddyford?"

"Most of 'em know him."

"What do they say about him?"

Brendon hesitated.

"Can't answer that: wouldn't be fair to the man."

"You have answered it!" she said, and laughed.

A moment later he took his leave and strode slowly over the hills.

So absorbed was he, that he did not watch his way, and presently

tripped and fell. The accident cleared his mind.

"This be a new thing in me," he thought. "That blessed, lovely she's

bewitched me, if I know myself! She'll take the man, no doubt. And

yet--why? Such a face as that might look as high as a farmer at the

lowest."

CHAPTER VII

PLAIN SPEAKING

A peace of unusual duration brooded over the dwelling of Philip

Weekes; for his wife had gone to market on Saturday morning, but

instead of returning home, according to her custom, in time for

Sunday dinner at Lydford, she continued at Plymouth until the evening.

He basked in silence like a cat in the sun; but a few friends were

coming to drink tea, and Susan already made preparations for the

event.

Elsewhere, Sarah Jane, who was spending the day at Lydford, sat in a

secret place with Jarratt Weekes and heard the things that she

expected to hear.

The old castle was not opened to visitors on Sunday, but Jarratt kept

the keys, and, after dinner, took Sarah to his fortress and offered

her marriage within its mediæval walls. She wore her blue dress; he

held himself a grade above those men who habitually don black upon

the seventh day, and was attired in a mustard-coloured tweed suit.

"We'll come aloft," he said. "There's a window opens to the west,

and I've put a seat there for visitors to sit in and look around.

'Tis out of sight of the street, and will shield you from the east

wind that's blowing."

He offered to assist her up the wooden stairway, but she made as

though she did not see and followed him easily.

Presently they sat together, and he sighed and twirled his gold

watch-chain in a fashion to catch her eye. She noted his well-shaped

and strong hand.

"I dare say you think I'm a happy man, Sarah Jane," he began abruptly.

"I don't think anything about you," she answered; "but all the same,

you ought to be. Why not? Everything goes well with you, don't it?

Mr. Huggins met me in the village as I came along. He says that

you've bought Widow Routleigh's beautiful house at the corner, and

only wait for her to die to go into it. And the new leat will run

right through the orchard."

"So it will. But don't think that was a chance. I worked it all out

and knew the water must come that way. I'd bought the ground, at my

own price, before the old woman even guessed the water was coming. I

say this to show you how far I look ahead."

"Of course you do--like Mrs. Weekes. You've got her great

cleverness, no doubt."

"That's true, and I could give you many instances if you wanted them.

But, all the same, there's much worth having that money won't buy.

Ban't the root of all good, as some think, any more than 'tis the

root of all evil, as other fools pretend--chiefly them as lack it.

Money's all right, but not all-powerful. You, for instance--I know

you well enough to know that money don't count for everything with

you."

Sarah Jane plucked a spray of sweet wormwood that grew out of the

wall within reach of her hand. She bruised it and passed its pale

gold and silver thoughtfully under her nose.

"I'd dearly like to have money," she said.

"You would?"

"Dearly. I'd sooner have a hoss of my own to ride than most anything

I can think of."

"A very fine idea, no doubt. And very fine you'd look upon one."

She smelt the wormwood, then flung it through the window and turned

to him.

"But I wouldn't sell myself for that. I've never thought out the

subject of money, and maybe never shall. Faither's always on about

it; but 'tis only a sort of shadowy fancy in his mind, like the next

world, or China, or any other place beyond his knowledge. Money's

just a big idea to him and me. But I doubt if we had it, whether we

should know how ever to manage it."

"Your father's no better than a wild man," said Jarratt impatiently.

"So full of foggy hopes and opinions--nought practical about any of

'em. Now I'm nothing if not practical; and more are you. 'Tis that

I've felt about you ever since you was wife-old. But what d'you

think of me? People have an idea nobody could make much cash in a

place the size of Lydford. Let 'em think so. But I tell you, Sarah

Jane, that 'tis often the smallest stream holds the biggest trout.

And I tell you another thing: I love you with all my heart and soul.

There's nobody like you in the world. You're a rare woman, an'

pretty as a picture to begin with; but that ban't all. You've got

what's more than good looks, and wears better, and helps a busy man

on his way. You'd not hinder a husband, but back him up with all

your strength. Never was a body with less nonsense about her. In

fact, I've been almost frightened sometimes, to think how awful

little nonsense there is about your nature--for so young a woman. It

comes of living up-along wi' nought but natural things for company.

There's no lightness nor laughter up there."

He stopped for breath; but she did not speak. Then he proceeded.

"Not that I blame you for being so plain-spoken. 'Tis often the best

way of all, an' saves a deal of precious time. And time's money.

You only want a little more experience of the ways of people, to

shine like a star among common women, who sail with the wind and

always say what they think you'll best like to hear. But that's

nought. The thing I want to say is that I love you, Sarah Jane, and

there's nothing in life I'd like better than to make a beautiful home

for you, with every comfort that my purse can afford in it. And a

horse you certainly shall have; an' I'll teach you how to ride him.

You're a thought too large for a pony, but a good upstanding cob--and

a pleasant sight 'twould be."

"Nobody could say fairer, I'm sure."

"Then will you have me? I'm not good enough, or anywheres near it.

Still, as men go, in these parts, you might do worse--eh?"

"A lot worse. What does your mother think about it?"

"She would sooner I married you than anybody--'if I must marry at

all.' That was her view."

"Why marry at all, Jarratt Weekes? Ban't you very comfortable as you

are?"

"Not a very loverly question," he said, somewhat ruefully. "I'm

afraid you don't care much about me, Sarah Jane."

"I don't like your eyes," she answered. "I like the rest of you very

well. And, after all's said, you can't help 'em."

"There 'tis!" he exclaimed, half in admiration, half in annoyance.

"What girl on God's earth but you would say a thing like that to a

man that's offering marriage to her? To quarrel with my eyes be a

foolish trick all the same. You might so well blame my hair, or my

ears, or my hands."

"Your hand is a fine, strong-shaped sort of hand."

"Take it then," he cried, "and keep it; an' give me yours. Let me

run my life for you evermore; and for your good and for your

betterment. I'm tired of running it for myself. I never knew how

empty a man's life can be--not till I met you; and there's the

cottage, crawled over with honeysuckle, and the swallows' nests under

the eaves, and the lovely orchard and all! All waiting your good

pleasure, Sarah Jane, the moment that old woman drops."

"I don't reckon I could marry you--such a lot goes to it. Still,

I'll be fair to you and take a bit of time to think it over."

"You've got two strings to your bow, of course--like all you pretty

women?"

"No, I haven't. Yet--well, there's a man I've seen a few times

lately. And I do take to him something wonderful. There's that

about him I've never felt in no other man. Only, so far as I know,

he don't care a button for me. He may be tokened, come to think of

it. I never heard him say he wasn't. I never thought of that!"

She sat quite absorbed by this sudden possibility, while Jarratt

Weekes stared angrily at her.

"You'll puzzle me to my dying day," he growled. "If any other female

could talk such things, we'd say it was terrible unmaidenly in her;

but you--naked truth's indecent in most mouths--it seems natural to

yours. Not that I like you the better for it."

"He's a huge man, and works at Ruddyford. He's been drawing peat

these last few days, and I've had speech with him, an' gived him

cider thrice. To see him drink!"

"Damn him and his cider!" said Weekes, irritably. "A common

labourer! You really ought to pride yourself a thought higher, Sarah

Jane. What would your poor mother have said?"

"She done exactly the same herself. And a prettier woman far than me

when she was young. For faither's often told me so. He's raised

himself since he was married. So might this chap. All the same, I

don't know whether he gives me a thought when I'm out of his sight."

"I think of nought but you--all day long."

"And widows' houses, and a few other things! Of course you do. You

haven't got up in the world by wasting your time."

"Say 'yes,' and be done with it, Sarah."

"I'll leave it for a round month, then I'll tell you."

"You'll leave it--just to see what this hulking lout on the Moor may

do."

"Yes. But he's not a lout. I'm certainly not going to take you till

I know if he cares for me. If he does, I'll have him, for he's made

me feel very queer--so queer that it can't be anything but love. And

if he don't ax inside six weeks, I'll take you."

"You're the sort to go and tell him to ask you," he said, bitterly.

"No, no! I won't do that. I'm a very modest woman really, though

you don't seem to think so. I'll not run after him."

"You're mad to dream of such a thing."

"Very likely; but there 'tis. Now us had better go back-along. I

promised Mr. Weekes to pour out tea for him this evening afore I went

home."

"I'll walk back with you."

"No need. Father's going to meet me on the old tram-line. He's down

to Lake to-day."

They returned to the cottage of Philip Weekes, and found the company

assembled.

There were present a very ancient, wrinkled man with a thin, white

beard, called Valentine Huggins. As happens sometimes, he had

out-lived his Christian name, and an appellation, proper to youth,

seemed so ridiculous applied to a veteran of fourscore that nobody

ever called him by it but one or two of his own generation, who did

not mark the humour. Mr. Huggins was the oldest inhabitant of

Lydford, and could count numerous grandchildren, though his own sons

and daughters were nearly all dead. Adam Churchward, the

schoolmaster, and his daughter Mary completed the gathering. He was

large, hairless, ponderous, and flatulent; she nearly approached

beauty, but her mouth was thin, and her voice served to diminish the

pleasure given by her bright, dark face. The tone of it sounded

harsh and rough, and when she spoke two little deep lines at their

corners increased the asperity of her lips.

"I suppose we may say, in the words of the harvest hymn, that 'all is

safely gathered in,'" remarked Mr. Churchward, as he drank his tea.

"A good harvest, the work-folk tell me--or, rather, their children."

He lifted his protuberant, short-sighted and rather silly eyes

upward, to the conventional angle of piety.

"A very good harvest, I believe," admitted Philip, "and good all

round--so the missis brought word from market last week."

"I trust the operations of sale and barter have been all that you

could wish," added Mr. Churchward.

"Nothing to grumble at--very good markets," declared Philip, "though

my partner never will admit it. Still, figures speak, and though she

may pretend to lose her temper, I always know. Her pretences ban't

like the real thing."

"No pretence about it when Aunt Hepsy's in a right-down tantara of a

rage," said Susan.

"An unusual name--a Scriptural name," remarked the schoolmaster.

"Has the significance of the name of 'Hephzibah' ever struck your

mind, neighbour? It means, 'my delight is in her.'"

"So I've been told," answered the husband, drily. Indeed, his tone

silenced the other, and, perceiving that he had apparently struck a

wrong note of suggestiveness, Philip made haste to speak again.

"Nobody ever had a more suitable name, I'm sure. This house wouldn't

be this house without her."

Jarratt Weekes and Sarah Jane now returned, and the subject was

dropped by implicit understanding.

"I hope your great son, William, be well," said Sarah to the

schoolmaster.

"Very well indeed, I thank you," he answered. "I could wish he had a

little of his parent's zeal for toil, but he lacks it."

"Why for did he give up his shop work?" she asked.

"To be honest, it was rather undignified. For my son to fill that

position was not quite respectful to me. He insisted upon it, but

after a time, as I expected, found the duties irksome. I was not

sorry when he changed his mind and returned to his painting."

"All the same, he's eating his head off now," said Mary Churchward.

"I shouldn't say that," declared William's father. "He helps me with

the elder scholars. I have little doubt that some outlet for his

artistic energies may soon be forthcoming. He has even an idea of

going abroad."

"Do they still call him the 'Infant'?" asked Mr. Weekes.

"I believe so. How time flies with those who work as we do! _Tempus

fugit_, I'm sure. It seems only yesterday that he was really an

infant. In these arms the physician placed him some hours after his

birth, with the remark that never had he introduced a fatter boy into

the world."

"So I've heard you say," answered the huckster. "Give Mary another

cup of tea, please, Sarah Jane."

"Yes," continued Mr. Churchward. "At first I had reason to believe

that William would develop very unusual intellects. His childhood

was rich in evidences of a precocious mind. But it seemed, in the

race between brain and body, that after a struggle the physical being

out-distanced the mental spirit. If I am becoming too subtle, stop

me. But you may have observed that men above six feet high are

seldom brilliantly intelligent."

"I know a chap who is, however," said Sarah Jane. "A young man

bigger than your son, Mr. Churchward, but a very great thinker in his

way--so my father says."

Mr. Churchward raised his eyebrows incredulously, and at the same

moment bowed.

"Bill's sharp enough, and father knows it," said Mary Churchward.

"He's horrid lazy; that's all that's the matter with him. If he had

to work, 'twould be a very good thing for him."

"The questions that child used to ask me!" continued Adam. "Why, I

believe it is allowed that I can reply to most people--am I right,

Huggins?"

"Never yet knowed you to be floored," replied Mr. Huggins, in an aged

treble. "There's the guts of a whole libr'y of books packed behind

your gert yellow forehead, schoolmaster."

"Thank you, Huggins," said Mr. Churchward, with dignity. "Thank you.

Truth has always been your guiding star since I have known you, and

though your words are homely, they come from the heart. Pass me the

sally-lunns, Susan, and I'll tell you a good thing Will said when he

was no more than seven years old."

Mr. Churchward selected a cake, nibbled it, then waved it.

"Stop me if I have narrated this narrative before. I was giving the

child a lesson in divinity. Indeed, at one time I had thoughts of

the calling for him, but his mind took another turn."

"He don't believe in nothing now--nothing at all," said Mary, "except

himself."

"You wrong him there. He is a Christian at heart, if I am any

student of character. But as a child, he indulged in curious doubts.

'God made all things, I suppose, father?' he asked me on the occasion

I speak of. 'Yes, my little man, He did indeed,' I answered. 'He

made hell then?' he asked. 'Surely,' I admitted. 'Was it for Mr.

Satan and his friends, so that they would all be comfy together?' he

asked. 'No doubt that they should be together; but far from

"comfy,"' I replied; 'and take good care, my child, that it shall

never be said of you that you are one of those friends.' Now is not

that a remarkable instance of juvenile penetration?"

"An' very good answers you made the nipper, I'm sure," said Mr.

Weekes.

Here Jarratt changed the subject abruptly, and conversation ranged

over matters more generally interesting than the schoolmaster's son.

"The water will be into Lydford come June next or a little later,

they tell me," said the keeper of the castle. "I was showing the

head engineer over the ruin last week--for all the times he'd been

here he'd never seen it--and there's no doubt at all that the work

will be done by next spring."

"Then I must begin to think of our preparations," answered Adam.

"You may be aware that I am responsible for the idea that something

of an exceptional nature shall be carried out to mark the arrival of

the water. I mentioned it to the vicar two or three months ago, and

he--well, if I may say so, he showed a coldness."

"Always is cold unless he thinks of a thing himself," said Jarratt.

"I'm afraid you have hit off his character in a nutshell. However, I

am not to be shaken where I think the good of Lydford is concerned.

'It's a year too soon to begin thinking of it,' said the vicar to me;

but I explained that these things must be taken in time and carefully

thought out. 'Do it yourself then, since you're so set upon it,' he

said. 'Then you'll have no objection to my proceeding in the matter,

your reverence?' I asked, 'for I should like everything _ex cathedrâ_

and in order.' 'Oh, do what you like, only don't let it be anything

ridiculous,' he answered, in his unkind, off-hand style. 'I'm not

the man to bring ridicule on Lydford or myself, I believe,' I

replied, in my haughty way."

"Had him there," chuckled Mr. Huggins.

"And with that I just bowed myself out."

"Us'll do it without troubling him, then," declared Philip Weekes.

"The matter's very safe in your hands, neighbour."

"I think it is. Without self-praise--a thing I have never been

accused of--I think it is. My own idea is matured, but I am quite

prepared to hear that a better one is forthcoming."

"You should call a meeting and have a committee," suggested Jarratt.

"My idea was to have the committee without the meeting. For

instance--we here assembled--why can't we elect a committee?"

"'Twill be too hole-and-corner," said Jarratt.

"Not at all, not at all. This is neither a hole nor yet a corner,

but the house of one of the burgesses of Lydford. We represent

various interests. I stand _in propriâ personâ_ for advancement and

intellectual attainments, and the arts and sciences, and such-like;

Jarratt Weekes is for business and mercantile pursuits and commerce;

Mr. Huggins--well, he's the oldest inhabitant. 'Twould be a very

right and proper thing to have him on the committee."

"Should like nothing better, souls," declared Mr. Huggins. "Talk I

won't, but there must be some to listen."

"We ought to have a few more--seven or eight in all," said the

younger Weekes. "Then we'll get through a scheme of some sort and

hear what you've got to say, schoolmaster."

"The vicar will be very like to put his spoke in it if your ideas

don't meet his views," suggested Philip, and Mr. Churchward's large

pendulous cheeks flushed a delicate pink at the idea.

"I'm sorry to hear you say that. I hope you're wrong. He gave me a

free hand, remember."

Presently the company separated. Mr. Huggins was going by Sarah

Jane's way, and he walked beside her; the Churchwards went to evening

worship; Jarratt disappeared with his own anxious heart; and Mr.

Weekes, hiding all evidence of inward thought, harnessed his pony and

drove off to Lydford, to meet the train which was bringing his wife

and her baskets home from Plymouth.

CHAPTER VIII

A REPRIMAND

Now Nature thundered the hymn of the autumnal equinox; ancient trees

waved their last before it; men told of a cloudburst, at midnight,

over the central Moor. Every river roared in freshet; the springs

overflowed and rolled down the grassy hills, where, in summer, no

water was; cherry-coloured torrents, under banks of yellow spume,

tumbled into the valleys; storm followed upon storm, and the fall of

the year came in no peaceful guise, but like a ruthless army. Not

until the epact did peace brood again, and fiery dawns, pallid noons

and frosty nights gave the great waste sleeping into the hand of

winter.

Daniel Brendon settled to his work, and personal regrets that his

position should be so unimportant were thrust to the back of his mind

for the present by a greater matter. He was in love with Sarah Jane

Friend, and knew it. To him fell the task of drawing peat with horse

and cart from Amicombe Hill, and his journeys offered not a few

opportunities of meeting with the woman. Once at her home, once in

the peat works, he spoke with her. On the latter occasion she had

just taken her father's dinner to him, and after Gregory was settled

with the contents of a tin can and a little basket, Sarah proposed to

Daniel that she should show him certain secret places in this ruin.

The peat works had been her playground as a child, and she knew every

hole and corner of them; but since silence and failure had made the

place a home, Sarah chose rather to shun it. The very buildings

scowled, where they huddled together and cringed to Time to spare

them. She noted this, and felt that the place was mean and horrible,

but with Dan beside her, ancient interests wakened, and she took him

to see her haunts.

"I had a dear little cubby hole here," she said, and showed him a

great empty drum, from which one side had fallen.

"This used to be filled with peat and be set spinning, so that the

stuff should get broke up and dried," she explained; "but now 'tis as

you see. I've often crept in there and gone to sleep by the hour.

'Tis full of dried heather. An old man that used to work with father

spread it for me five years ago. He's dead, but the heather's there

yet."

There was ample room within the huge drum even for Brendon. They sat

together for a while, and ever afterwards in his thought the place

was consecrated to Sarah Jane. He believed that she liked him, but

her fearless attitude and outspoken methods with men and women made

him distrustful. So weeks passed, and he gradually grew to know her

better. After the Sunday at Lydford he went in fear and trembling,

but she said nothing about the matter, and when he asked Mr. Friend

behind her back whether indeed his daughter was engaged, the

peat-master told him that it was not so.

"As became her father, I axed her," he said, "an' in her usual style

she told me all about it. Jarratt Weekes offered to wed, and set out

his high prospects in a very gentlemanlike manner; but she said

neither 'yea' nor 'nay' to him. I axed her why not, seeing as she've

a great gift of making up her mind most times--more like a man than a

woman in that respect. But she said for once that she wasn't sure of

herself. She'll see him again in a month or so, and then he'll have

his answer."

"Thank you, I'm sure; it's very impertinent of me presuming to ask,"

said Daniel, "but, to be plain with you, Mr. Weekes, I'm terrible

interested."

"So am I," answered the father. "She's a lovely piece--even I see

that. But it ban't a case where a parent will do any good. She'll

take her own line, and want none to help her decide. If she was to

go, I don't think I should bide here."

"Would you tear yourself away from the works?"

"Go from the works! Not likely. But I should leave Dunnagoat

Cottage and live up there."

"Good powers! You wouldn't do that?"

"Why for not? Ban't no ghosts there?"

Daniel shrugged his shoulders.

"Your darter won't let you do it," he said.

With a full mind, the labourer pursued his days. How to speak and

tell her that he loved her was the problem. He tried to fortify

himself by reviewing his own prospects, but they lent no brightness

at this moment. He had fifty pounds saved, and was getting

five-and-twenty shillings a week--unusually good wages--but the

authority he desired seemed no nearer. Strange thoughts passed

through his brain, and he referred them to the powers in which he

trusted.

"What's God up to with me now, I wonder?" he asked himself. The

words were flippant, but the spirit in which he conceived them

profoundly reverent. The suspense and tension of the time made him

rather poor company for Agg, Lethbridge, and the widowed Joe Tapson.

Indeed, between himself and the last there had risen a cloud.

Brendon was dictatorial in matters of farm procedure, and by force of

character won imperceptibly a little of the control he wanted. His

love for work assisted him; not seldom he finished another's labour,

simply because he enjoyed the task and knew that he could perform it

better than his companion. Agg and Lethbridge were easy men, and

Daniel's hunger for toil caused them no anxiety. They let him assume

an attitude above them, and often asked him for help and advice; but

Tapson, on the other hand, developed a very jealous spirit. He was

ignorant and exceedingly obstinate. He had always regarded himself

as second in command, under Mr. Prout, and to find this modest

responsibility swept from him became a source of great annoyance.

Twice he ventured to command Daniel, and once the new man obeyed,

because he approved Tapson's idea; but on the second occasion he

happened to be in a bad temper, and told Joe to mind his own business

and not order his betters about. The rebuff rankled in the elder's

bosom, and he puzzled long what course to pursue. Agg and Lethbridge

were no comfort to him. Indeed, both laughed at the widower's

concern.

"You silly old mumphead," said the genial Walter Agg; "what be you

grizzling at? Any man's welcome to order me about, so long as he'll

do my work for me."

"That's sound sense, an' my view to a hair," he declared. "The

chap's got strength for five men--then let him do the work, since

he's so blessed fond of it. He's a very fine man, an' my master any

day of the week, though he don't get much better money. For my part

I think he ought to, and I told him so; an' he was so blessed pleased

to hear me say it, that he shifted two tons of muck, which was my

job, while I looked on, like a gentleman, till master come into the

yard!"

Agg roared with laughter. His laugh echoed against the stone walls

of the farm, and Hilary Woodrow liked to hear it.

"Right you are, fatty! Dan's a very good sort, and long may be bide

here."

"You be lazy hounds, and not worth a pin, the pair of you," answered

the little man with the goat's beard. "But I'll not stand none of

his high-handedness. Next time I orders him about and he pretends he

don't hear, I'll have him up afore Mr. Woodrow."

"More fool you, Joe," replied Agg.

But Mr. Tapson's intention was not fulfilled, for the matter took a

sensational turn, and when he did carry his tribulations to

head-quarters, they were of a colour more grave than he expected.

On a day in late November Tapson was leading a cart piled with giant

swedes through one of the lowest meadows of the farm. The mighty

roots faded from white to purple, and drooping, glaucous foliage hung

about their crowns. Following the cart, or straggling behind it to

gnaw the turnips as he scattered them, came fifty breeding ewes.

There was a crisp sound of fat roots being munched by the sheep. The

air hung heavy, and the day was grey and mild. Looking up, the

labourer saw Daniel Brendon approaching.

"Now for it!" thought Mr. Tapson, and his lips framed an order.

"I'll tell the man to go and fetch me a fork from the byre."

He was about to do so, when Brendon himself shouted from a distance

of fifty yards, and, to Tapson's amazement, he found himself

commanded.

"Get down out of thic cart an' lend a hand here, Joe. I want 'e!"

Every line of the widower's brown face wrinkled into wrath. His very

beard bristled. He growled to himself, and his solitary eye blazed.

"You want me, do 'e?" he shouted. "You'll be ordering up the Queen

of England next, I suppose?"

"Don't be a fool, and come here, quick."

Mr. Tapson permitted himself a vulgar gesture. Then, chattering and

snorting like an angry monkey, he continued to throw swedes upon the

meadow. Brendon hesitated and approached. As he did so the widower

remembered his own intention.

"You go and get me a fork from the byre; that's what I tell you to

do--so now then!" he said, as Daniel arrived.

It happened that the big man was not in a good temper. Private

anxieties fretted him exceedingly. His way was obscure. He had

prayed to be shown a right course with respect to Sarah Jane, yet

there dawned no definite idea. He loved her furiously, and half

suspected that she liked him, but the miserable uncertainty and

suspense of the time weighed upon him, so that his neighbours shook

their heads behind his back and deplored his harshness.

"Be you going to do my bidding, or ban't you, Joe Tapson?" inquired

Daniel.

"Not me, you overbearing peacock! Who be you, I should like to know,

to tell me I'm to stir foot? Prout's the only man above me on this

farm."

Brendon considered. He was about to express regret that he had hurt

Mr. Tapson's feelings, but Joe spoke again, and the listener changed

his mind.

"You'm a gert bully, like all you over-growed men. Good God

A'mighty! because I had bad luck with my wife, and was very

down-trodden in my youth, and lost an eye among other misfortunes, be

that any reason why the first bull of Bashan as comes along should

order me about as if I was the dirt under his feet? Never was such a

thing heard of! You'm here to work, I believe, not to talk an' give

yourself silly airs."

"If that's your opinion us had best go to master," said Daniel.

"This instant moment, and the sooner the better!" answered the other.

He took his horse and cart to the gate, hitched the reins there, and

walked beside Brendon into the farmyard. Neither spoke until it

happened that Hilary Woodrow met them. He was just going out riding,

and Agg stood by with a handsome brown mare.

Daniel and Joe both began to speak together. Then the master of

Ruddyford silenced them, sent Agg out of earshot, and bade Joe tell

his tale.

"'Tis which he should betwixt me and this man here," began the elder.

"Be he to order me about, like a lost dog, or be I set in authority

over him? That's all I want to know, your honour. Agg and

Lethbridge do let him do it, but I won't; I'll defy him to his

face--a wise man, up home sixty year old, like me! 'Tis a disgrace

to nature as I should go under him--as have forgot more than this

here man ever knowed, for all his vainglorious opinions!"

Woodrow nodded.

"That'll do for you, Joe. Now go about your business. I'll speak to

Brendon."

Tapson touched his forehead and withdrew reluctantly. He had hoped

to hear his enemy roughly handled; he had trusted to gather from his

master's lips a word or two that might be remembered and used with

effect on some future occasion. But it was not to be. He returned

to the swedes, and only learnt the issue some hours afterwards from

Daniel himself.

Unluckily for Brendon, Woodrow also was not in a pleasant mood this

morning. He suffered from general debility, for which there was no

particular course, and to-day rheumatism had returned, and was giving

him some pain in the chest and shoulders. He rode now to see his

medical man, and felt in no mood for large sympathy or patience.

"A few words will meet this matter," he said. "When you came here I

told you that the sheep-dogs would be expected to obey you, and

nobody else."

"Can't we ax each other to----?"

"Be silent till I have spoken. You're too fond of raising your voice

and pointing your hand. Do your work with less noise. In this farm

Prout's head man, and Tapson comes under him. With sane people

there's no question of authority at all. All work together for the

good of the place, and all are well paid for their trouble. But,

since you seem so anxious to command, let me tell you that I won't

have it. You're the last to come, and you're the least among us.

You do your work well enough, and I've no personal fault to find; nor

yet has Prout; but if you're going to be too big for your shoes, the

quicker we part the better for both of us."

Brendon grew hot; then Sarah Jane filled his mind, and he cooled

again. He made a mighty effort and controlled his temper. He was

not cowed, but spoke civilly and temperately. Woodrow himself had

kept perfectly cool, and his example helped the labourer.

"Thank you, sir," said Dan. "I see quite clear now. I should be

very sorry indeed to leave you, and I'm very wishful to please you.

You shan't have nothing to grumble at again."

"That's a good fellow. Don't think I'm blind, or so wrapt up in my

affairs that I don't watch what's doing. You hear Tapson say all

sorts of things about me, for he's not very fond of me, though he

pretends to be. But trust Prout before the others. He knows me.

I'm not a godless man, and all the rest of that rot. Only I mind my

own business, and don't wear my heart on my sleeve. I'm ill to-day,

or perhaps I should not have spoken so sharply. Still, I take back

nothing. Now tell Agg to bring my horse to the uppingstock. Lord

knows how I shall mount, for my shoulders are one ache."

"I'll help you, please," said Daniel; and a moment later he assisted

Hilary Woodrow into the saddle. The farmer thanked him, groaned,

then walked his horse quietly away.

Agg looked after his master.

"Was he short with 'e? Us have to keep our weather eyes lifting when

he's sick."

"Not at all," answered Brendon. "He only told me a thing or two I'd

forgotten."

"Ban't much you forget, I reckon," answered the red man. Then he

went his way, and Brendon returned to his work and his reflections.

He felt no anger at this reprimand. He was surprised with himself to

find how placid he remained under it. But he knew the reason. His

subordinate position was as nothing weighed against the possibility

of leaving Sarah Jane. He quickly came to a conclusion with himself,

and determined, at any cost of disappointment, to speak to her and

ask her to marry him. If she refused, he would quit Ruddyford; if

she accepted him, he would stay there--for the present. His mind

became much quieted upon this decision, and he found leisure to

reflect concerning his master. Woodrow had been curiously

communicative at the recent interview, and his confession concerning

himself interested his man. From Daniel's point of view the farmer's

life was godless, for he never obeyed any outward regulations, and

openly declared himself of no Christian persuasion. Yet his days

were well ordered, and he neither openly erred nor offended anybody.

Brendon wondered upon what foundation Mr. Woodrow based his scheme of

conduct, and whither he looked for help and counsel. That man can

trust reason to sustain his footsteps he knew not; and, indeed, at

that date, to find one of Woodrow's education and breeding strongly

sceptical of mind was a phenomenon. Such, however, had been his

bent, and, like many others who turn strongly by instinct from all

dogmas, the farmer yet found ethics an attractive subject, and

sharpened his intellect daily with such books as upheld reason

against faith. He was self-conscious concerning his unorthodox

opinions, but secretly felt proud of them. Fifty years ago, to be

agnostic was to be without the pale. None trusted Woodrow, and

religious-minded folk resented his existence. The local clergymen

would not know him. Perhaps only one man, John Prout, stood stoutly

for him in the face of all people, and declared that he could do no

wrong.

That night Brendon smoked his pipe in a cart-shed and spoke to Mr.

Tapson.

"I'm sorry I ordered you to come to me, Joe," he said, "and I'm

sorrier still that I didn't get the fork when you told me to do it.

Master's made all clear to me. Prout's head man and you're

second--so there it stands; and you shan't have no call to find fault

again."

"Enough said," answered the other. "Us must all stand up for

ourselves in this world, Brendon, because there's nobody else to do

it. Therefore I up and spoke. But I'm very desirous to be friends,

and I know your good parts."

"So be it then," answered Daniel.

CHAPTER IX

THE COMMITTEE MEETS

Mr. Churchward found some difficulty in arranging a representative

committee to consider the water leat celebrations. Many refused to

join him--among others Woodrow. To the master of Ruddyford he wrote,

in his expansive way, and begged that he would "represent the

outlying agricultural interests"; but Hilary declined, and John Prout

consented to fill his place.

"'Tis all smoke and wind, no doubt, but 'twill please the man," he

said.

There met together at the schoolmaster's house Jarratt Weekes, old

Valentine Huggins, Noah Pearn--the landlord of the Castle Inn--John

Prout, and two others--men of repute in Lydford. They were the

miller, Jacob Taverner, and the postmaster, a weak and pink-eyed

person, called Nathaniel Spry. Him Mr. Churchward regarded as a

satellite, and patronized in a manner at once unctuous and august.

Weekes opened the proceedings while the men were getting out of their

coats.

"Is Squire Calmady coming?" he asked.

"I regret to say that he is not," answered the schoolmaster. "I

approached him _in propriâ personâ_ by letter, and he replied that

the meeting would be very safe in our hands. I hope you all think

the same. Anyhow, we have paid him the compliment; we can do no

more."

"There's no gentlefolks on the committee, then?"

Mr. Taverner, who was a stout radical, and saturated with class

prejudice, resented this suggestion.

"Gentle or not gentle, Jarratt Weekes, we are all pretty solid men,

and know how to behave, I believe."

"I vote Mr. Churchward into the chair, neighbours," said the

postmaster. "Then we shall have wisdom over the committee."

Adam bridled, but held up his hand in a deprecating manner.

"I want no power--nothing of the sort. I'm only your servant in this

matter. But since somebody must--in fact, I leave myself in your

hands."

"'Tis your own house, so you'd better take the lead, and I'll second

the motion," declared John Prout.

"Shall us smoke, or would it be out of order?" asked the landlord of

the Castle Inn.

Spry looked imploringly at the schoolmaster. He hated the smell of

tobacco, and suffered from a nervous cough. But Mr. Churchward liked

his pipe as well as smaller men, and he declared for smoke.

"I've a new box of 'churchwardens' in this drawer," he said. "I beg

the committee will make free with them. Now--but where's Mr.

Norseman? Speaking the word 'churchwarden' reminded me of him. We

want him to complete the committee."

The official in question almost immediately joined them. Henry

Norseman was a swarthy, black-bearded, sanctimonious man, the factor

of important estates, and churchwarden of the people.

They sat round the table that Mr. Churchward had cleared for them.

Pens and paper were arranged upon it, and the box of clay pipes stood

in the midst. A fire burnt on the hearth, and two oil lamps gave

light.

"'Tis a very comfortable committee, I'm sure," said Mr. Huggins,

stretching for a tobacco pipe, and bringing a flat metal box from his

trouser pocket to fill it.

Mr. Churchward opened the proceedings.

"What we have to decide is the sort of thing we are going to do the

day the water comes into Lydford. I have my idea, but I am quite

prepared to submit it _sub rosa_. If anybody has a better one, I

shall be the first to agree thereto. Now my notion is a public

holiday and a procession. This procession should start from the high

road and walk through Lydford down to Little Lydford, and back. At a

foot's pace 'twould take not above three hours."

"And I propose that the procession stops at the Castle Inn on the way

back," said Mr. Pearn.

"Why?" asked Jarratt Weekes, pointedly, and the publican bristled up.

"Why do people stop at an inn?" he asked, in his turn. "That's a

damn silly question, if ever I heard one."

"You're out of order," retorted Weekes. "Though, of course, we all

know very well your meaning."

Mr. Pearn lifted his chin very high.

"All right, all right!" he said. "What d'you want to open your mouth

so wide for? I suppose every man of this committee has a right to be

heard? And I suppose we've all got an axe to grind, else we

shouldn't be here?"

"You'll have your say in due course, Noah Pearn. Don't waste the

committee's time interrupting," said Mr. Prout.

But the landlord proceeded.

"I'm the last to want to waste anybody's time--know the value of time

too well. But this I will say, that I'll give a free lunch to fifty

people on the day--three courses, and hot joints with the first--if

'tis understood everyone pays for his own drinks. That's my offer;

take it or leave it. So now then!"

"I was going to say 'order'; but, since you submit a definite

proposal, I won't, Mr. Pearn. Well, that seems a patriotic

offer--eh, gentlemen?"

Mr. Churchward glanced about him and caught Mr. Henry Norseman's eye.

"We ought to vote on that," declared the churchwarden.

"I'm against liquor, as you know, and cannot support the idea, owing

to conscience."

"No good voting--I don't care what you vote, and I don't care for a

teetotaler's conscience. Take it or leave it. Free lunches for

fifty, and them as drinks pays for it," repeated Mr. Pearn.

"I advise the committee to accept that," said the miller Taverner.

"'Tis a public-spirited offer, and if Noah does well out of the beer,

why shouldn't he? In fact, I second it."

"Are we agreed?" asked Mr. Churchward, and all held up a hand but Mr.

Norseman. The publican resented his attitude as a personal slight.

"Don't you come to fill your belly with my free lunch, then--that's

all, for you won't be served," he said, furiously.

"Have no fear," answered the other. "I never support drink, and

never shall, Mr. Pearn."

"Order--order!" cried the chairman. "The free lunch is carried.

Now, neighbours, please hear me. The first thing to decide is, shall

we or shall we not have a procession? If any man can think of a

better idea, let him speak."

"Impossible," declared the postmaster. "You have hit on exactly the

right thing, Mr. Chairman. A procession is the highest invention the

human mind can ever reach on great occasions, and the most famous

events of the world, from ancient times downwards, are always marked

so. The bigger the affair, the longer the procession. History is

simply packed full of them."

"Hear, hear, Spry!" said Mr. Taverner. "And what the postmaster says

is true. 'Tis always a solemn sight to see men walking two by two,

whether they be worthies of the nation or mere convicts chained

together."

The committee, without a dissentient voice, agreed to a procession,

and Mr. Churchward was much gratified. He bowed from the chair.

"I'm very pleased to have been the humble instrument of expressing

your views in a word, gentlemen," he began. "And now arises the

question of the nature of the pageant."

"The Goose Club might walk, for one thing," suggested Mr. Prout.

"It shall," answered Pearn; "as the president of the Goose Club, I

can promise that."

"And I'll speak for the Ancient Dartymoor Druids--Lydford Branch,"

said Jacob Taverner. "But I won't promise the banner if the day be

wet. It cost three pounds, and wouldn't stand weather."

"That's very good to begin with, I'm sure," declared Mr. Churchward;

then old Huggins made his first contribution to the debate.

"Us must have brass moosic, souls. There's nought like

trumpets--they'll carry off anything. I mind when Jimmy Briggs was

buried there never was a poorer funeral--nought but five or six

humble creatures behind, and me an' a few other men to carry him.

But, just as we stopped to change hands, what should go by but a

four-hoss coach! And the guard didn't see us, and blowed a sudden

blast as would sartainly have made us drop the carpse if he hadn't

been on the ground for the moment. But there 'twas; it gave a great

grandeur to the scene, and comforted the mourners, like the Trump of

Doom."

"Brass music, of course," said Jarratt Weekes. "The Okehampton

Yeomanry band is very good, and their black and silver uniforms would

look fine in the show."

"They'll cost a pot of money; that's the worst of them," said the

postmaster.

"As to that, my dear Spry, we must, of course, approach the subject

in a large and hopeful spirit. When everything is arranged I shall

propose an appeal to the district. I have thought of this, too, and,

I consider, if we can collect thirty to forty pounds, that should

cover all expenses."

Mr. Churchward it was who spoke.

"You'll never get as much as that--or half of it," declared Weekes.

"What are you going to show 'em for the money?"

"That's the point. I propose----"

Mr. Taverner, who had been whispering with Mr. Pearn, interrupted.

"Excuse me if I'm not in order; but I beg to say that talking's dry

work, and I should like for to ask if we may send round to the

'Castle' for a quart or two?"

The chairman looked round him.

"Agreed," said Mr. Prout. "I second that."

"I've no objection in the world," declared Mr. Churchward.

"I should have suggested it myself," remarked Noah Pearn; "but for

obvious reasons, gentlemen, I couldn't."

They applauded his delicate feeling, and Adam spoke to Nathaniel Spry.

"If you walk across to the inn, Nat, you'll find my son in the bar

for certain," he said. "Just tell him to fetch over two quarts of

mild, and write it down to me; and put on your overcoat afore you go,

for the night is sharp."

"And I'll ask for a bottle of lemonade, if there's no objection,"

added Mr. Norseman.

The publican was mollified at this order, and while the others

talked, he turned to his former enemy.

"I hope you'll not think twice of what I said, and come to my free

lunch with the rest, Henry Norseman," he said.

The other nodded.

"Plenty of time, plenty of time," he answered.

"I can't sit cool and hear beer attacked," explained Mr. Pearn. "As

a man of reason, you must see that."

"Certainly, certainly. I'm not unreasonable--I'm large-minded even

over beer, I believe. If we must have it--poison though it is--let

us have it good."

"And the man who says he ever got bad beer at my house is a liar,"

concluded Mr. Pearn.

The schoolmaster rapped on the table and resumed the main discussion.

"Now as to this procession," he began. "We must have features. I

believe I am allowed some claim to be original in my ideas. Indeed,

I am too much so, and even in the scholastic line, find myself rather

ahead of the times. But with a procession, what can be better than

originality? Then I say we must have some impersonations--historic

characters--to walk in procession. They must be allegorical and

typical, and, in fact, emblematical."

He paused for breath just as Mr. Spry returned.

"William's going to bring the beer to the committee in five minutes,"

said he.

"You've missed some long words, postmaster," remarked Mr. Taverner.

"The chairman here have got a great thought for the procession.

'Twill be better than the riders,[1] if it can be done."

[1] _The Riders_, a circus.

"Allegorical, emblematical, _et hoc genus omne_," declared Mr.

Churchward, and mopped his forehead.

"Trust schoolmaster to make a regular, valiant revel of it," said Mr.

Huggins. "'Twill be very near as good as Wombwell's beast show, if

the committee only stands by Mr. Churchward to a man."

"Have you thought who the great characters should be?" asked Henry

Norseman doubtfully.

"I may have done so, churchwarden," answered the chairman; "but

that's for us in committee. We must argue upon it. I invite you all

to give your ideas; and what poor knowledge of history I may possess

is at your service."

"St. George for one," said Jarratt Weekes; and everybody looked at

Mr. Churchward.

He considered and nodded his head with gravity. The propriety of the

idea was obvious; but Adam disliked the younger Weekes and grudged

him credit.

"The patron Saint of England--eh? Well, there's no objection to him,

certainly," he said, but without enthusiasm; and Jarratt instantly

made his annoyance clear.

"Objection to St. George! Good God! I should think there wasn't any

objection to St. George! What next, I wonder? If St. George ban't

done, I'll leave the committee--so I tell you. You're glumpy because

you didn't think of the man yourself!"

"Order! order!" cried Mr. Churchward. "Far be it from me to cast any

slur on the name of St. George. But there are so many other notable

personages to consider; and as I am of opinion that we can hardly

manage more than five or six at the outside, I felt doubtful.

However, let us have St. George by all means. Those in favour of St.

George will kindly signify the same in the usual manner."

St. George was honoured with a unanimous vote. Then Mr. Huggins

piped in.

"And do let's have the old dragon, souls! St. Garge be nought

without un."

"The dragon! The dragon, Huggins?" asked Mr. Churchward. "That's

rather startling--and yet----"

"Certainly the dragon," said Mr. Prout firmly; "Valentine's right

there."

"'The Infant' might play dragon very nice," suggested Mr. Pearn.

"Not he--too fat," declared Jarratt Weekes brutally; and William

Churchward's father was a good deal hurt.

"My son is not too fat," he answered. "William may be stout; but I

imagine a prosperous dragon would be stout, for that matter. Wasn't

St. George's dragon prosperous before he met St. George, Mr. Spry?

You are pretty well up in the heathen mythology, I believe."

"Thank you for that kind word, schoolmaster," said Spry. "And he was

prosperous. 'Tis all a fable, but----"

At this moment William Churchward entered. He was a huge, burly,

thick-necked young man with a voice that surprised the ear. One

expected a solemn bass and heard a ridiculous treble. William had

bulbous, pale grey eyes like his father's, flabby chops and a small

mouth.

"There's your beer," he said. "Good Lord! you old blades be going it

seemingly."

"Would you play dragon, 'Infant,' and let St. Garge pretend to stick

his spear into 'e?" asked Mr. Huggins.

"Us be going to have a dragon in the procession--with St. George a

slaying of him, William," explained Mr. Prout.

"The 'Infant' will never let himself be slain, I'm afraid?" murmured

Nathaniel Spry in a questioning voice.

"You'll have to wear an outrageous tail, William, an' cover your gert

carcase in glittering scales," declared Jacob Taverner. "But I don't

think you ought to be allowed to roar, for you haven't got a dragon's

voice--to say it kindly."

"'Twill come down to play-acting in a minute," grumbled Mr. Norseman,

"and I don't hold with that, I warn the committee. If there's to be

any May games of that sort, I'll lay it afore the vicar."

William helped himself to a churchwarden from the box, and prepared

to depart.

"You'm a rare old rally," he said; "and all drunk a'ready, I should

think."

"You don't follow the course of the argument, my son," explained his

father. "However, I'll make it clear at another time. You mustn't

stop now, because we are in committee, and it would be irregular."

"Bless you nose, I don't want to stop!" replied William. Then he

made a mock bow and departed.

When he had gone, Mr. Spry, who was a peace-loving man, proposed that

they should drop the dragon. Pearn, Prout and Taverner, however,

held out for the monster loudly, and Mr. Huggins supported them.

"Better have a sub-committee to decide," sneered Jarratt Weekes; but

Mr. Churchward ignored his satire and put the question to the vote.

"Dragon romps home!" cried John Prout.

"St. George and the Dragon have passed the committee," announced Mr.

Churchward. "And now, gentlemen, perhaps you'll kindly help

yourselves."

There was an interval of clinking glasses and bubbling liquor. A

smell of beer permeated the chamber.

"All's going wonderful well," sighed Mr. Huggins. "I hope we haven't

nearly finished yet."

Presently the discussion was resumed.

"With your permission, I will now myself submit a character," said

the chairman, "and it is no less a solemn figure than the patriarch

Moses."

"Your reasons?" asked Jarratt Weekes sharply.

Mr. Churchward flushed, but was not disconcerted.

"Moses brought forth water from the rock. It would be symbolical and

religious to have him in the procession. We've brought forth water

from the rock. There you are--an allegory in fact."

"You couldn't have hit on a higher idea in history, schoolmaster,"

asserted Nathaniel Spry.

"There's no offence?" asked Mr. Norseman. "You're sure there's no

offence, schoolmaster? You know what his reverence is."

"I do," answered the chairman. "And I also know what I am. I

believe that, when it comes to decorum, Mr. Norseman, I am generally

allowed to be _facile princeps_. If I am wrong I hope somebody will

correct me."

Jarratt Weekes uttered a contemptuous sound into his glass as he

drained it; then old Huggins spoke.

His voice was tremulous, and he evidently laboured under great

suppressed excitement.

"I do beg and pray of the committee as you'll let me be Moses, souls!

I'm old enough--up home fourscore to a week--just the man's age when

he denied and defied King Pharaoh. An' my beard's a regular Moses

beard; an' I'm accounted wise to the eye, so long as I keep my mouth

shut. 'Twould be the first and last act of note that ever I should

do, an' a very fine thing to be handed down in my favour for my

grandchildren to remember."

There was an awkward silence. Mr. Prout and the schoolmaster

whispered aside, Mr. Norseman and Mr. Taverner shook their heads.

"Let him--let the old blid do it," said John Prout under his breath.

"Might be a gracious act. He couldn't mar it, if he said nought."

Mr. Spry also whispered into the chairman's ear.

"Does he bear himself straight enough in the back? That's my fear.

And the stone tables--he'd droop to the ground under them."

Mr. Huggins pleaded again.

"I'd wear the holy horns on my brow and everything; and many a

married man would rather not. But 'tis nought to me."

"I had thought to write speeches in character for the emblematical

people, and perhaps some verses," said Churchward; whereupon the face

of the aged Huggins fell.

"Don't ax me to say nought," he begged. "Even as 'tis, if I walk as

Moses, I shall be sweating for fear under my sacred coat; and if I

had to tell a speech, I should disgrace myself and the company

without a doubt."

"I'm against speeches altogether," declared Jarratt Weekes; "and so's

Mr. Norseman here. We won't have no play-acting and no chattering of

silly verses."

Mr. Churchward glared at his foe, and Weekes glared back and poured

out more beer. The chairman thought of certain rhymes already in his

desk, and Mr. Spry, who knew of these rhymes, cast a timorous and

sympathetic eye at his gloomy friend.

"Schoolmaster's made some beautiful speeches, that nobody here could

mend, for he's been so very good as to let me read them," he said.

But the sense of the meeting was for a dumb show; Mr. Huggins had his

way and became self-conscious and nervous from that moment. Like

greater men, he won his ambition and lost his peace of mind for

evermore.

Sir Francis Drake, who brought water from Dartmoor to Plymouth, was

suggested by the postmaster and agreed upon with enthusiasm; then Mr.

Churchward proposed a Druid and Mr. Spry seconded, but Norseman

protested.

"No heathen--no heathen!" he said. "'Twould be a reproach and make

us a byword. Let's have St. Petrock--him that our church be named

after. He might travel side by side of Moses, and keep the show well

within Christianity."

"St. Petrock is good," declared Adam Churchward. "St. Petrock is a

thought worthy of you, Norseman. Spry and I will consult our books

about him. I second that, certainly."

The drink was done, and Mr. Pearn, aware that his part in the debate

had sunk to nothing, advanced an idea.

"Why for shouldn't us have a lady hero? How would it be, Mr.

Chairman, if Jezebel, Queen of Sheba, went among 'em?"

"Jezebel wasn't Queen of Sheba," answered several voices

simultaneously.

"Not?" exclaimed the publican. "There now! If I didn't always think

she was."

"You should read your Bible better, Noah Pearn," said Mr. Norseman;

"and I object to women displaying themselves in the show at all."

"Churchwarden's right: don't have no women," advised John Prout.

"They'm not fitted in their intellects to stand the strain of a

public procession without getting too overbearing. They'm better

kept under, in my opinion. You might lift up some comely maiden and

turn her head for all time by it."

"If we had a queen at all, it should be Queen Elizabeth," said Mr.

Churchward.

"Why?" asked Weekes.

"To walk along with Sir Francis Drake," answered the postmaster

promptly. "That's sound history and sound sense."

"Don't have no queens," urged Mr. Prout. "Mark me, they'll spoil all

with their giggling and nonsense."

"How be the heroes going to travel?" inquired Taverner. "For my part

I think a hay-wain would be best. They'll get in a jakes of a mess

if they go afoot down to Little Lydford. You know what the road is,

even in dry weather."

"_C[oe]teris paribus_," answered Mr. Churchward thoughtfully.

"Very likely," admitted Taverner, "but, all the same, a hay-wain will

be best."

Then it was that Jarratt Weekes allowed his gathering anger to bubble

forth in a very acute explosion.

"Why the hell can't you talk English?" he asked the chairman. "I'm

sick to death of your bumbling noise. Whenever you don't know what

the deuce to answer a man, you fall back on some jargon, that may be

Latin, or may be gibberish more likely. You don't know any more than

us what your twaddle signifies; but you know we can't laugh at you,

and so you're safe to pretend a lot of larning you haven't got. What

does _c[oe]teris paribus_ mean, anyway?--I ask you that afore this

committee, and I will be answered!"

The chairman grew red and blew a heavy blast through his nostrils.

Mr. Spry cried out "Shame--shame!"; Mr. Huggins was frightened.

"The committee is adjourned," answered Adam very haughtily. "And for

the benefit of those who have so little education, and who envy those

who may be better endowed in that respect, I may remark that

_c[oe]teris paribus_ means--it means, in the manner in which I

employed it, that the question of a hay-wain shall be decided at the

next meeting. And that is all I have to say, except that I expect an

apology."

"And all I have to say is that you won't get one," answered Mr.

Weekes very rudely.

The company rose, and a date having been appointed for future

deliberations, every man prepared to go on his way.

Jarratt Weekes refused to apologize, despite efforts on the part of

Prout and Norseman to make him do so. He persisted in the display of

a very ferocious temper, and expressed grave doubt as to whether he

should again join the committee. None pressed him to do so.

"A beautiful meeting," said Mr. Huggins to Mr. Taverner, who saw him

home. "I'm sure I hope I shall be spared to see many more such afore

the great day cometh."

CHAPTER X

"DARLING BLUE-EYES!"

Daniel Brendon asked Sarah Jane to marry him on an afternoon in

November, when the wind blew like a giant from the west, and the life

of the Moor slept.

They sat in a nook of Great Links Tor, looked at the world outspread

beneath them, and listened to the hiss of the wind, as it flogged

heath and stone and chattering rushes. A million tiny clouds dappled

the sky with pure pearl, and far beneath this apparently motionless

cloth of silver was woven another cloud-pattern of darker tone, where

tattered vapour fled easterly across heaven before the roaring

breeze. This rack sank to earth's surface, swept the Moor, and, when

it reached the crowns of the land, swallowed them. Thus a world of

wild movement and music filled the lower air and throbbed upon the

wilderness, while the upper chambers of the sky were bright and

still. Some faint sunlight pierced the cirrus, but its radiance was

caught by the turmoil below and hardly reached these lovers, where

they sat sheltered from the riotous breath of the wind.

[Illustration: GREAT LINKS]

Daniel had asked for a half-holiday, and Sarah met him by appointment

in this most lofty, most lonely place.

He had rehearsed his words many times until his brain whirled. By

night the statement was clear, and phrases that seemed good to him

thronged up from heart to tongue. With day they vanished, and now,

on the threshold of the supreme moment, not a shadow of all his fine

ideas remained. The wind from the Atlantic swept the last thought

away. He sat by her, heaved immense sighs, panted dumb as the stone

and heather, fixed his gaze upon her placid face.

"You'm blowing like the wind's self," said Sarah.

"I know I be," he answered. "There's times when I find mouth-speech

terrible difficult, and this be one of them."

She knew very well what Daniel must now find words to tell her, but

for once love was stronger than herself. When a halting blacksmith

had nearly choked with a proposal in the past, she had helped him out

of his misery as swiftly as possible, so that there might be little

delay before the fatal word fell on his ears; but to-day the case was

altered. She enjoyed the discomfort of her dear one's struggle,

because her answer must presently make him forget his tribulation, as

a warm fire makes us forget battle with the cold air outside.

"You don't talk enough to be very clever at it," she said. "'Tis the

little, peart men talk best, like the small birds sing best. You

gert big chaps croak like the crows--just now and again. You can't

keep it up."

"Very true, I'm sure. But I don't want to croak now, God knows. If

I was to put it in shape of a prayer, 'twould come easy, for you'd be

surprised how my words slip out then. It loosens the tongue

something wonderful to ax God for anything. He helps."

"You don't say your prayers out loud, however--else everybody to

Ruddyford would hear 'em--with your gert voice."

"No--I whisper 'em. But no man can pray to anybody but his Maker.

So it's cruel difficult."

"Who is it you'm fretting to speak to, then? Be you shamed to do it?

Be it an uncomely thing?"

"No, no--'tis a very every-day thing; and yet not that--'tis a----

Would I say anything to you that weren't comely?"

"To me?"

"To you--yes."

"Whatever should you have to say to me?"

"Things as I haven't got the language for. There's words--like

'marriage,' for instance--that be an awful mouthful to spit out.

Worse than having a tooth drawed. Yet there's no other word for it."

"And what's the hard word you can't bring yourself to say?"

"Look here--listen. There are some things that I can say, and

they'll do for a start. I'm a terrible poor man. I've only got

fifty pound stored up, but it goodies and it will be fifty-four ten

by next March. I get twenty-five shillings a week; and that's very

tidy indeed for me. Yet I'm worth it--not to despise myself--and

I've great hopes of getting up higher. You'll think I'm a very

own-self man, to keep on about myself so much."

"Not at all. 'Tis cruel interesting."

"Very kind to say so."

"Well, what next?"

"Should you reckon that was a promising case, or maybe you don't?"

"'Tis a very common state of things--save for the fifty-four pounds

ten."

"You'd reckon that was to the good, then?"

"Every penny of it."

"It took some saving, Sarah Jane."

"I lay it did, Daniel Brendon."

"And I'm putting by a nice bit every week now."

"So you ought to be. You never know."

There was silence between them, but the wind ceased not. Then she

relented and made it easy for him.

"I say you never know; because presently you'll be sure to see a girl

that you'll like. No doubt you think not; but you will."

"I have--I have!"

She hardened her heart again.

"Ah! So soon? Well, if I may give you advice, you lie low till that

fifty's up in three figures. Then--very like she'll take 'e, if

nobody better comes in the meantime."

She looked at him and saw his face grow long and his jaw droop.

Then she suddenly threw her arms round him.

"You dear, great monster!" she said.

"Eh--what! Good God!" cried the man; and his emotion heaved up, slow

and mighty, like the swing of a wave. He could say nothing; but he

kept her face close to his and kissed her pale hair; then his arms

tightened round her, and she felt the immense strength of them, and

the great uplift of his ribs against her breast.

"I can't let 'e go; I'll never let 'e go again, I do believe," he

said at last.

She knew he was unconsciously bruising her white body, but let him

hug.

"My darling Blue-eyes!" he cried out, "what have I done to deserve

this?"

"Made me love you."

"Think of it--think of it! When did you begin?"

"When did you?"

"First moment that ever I set eyes on you. When I walked down-along,

after seeing you and drinking the cider you poured out for me, I

knocked my knees against the rocks, like a blind sheep, for I

couldn't think of nothing but your lovely hair."

"'Tis too pale. What d'you suppose I said to myself when I seed you

first?"

His arm had settled to her waist. She rubbed her ear against his

cheek.

"I said, 'I'll get that chap to take off them little funny

three-cornered whiskers, if I can. They spoil the greatness of his

beautiful, brown face."

"Did you think that--honour bright?"

"Honour bright, I did."

"I'll chop 'em off afore I see you again!"

He kissed her on the mouth.

"I never thought I could be so happy as this, Daniel," she said.

"'Tis almost too much," he admitted. "I doubt if any two was ever

heart an' soul together like this afore. Feel

me--fire--fire--burning like the bush in the wilderness, and yet not

burning away! An' Him up above the clouds--to think it all out for

us and plan it so loving and merciful! Bless God for His great

goodness, darling Blue-eyes! This be all His work and His thought."

She showed no religious enthusiasm.

"Leave God till after," she said. "Go on burning now. Love me, hug

me. There'll be black and blue bruises on my arms to-morrow."

"I'll make you love God in a way you haven't come to yet, Sarah Jane."

"Don't drag God in now," she said. "Talk to me, cuddle me. Tell me

about what we're going to do when we'm married. Think of it all

round--the astonishment--the fun. My father first--and then the

castle-keeper. He'll have the flesh off your gert bones for this!

Talk--talk--hug me tight and talk!"

"I want to think--I want to think," he said.

"Don't," she answered. "Feeling is better than thinking any day."

They lived through an hour as though it had been a moment. They did

not feel the gathering dusk; they did not hear the wind. The rain

fell presently, and to Sarah it seemed to hiss as it touched Daniel's

cheek.

She leapt up at last.

"Now us'll go straight home and tell father."

"To-day--must we?"

"In course. You needn't fear it. It won't surprise him over much."

As they returned, he spoke again of the goodness of his watchful

Creator, and moralized upon it.

"He does so much for us--He is sleepless--always watching and

thinking for us worms.... And what can we do to pay Him? Nothing.

We can only thank Him in our hearts every hour of the day."

Sarah Jane was silent a moment--then broke out suddenly.

"I don't want you to fawn on God about me, Daniel."

He started.

"What do you say, my darling dear?"

"Us don't think all alike there. I hate a mean spirit in a man. Not

that you've got one--far, far from that. But I hate even a dog that

cringes; and maybe God thinks the same of a man that does."

"Can we cringe to the Almighty?"

"The Giver's more than the gift to you, perhaps?"

"Nought on earth could be more than the gift, and well you know it!

But----"

"I've given myself to you. I've done it myself--out of my own

heart," she cried almost passionately.

He did not argue the point, but put his arms round her again. Yet he

pondered as they passed on to Dunnagoat Cottage; and presently she

startled him once more.

Mr. Friend took the news in a spirit very stoical.

"It had to come: 'twas only a question of time. I've always knowed

that," he said. "I'm going to bargain for a fair spell of keeping

company afore you do the rash deed. You catched fire from each other

the first moment you met, I do believe. But sometimes the love

that's soon ripe is soon rotten. So you'll just larn a bit about

each other and we'll talk of marrying presently, when there's a

foundation of understanding and knowledge built up between you."

"I know Dan to the very soul of him," said Sarah Jane. "I've read

him day by day like a book of large, easy print; and he knows

me--better than I know myself--don't you, Daniel?"

Brendon grinned doubtfully.

"I know you're the best, beautifullest wonder of a woman as ever I

met with; and I know that I ban't worthy to tie your shoe-string; and

that's about all I do know," he said.

"Exactly so!" declared Gregory. Then he took his daughter's face

between his hands and kissed her.

"Bless you, you bowerly maid. You know nought about her, man; and

I--her own parent--don't know much more; and she herself--what do she

know, but that she's born--and loves you? There's as much we don't

know, and she don't know, behind them blue eyes of hers, as there is

behind the blue sky. Mark that; an' the Lord bless you, I'm sure;

and if all goes well, I shall be pleased to have you for a

son-in-law."

"I hope you'll never get no cause to regret them words, Mr. Friend.

And, God helping, I'll Be a useful son to you as the years go on."

"That's a very proper thing to say. And if I have any opinion in the

matter, 'tis this, that you won't take her too far off from me. She

must bide fairly close. She's all I've got, and I couldn't go on

without seeing her from time to time."

"That I will promise."

They fell into long silences while Gregory's daughter made tea; then

they ate and drank and talked more freely again.

The lovers began to plan daily meetings; and Sarah Jane allowed

herself to think deliciously of all the friends to whom this great

news must be broken. Daniel remarked that they were mostly of his

sex, and remembered that she had told him how her friendships with

women were few.

"Every Dick, Tom, and Harry on the country side is to know about it

seemingly," he said with a comical expression. "I hope they'll take

the hint anyhow, and the less we see of 'em the better henceforward."

Then it was that she astonished him again, and the humorous note was

changed abruptly in his mind, though not in hers.

"You men--so greedy you be--like a dog with a bone. 'Tis all or none

with you."

He stared. It sounded an unmaidenly speech to his ear.

"By God! I should think so! All or none indeed. We don't share

sweethearts, I believe."

She enjoyed his tragical face.

"'Twould be a poor look out for them as tried to come between me an'

my gert monster," she said.

"It would be."

"An' for me too, I reckon?"

"Yes," he admitted. "But don't be telling such nonsense--or thinking

such folly. You've done with all men but me for evermore. The Lord

help any man or woman who ever came between us in deed or thought, if

I catched word of it."

She nodded.

"They'd be dust afore your wrath."

Mr. Friend left them presently and went to a little room on the

ground floor of Dunnagoat cot, where he pursued his business of

testing peat for tar and gas. He never wearied of this occupation.

Then, while Sarah Jane washed up the tea things, Brendon made an

excuse to leave her and spoke with his future father-in-law.

"Can 'e lend me a razor, master?" he said.

"A razor? Yes. I don't use 'em of late years, but it happens I've

got one. What for? Have you changed your mind and want to cut your

throat for being a fool?"

"No, indeed. I've only just begun to live; but she don't like my

whiskers."

"Ah! Take 'em off, and she'll want 'e to grow 'em again in a week.

Wear a hard hat and she'll order a billycock; put on black gaiters

and she'll cry out for yellow. God help you, poor giant of a man!

You'll hear more about yourself from her fearless lips in the next

fortnight, than ever you've found out yet all your life."

"The razor be--where?"

"Up in my sleeping chamber, in a little drawer under the

looking-glass."

"Thank you very much, master."

"They'm like the false gods o' the Bible: they think nought of axing

the men to gash themselves with knives. The biggest fool of a woman

as ever cumbered earth can always be clever at inventing tortures for

the men."

"'Tis all very well; but if I take Sarah Jane, you'll have to marry

again yourself, Mr. Friend," said Daniel.

"Not me. I had one good one. I drew a prize, though she was always

wrong about Amicombe Hill. Ban't in reason to expect two prizes."

Presently Daniel appeared with shaven cheeks before Sarah Jane. He

left her to discover the loss, and she did so in an instant.

"My stars! if it isn't as though you was another man!" she said.

"But I wasn't _quite_ tired of them all the same. I think I must ax

'e to put on a beard, Dan. I like 'em, because faither's got one."

"I could easy enough; my chin be like a stubble field after I've let

him bide a day or two."

"But I couldn't rub my cheek against it while 'twas coming!'

"Better let me go as I am."

"I'll think about that. Be you going to stop to supper?"

"Can't, worse luck. I've promised to be back for a few indoor jobs

this evening."

"When shall I see you next?"

"To-morrow night without a doubt. I'll come up over for an hour

after supper."

"'Tis a terrible long way up; an' a terrible rough road."

"Not to me--and never has been."

"I love you with every drop of blood in my body, you dear blessed

Daniel!"

"Well I know it; but 'tis such an amazing thought, I can't grasp it

yet. 'Twill take days, I doubt."

"I've grasped it tight enough! 'Tis the only thing in my head. I've

forgot everything else in the world, for there's nought else worth

knowing, except you love me."

Thus they prattled at the door. Then a great gust dashed in and blew

out the lamp. Brendon had to stop until it was relighted, and they

made three more partings. Then Mr. Friend's voice called Sarah Jane,

and Brendon set out in earnest for home.

The darkness was full of storm; but his heart made a heaven of night,

and the elements that swooped, and shouted, and soaked, were

agreeable to Daniel as he plunged into them. They seemed tremendous

as his love; and his love made him tremendous as they were. He felt

kinship with the lash of the rain and the thrust of the wind.

Underfoot, earth, like a slave, submitted to the torrent and the

gale; and he also spurned it even as they did; he feared not its

steep and stony miles; he swept forward as strong and fierce as the

sky, as joyful as the fetterless forces of the air.

CHAPTER XI

SUSAN BRINGS THE NEWS

On the morning after Daniel's glorious adventure, the girl Susan

found it necessary to withdraw from her Aunt Hepsy's unsettled

atmosphere and seek the calmer climate of her Aunt Tab. As usual,

she appeared about breakfast time on a washing day; and as usual

Tabitha expressed much concern and regret. Susan enjoyed a good

breakfast, and found herself able to take an important part in the

subject of the moment. To those who are familiar with the rustic's

sense of humour, it need not be said that the event of that morning

was Daniel Brendon's appearance whiskerless. Over night they had not

seen him, for a hunger, higher than need of meat or drink, filled the

man after his walk with the storm. He had desired no human face to

come between him and his thoughts, had done his work by lantern-light

in an outhouse, and had then gone to his chamber and there communed

with his God. Kneeling, he poured out immense gratitude and

thanksgiving; and before the first narrow light of day called him to

rise, Brendon had wakened and again devoutly turned his thoughts to

the creed that controlled him.

His advent at the breakfast table provoked titters, then guffaws,

then questions. Agg first marked the change and thrust his elbow

into Joe Tapson's ribs; then Tabitha cocked her thin nose, and John

Prout smiled calmly. It was Lethbridge who first dared to approach

the subject directly. After Walter Agg had stroked his own cheeks

and Tapson subtly inquired what was the price of hair for stuffing

pillow-cases, Peter Lethbridge boldly spoke and reminded Dan of a

circumstance that he had forgotten. Upon his abstraction at

breakfast fell a startling utterance.

"Good Lord, Dan!" cried Lethbridge with great affected concern, "the

wind have blowed off your whiskers, my bold hero!"

Then laughter echoed, so that the lamp shook and Mr. Prout ordered

silence.

"You'll wake master!" he said. "Can't a man shave his hair as it

pleases him, without you zanies making that row?"

"You'm a hardened bachelor, John," said Tapson; "but I know

better--eh, Dan'l? Ban't what pleases you, but what pleases

her--come now?"

"If she'd axed un to shave his head, the poor soul would have done

it--wouldn't you, Dan?" asked Agg.

"I'd forgot 'em," confessed Brendon. "I dare say it looks odd to

your silly eyes."

"Did she cut 'em off with her scissors?" inquired Lethbridge, and

Tabitha, taking Daniel's side, felt it necessary to reprove him.

"You eat your bacon and don't be too funny, Peter Lethbridge," she

said, "else you might hurt yourself."

Brendon's love affair was well known and had already formed matter

for mirth.

"You've done wrong, however," declared Tapson. "When Sarah Jane sees

that great jowl of thine laid naked as a pig's chap, she'll wish the

whiskers back."

"'Tis like as if you got two triangles of white paint upon your

cheeks, Mr. Brendon," ventured Susan respectfully.

"You'm a lost man, mark me," continued Joe Tapson. "'Twas a rash

act, and you'll rue it yet."

"If you buzzing beetles will let me speak," answered Dan genially,

"I'd give 'e a bit of news. There's such a lot on my mind this

morning, that I'd quite forgot my whiskers. Well, souls, she'm going

to take me, thank God! I axed the question last afternoon and she be

of the same mind!"

The woman in Tabitha fluttered to her lips and head. She went over

and shook Brendon's hand, and her eyes became a little moist.

"Bravo! Bravo!" said Mr. Prout. "Very glad, I'm sure, though 'tis a

shattering thing for a Ruddyford man to want a wife."

"Now he's set the example, these here chaps will be after the

maidens, like terriers after rats; you mark me," foretold Joe Tapson.

"Tab," said John Prout, "draw off a quart or so of beer--not cider.

'Tis early, but the thing warrants it. Us'll drink good luck to 'em,

an' long life an' a happy fortune."

Dawn already weakened the light of the lamp and made a medley of blue

streaks and splashes on the men's faces. Now they neglected their

mugs of tea for the more popular beverage, and all drank Daniel's

health; while he grinned to his ears and thanked them and shook hands

with them.

It was then, when the party had decreased, and Tapson, Agg, and

Lethbridge were gone to work, that Susan spoke with the frankness of

youth.

"I'm awful surprised, Mr. Brendon," she said, "because to home, where

I live, 'tis thought that Jarratt Weekes, my aunt's son, be going to

marry Sarah Jane Friend. He thinks so hisself, for that matter."

"He thinks wrong, Susan," answered Daniel. "He offered marriage, but

it wasn't to be. Sarah Jane likes me best, though I'm only a poor

man. And there's an end of the matter."

"Of course she likes you best--such a whopper as you be! But my

cousin, Jarratt, will be awful vexed about it, when he hears."

"I'm sorry for him, I'm sure."

Susan fell into thought, from which her aunt aroused her.

"Now, my dear, you can just put on your bonnet and cloak and march

home again. I don't want you to-day. Washing was done yesterday,

and I've got to go down to Bridgetstowe; so the sooner you run back

to Aunt Hepsy and beg her pardon, the better for you."

"Agg's going to take the cart to Gimmet Hill, and he can drive you a

good part of the way," said Mr. Prout.

Susan would have disputed this swift return under ordinary

circumstances; but to-day, the richer by great news, she felt rather

disposed to go back at once. She did not like Jarratt Weekes; for

when, as sometimes happened, he was busy and she had to show visitors

over Lydford Castle, he always took every penny of the money from

her, even though it exceeded the regulation charge.

"Very well," said Susan. "I'll go along with Mr. Agg; and next time

Jar has anything sharp to say to me, I'll give him a stinger!"

"You'll do better to mind your own business," advised her aunt. "The

man will hear he's out of luck soon enough, without you telling him."

"Then I should lose the sight of his face," said Susan spitefully.

"Him and his mother be so cock-sure that she's going to take him."

"A good few others besides Jarratt Weekes will have to face it," said

Tabitha. "There's been a lot after that lovely she for years. They

flaxen maidens make the men so silly as sheep. You won't have 'em

running after you in a string, Susan, though you grow up never so

comely."

"I ban't so sartain of that," said Susan. "I know a chap or two----"

She broke off and picked up her sunbonnet.

"You ban't so bad for fifteen, sure enough," declared John Prout.

"Now then, off you go, or else Walter will be away without 'e."

The girl, who had left Lydford at half-past four in the morning, now

returned quite cheerfully. As Agg's cart breasted White Hill and

presently reached the high road, the sun came out and the weather

promised a little peace. It was bright and still after the storm.

Some belated Michaelmas daisies yet blossomed in the garden of Philip

Weekes; a cat sat at the door in the sun. It recognized Susan and

greeted her as she returned. In the rear of the house, clearly to be

heard, her aunt's voice sounded shrill. She was talking to a

neighbour, and Susan listened, but heard no good of herself.

"The anointed, brazen, shameless trollop--the hussy! the minx! And

to think what I've done and suffered for her! The dogs and beasts

have more heart in 'em than her. Here be I--toiling day and night to

make her a useful creature and teach her the way to grow up

decent--and she turns on me, like the little wasp she is, and runs

away, as if I was the plague. Let it happen once more--but once--an'

so sure as the sun's in the sky, she shall go to the workhouse. 'Tis

the evil blood in her veins--the toad. Her mother----"

Here Susan intervened.

"You can call me what you please, Aunt Hepsy," she said. "But don't

you go giving my dead mother no names. I wasn't her fault anyway."

"Back again, you saucy maggot! No--poor soul, you wasn't her fault;

you was her eternal misfortune--same as you be mine. But don't you

think I'm an angel, because I ban't--nothing but an unfortunate,

down-trodden old woman. But I won't be rode roughshod over by a

black imp like you, and so I tell 'e. You go once again, and God's

my judge, you shan't come back. I won't let your shadow over my

doorstep no more. You shan't bring my grey hairs with sorrow to the

grave, you scourge of a girl!"

She rated, like some harsh-voiced machine that needs oil, and Susan,

perfectly accustomed to these explosions, stood silent before her,

waiting for a familiar hitch or gasp, that she knew would presently

reduce her aunt to temporary silence.

At last it came, just as Philip Weekes appeared from a visit to his

poultry.

"This be very serious, Susan," he said. "I really don't know what to

think of it. 'Tis a senseless, improper thing to be off like this

whenever you be niffed with your aunt--such a woman as she is, too.

And--and--how is it you'm back so soon?"

"Because----" began Susan; but Mrs. Weekes was now able to proceed.

"Because your Aunt Tabitha didn't just happen to want 'e, no doubt.

As feeble as a mole she is, to have stood it so often. She did ought

to have sent you packing with a flea in your ear first time ever you

dared to run away, instead of keeping you to help washing. Just like

you all--you Prouts and Weekeses--soft stuff--soft stuff--and you'll

all go down into the pit together. Lord, He knows where you'd be

yourself, Philip Weekes, if it wasn't for me. But even I can't turn

putty into starch. Putty you are, and putty you will be till the Day

of Doom."

"I comed back, Uncle Philip, because I got hold of a very interesting

piece o' news, and I knowed Aunt Hepsy would be very much obliged to

me for telling of it," said Susan swiftly.

"Interesting news, indeed! Then you've been listening to other

people, I suppose? That's your way. If you'd listen to me, you

might get salvation; but never, never--what I say don't matter more

than the wind in the hedge. I'm only an old fool that haven't seen

the world, and haven't got no wisdom or learning. Of course Aunt

Tabitha knows so much better, and of course Uncle John's a good

second to Solomon! Well, well, there's times when a broken spirit

hungers for the grave and peace. And so I feel more and more when I

look at you, Susan."

"All the same, I comed home for nought but to tell you. 'Tis about

Sarah Jane. She'm not going to have cousin Jar. She's took another

man. I've seen him."

Mrs. Weekes sat down. She dropped so suddenly that her husband was

alarmed. Her hand went up to her breast; her eyes grew round.

"Take her away," said Hephzibah feebly; "take that little black-eyed

liar away, and get me my peppermint. 'Tis her one delight and plot

from daylight till dark to fetch up my spasms; and now she've done

it."

"'Tis solemn truth; and I don't want to fetch up your spasms, Gods

knows," whimpered Susan. "The man himself told me. He's called

Daniel Brendon--a whacker with gert hands, I never see the like.

He's shaved off his whiskers for her, and she's taken him. So Jar's

out of it."

Mr. Weekes brought his wife her peppermint mixture, and it appeared

to have a remarkable effect.

"Out of it! We'll see about that. To throw over Jarratt Weekes for

a nameless clod-pole from the middle of the Moor! You just go down

to the castle this instant moment and fetch the man to me. The

sooner he hears tell of this, the better."

"I shouldn't do it," advised Jarratt's father. "Let her tell him.

The blow will fall easier like that. 'Twill cut him up rather cruel."

"Bah!" cried Mrs. Weekes, rising to her feet. "I'd sooner go to a

shell-snail for opinions than you. A mouse have got more courage,

and a ear-wig more sense. He shall hear, and he shall go to this

chap and just bid him be off about his business. Why--good

angels!--ban't Jarratt and Sarah Jane almost tokened already? Be my

son going to give her up now? Not very likely! He's got my courage

in his blood, I hope. A fighter I've always been, and always had to

be; and I thank God for it every night on my knees. And so should

you, you gawkim of a man, for you'd be of no more account than an eft

in a pond if it wasn't for me."

Philip nodded mechanically, as he always did when the torrent roared;

then he faded away to his fowls, and Susan went off that she might

find her cousin. This task was agreeable to her, for she did not

love him. She conveyed her news in as few words as possible, and he

stared at her without any words at all. Then presently, with a dark

brow, the man came before his mother.

"What's this?" he asked.

"You go and take off them filthy boots and sweep the upper landing,"

said Aunt Hepsy to Susan, who appeared a few yards behind her son;

then, when a broom began to work overhead, she turned to Jarratt.

"Well may you ask! That thankless terror of a child runned off to

Ruddyford again last night; and there she heard it. The man be

called Daniel Brendon--some labourer lately took on by Woodrow. But

'tis for you to stop it if you're my son. I lay I'd put a spoke in

their wheel double quick! All the same, the woman's not worth it--a

gert, good-for-nought, gallivanting giglet as she is!"

"A pretty poor compliment to me, if it's true," he said.

"Very likely it isn't true at all. Still, it's your job. Only think

twice. There's the schoolmaster's darter be worth twenty of Sarah

Jane."

"Couldn't stand her voice, mother--nor yet her temper."

"More fool you. Give me a voice and a temper, too, if you want to

get on in the world. 'Tis the gentle sort, as twitters like birds

and be frightened to hurt a fly, as always go down. Let people hear

your voice and feel your temper; then they'll respect you and you'll

keep up your end of the stick. Them as be so sweet as sugar, mostly

melt like sugar in the hard business of life."

"One thing I know, afore God, and that is, if she takes any man but

me, I'll be revenged on her and him, if it costs my last farthing."

"What's the sense of that talk? If you'm set on her still, have her

willy-nilly. Do anything inside honesty. Ride off with her! Break

the man's stupid head for him! All the same, that's not sense, but

only passion. My advice may be nought; but it is just this: that you

bide along with your mother for the present, and wait for a better

maiden to turn up."

"That woman could have done pretty well anything she liked with me."

"I hope not. What foolishness! You think so now. You wouldn't have

thought so a week beyond your honey-month. Well, 'tis for you to go

forward. The very sort of job I should have liked, if I'd been a

man."

"I'll have it out with the chap."

"Better have it out with her. And yet, perhaps, you'm right. Tell

him to his face she'm yours, and tokened to 'e. Stir him up; or, if

you find he's that sort, pay him off. Twenty pounds would go an

awful long way with a man. 'Tis far easier for such a chap to get a

girl to walk with him than put by twenty pounds into the saving's

bank."

"A likely idea," said Jarratt. "Such a fellow wouldn't know what

love means, same as an educated man like me. I dare say if I was to

put it into pounds, shillings, and pence, he'd meet me like a lamb."

Mrs. Weekes almost regretted giving her son advice that looked so

promising. Now, she did not wish him to marry Sarah Jane; she did

not wish him to marry at all; but since he seemed set upon the step,

her desire turned to the schoolmaster's daughter as a woman of

character, who would also have three figures for her dowry.

"When all's said, I could wish you would think of Mary."

"Not I," answered her son. "I saw a touch of Mary after that

committee meeting at her father's. The place was pretty full of

baccy smoke and beer reek, certainly; and she didn't say nothing--not

a word--when she looked in at the finish; but there was an expression

on her face that made me almost sorry for Churchward after we'd gone,

though he is the biggest, emptiest old fool in Lydford."

"A silly, blown-up man! I like to stab his ideas with a word, and

let the wind out. But his daughter's not so chuckle-headed. She'd

make a tidy wife."

"Not for me. I'll fight yet for Sarah Jane. And any stick's good

enough to beat a dog."

Mrs. Weekes, however, hesitated before this sentiment.

"Fight fair, Jar," she said. "Don't let it be told of my son that he

didn't go to work honest and above-board. No--no, I never would

believe it. Mrs. Swain often says to me that whatever faults I may

have--and who hasn't?--yet I speak home to the truth, good market or

bad, and never deceive the youngest child as comes with a penny, or

the simplest fool who would buy a fowl without feeling it. Be

straight. You must be straight, for there's not a crooked drop of

blood in your veins. You know all about your mother's family, and as

for your father's--rag of a man though he is--I will say of Philip

Weekes that he never departs from uprightness by a hair. Often, in

my most spirited moments, when I've poured the bitter truth into his

ear, like a river, half the night long, your father have agreed to

every word, and thanked me for throwing such light on his character."

"I shan't offer the man twenty to begin with," he said. "I may choke

him off for less. I ban't angry with him: I'm angry with her for

listening to him, or allowing herself to know such trash."

"And I'll help where I get the chance, be sure of that. Your good's

my good. If I can catch Sarah Jane some day, I'll drop a word in

season."

"Don't," he said. "You keep out of it till I tell you. I'll ax you

soon enough to lend a hand if the time comes when you can be useful."

CHAPTER XII

THE PRICE OF SARAH JANE

The air was heavy with unshed rain, and the Moor reeked after past

storms of night, as Jarratt rode over Lyd river and breasted the

slopes of Bra Tor. A boy on a pony followed him, and two dogs

brought up the rear. Mr. Weekes was come to drive some colts off

their pastures; and, being doubtful, to a few miles, where they might

be found, he had made an early start. Great clouds hid the summits

of the land, and water shone in pools or fell in rivulets on every

side.

Then it was that, passing through the mediæval ruins of old

enterprise, where once Elizabethan miners streamed the Moor for tin,

the keeper of Lydford Castle suddenly found himself face to face with

a man much in his thoughts of late. Though he had never seen Brendon

until that hour, he recognized him instantly by reason of his great

size. Daniel was walking up the hill with his face towards the

peat-works, and he carried a message from Mr. Woodrow to Gregory

Friend.

"Good-morning!" shouted Jarratt, and the pedestrian stopped. Soon

Weekes was beside him and had leisure to note his rival. The great

brown face, square jaw, dog-like eyes and immense physical strength

of the man were all noted in a searching glance; and he also saw what

pleased him little: that Brendon was better dressed, cleaner, and

smarter every way than a common hind.

"Have you seen my colts this way, neighbour?" he asked. "They're

ear-marked with red worsted."

"Then I met with them only yesterday. There's a grey mare in foal

along with them."

"That's right."

"You'll find 'em down in the strolls on this side Rattle-brook for

certain."

"Much obliged to you."

Weekes shouted to his boy, directed the road, and told him to proceed

and wait by the river until he himself should follow. Then he turned

again to Brendon.

"You're not a Lydford man, are you?"

"No. I belong to Ruddyford--down-along. I'm just going up to the

peat-works with a message. You'll be Mr. Jarratt Weekes, I suppose?"

"Jarratt Weekes is my name. And what's yours?"

"Daniel Brendon."

"Ah! you're not easily forgot. I suppose you don't know of anybody

who wants a horse? This one I'm riding is for sale."

Brendon found Mr. Weekes walking slowly up the hill beside him. His

pulse quickened. He guessed that the other meant to speak of matters

more personal presently, for it had come to his ears that Jarratt

Weekes publicly refused to give up Sarah Jane. Agg brought news from

Lydford how Weekes had said in the bar of the Castle Inn that he was

engaged to Gregory Friend's daughter, and would punish any man who

denied it.

"A good horse seemingly. Have 'e asked my master, Mr. Woodrow? He's

only waiting to be tempted, I believe."

"A good horse, as you say; but he won't carry beer," explained

Jarratt Weekes. "Not that I ever want him to do so; but he's always

nervous of the dark. Old farmer Routleigh used to have him; then,

coming home market-merry from Okehampton, he got into trouble and was

left in the hedge. I like the horse very well, but he's barely up to

my weight. He'd suit Woodrow exactly, I should judge."

"I'll mention the matter to him."

"Thank you, Brendon. Brendon was it you said, or Brandon?"

"Brendon's my name."

"Lucky I met you, then, for I've wanted to have a say with you for

some time."

Daniel did not answer.

"Look here, now--between men there need be no beating about the bush.

That's women's way. And a woman I want to talk about. In Lydford

they are mentioning the name of a Daniel Brendon with that of Miss

Friend, who lives up here for the present at Dunnagoat Cottage with

her father."

The other's face hardened, and a heavy look came into his eyes; but

he did not speak.

"That's not as it should be," continued Jarratt Weekes. "It gets

about, and then there's wrong ideas in the air. Living up here, the

girl can't hear it or contradict it. But 'tis a very unmaidenly

thing for her to be talked over like that, and, frankly, I don't much

like it, Brendon."

Still Daniel preserved silence. His heart was beating hard; he felt

anger running in his veins and his jaws fastening on each other. But

he made no answer. Instead he stopped, slowly drew his pipe and a

tobacco-pouch from his pocket, and prepared to smoke.

"Buckets more rain be coming," he said presently, looking at the sky.

"Don't change the subject, please. Answer my question."

"I don't know you'd asked one."

"You're wasting time to pretend ignorance. Say what you've got to

say. I've a perfect reason and right to speak to you on this

delicate matter, and everybody well knows it--but yourself

apparently. Now speak."

"You had better finish telling first," answered Daniel.

"To me you appear to be on a wild goose chase altogether, and talking

no better than silly rummage. Why are you so busy about Sarah Jane

Friend? Tell me that, and then 'twill be time for me to talk to you.

Let's have your reason and right you mention, if you please, Mr.

Weekes."

"My reason and right is that I am going to marry her myself. We are

engaged. Everybody knows that very well. And nobody better than

Sarah Jane Friend. It happens that I've been exceedingly busy

lately--too busy to be quite so lover-like as I ought. So she's been

amusing herself by drawing you on. But 'tis beyond a joke now, and

I'll have no more of it, or I'll speak to your master."

"Ah!" said the other, "that's the sort of man you are, then? My girl

was wise to throw you over, and your dirty money too. Tokened to

you, you liar! I wonder the hand of God don't drive you into the

dust for saying it! Tokened to you--when you know so well as I do

that, last Sunday week, she told you, once for all, she wasn't going

to take you? What d'you think me and she are? A pair of fools to go

down afore your brazen voice?"

"You'd better not have me for an enemy, my man. It won't pay you in

the long run, I promise you."

"Bluster's a fine weapon--to back a lie; but truth can stand without

it. You've told me a string of lies, and well you knew they were."

He lighted his pipe, and Weekes laughed.

"Well, well, you're a smart man, I find. I'll give you that credit.

You see pretty far through a millstone--eh? If you won't knock under

to me, then we'll start again, and put it on a business footing. I

want no misunderstanding with you. This girl thinks she's fond of

you for the moment. I'll grant that much. But you'll see, if you

really care a button about her, that her prosperity would be a good

deal surer with me than with you. You needn't be angry at all. This

is a matter of business. I want her. I've known her--long, long

before ever you did; and if you hadn't turned up from God knows

where, she'd have come to me right and proper when I decided I was

ready for her. I am ready for her now. If I'd asked her a month

sooner, she'd have come without question, of course; but meanwhile

she had seen you, and was taken, like a child, with your size. So it

stands. I grant that you've got the whip hand for the minute. You

have me in your power up to any reasonable sum. It lies in a

nutshell, Daniel Brendon. What's your figure?"

"For chucking her?"

"For leaving her alone to come to her senses. Money's not got every

day; a wife can be. If you want the last, there's no better way to

get 'em than with the first."

"Yet Sarah Jane put me afore your cash seemingly?"

"Like any foolish girl might in a rash moment. But you're not a

fool, or I'm no judge of character. You're a man of ideas and

ambitions. I thought you were a common labourer. That's what made

me rather savage. I see you're a man as good as myself--every bit.

So I'll forgive Sarah that much, and appeal to your sense of justice

to give me back my own. And since I know well enough you will be

making a great sacrifice, I offer you an equivalent."

Daniel listened.

"A generous chap you are, then?"

"Yes, I am. I don't want to exert force, or trust to my position. I

meet you man to man equal. I've long been as good as tokened to her,

and it would be a very wicked thing for you to come between us. I'll

not say you have no rights, however; I'll not say that a silly

woman's passing whim isn't to count. I'll grant

everything--everything in reason. I'll allow that you won her fair

and square, though she didn't tell you quite the truth, I'm afraid.

I'll allow that for the moment she honestly thinks that she loves you

better than she loves me. But, beyond all that, there's these two

points. I'll offer you good money to drop this, as in justice to me

you should do at once; and I'll say that if you want Sarah Jane to

be happy and content and prosperous, you must see that I'm the man to

make her so--not you."

"That's your side, then?"

"Yes; that's my side--the side of justice and wisdom, if you come to

think of it."

"And what's the figure? I'm a poor man, and oughtn't to lose a

chance of making good money, Mr. Weekes. 'Tis the opportunity of a

lifetime, you see. 'Twill never come again."

"Well, I'm no skinflint. Give her up and I'll let you have ten

pounds."

"Ten pounds! That's an awful lot!"

"A lot of money, as you say."

"But not enough for Sarah Jane."

Weekes held the battle as good as won, and now determined to fight

for the lowest figure possible. He was rather astonished to succeed

so easily, and from great anxiety leapt quickly over to the other

extreme of contempt.

"You're greedy, I'm afraid."

"No, no--not greedy, only businesslike. I won her fairly, you see.

Us can't all go uphill, like you. Some stands still; some goes down.

Here's my chance to go up a little."

"I'll make it fifteen, then."

"'Tis for me to make the figure now, and for you to pay it. I

suppose the question is what's Sarah Jane Friend worth to you?"

"Not at all," answered Jarratt. "That's neither here nor there. All

I want to know is what money you'll drop her for. And I warn you not

to be too greedy, else I may get rusty on my side and take her by

force for nothing."

"I see; I must be reasonable?"

"Of course--give and take in business."

"Well, then, suppose we say--a hundred million pounds?"

"Don't be a fool," answered the other testily. "I'm not talking to

you for fun."

Then Daniel's temper burst from control.

"God damn you, you ugly, cross-eyed cur! To dare to come to a man

and offer ten pounds to him for his woman! You flint-faced

wretch!--a withered thing like you to think of her! I----"

"You'd better----" began Weekes; but Brendon roared him down.

"Shut your mouth! 'Tis your turn now to hear me! If you dare to

speak again, I'll pull you off your horse and take the skin from your

bones! What dirt d'you think I'm made of, to tell this wickedness in

my ears? I wonder you ban't struck for it. Ten pounds for Sarah

Jane; and you sit there on your horse under Heaven and nothing done

against you! But it won't be forgot--remember that. 'Tis a black

mark upon your name for evermore. Ten pounds; and you ought to be

damned ten times over for every shilling of it! And if ever you come

anigh her again, I'll break your neck, God's my judge! A man as

she's said 'No' to a dozen times! Go and hang yourself, you grey

rat! She wouldn't have you if you was made of gold, and well you

know it. To say as I came between you! To say she'd be a happier

woman along with you than with me! Happy with you--as reckon she'm

worth ten pounds! There--get away after your ponies, and never you

look into her face or mine again, or I'll knock your two eyes into

one--so now you know!"

He strode on up the hill, panting and raging like a bull, while

Weekes looked after him. Jarratt had turned very grey under this

torrent of abuse. He was stung by the other's scorn, and felt that

he did not deserve it. But he kept his wits, and perceived that

Brendon, huge and loutish though he might be, had proved too clever

for him in this matter. The lover of Sarah Jane had trapped Mr.

Weekes by a pretended greed, and led him into folly. He realized

that probably the world in general, and Sarah Jane in particular,

would presently hear that he had offered a ten-pound note for her;

and then raised the figure reluctantly to fifteen. This was not

likely to advance his reputation at Lydford, or elsewhere. He even

imagined the schoolboys shouting vulgar remarks after him along the

public way.

Now he sat still on his horse for full five minutes. Then he rode

after Brendon and overtook him.

"Only one word," he said. "Forget this. I didn't understand you.

I'll interfere with you no more. You were right, and I was wrong.

As you are victorious, be generous. Don't let my folly go further.

We all make mistakes. I have erred, Mr. Brendon, and I regret it."

Brendon regarded Jarratt doubtfully. The giant still panted with his

anger, and steam rolled out from his mouth in puffs upon the wet,

dark air.

"'Tis human to err; 'tis human to forgive. I was wrong--very wrong.

I own it. Who can do more? We've all got our weak places, and money

is mine. Let them without sin cast the first stone. Remember what I

must feel to lose Sarah Jane."

This last stroke answered its purpose, and Brendon relented very

slowly.

"I know well enough what that must be."

"Be generous then to a desperate man. Hide up this that I have told

you. The sum is nothing. I knew well enough you wouldn't take

ten--or ten thousand. In sober honesty I'm much poorer than folk

think, though I pretend to be warm. Anyway, I ask you to pardon me

for insulting you, and to keep this talk secret--even from her. No

man likes his mistakes blazed out for the people to scoff at. Do as

you'd be done by in this--that's all I ask."

He pleaded better than he knew, for the victor already regretted his

own coarse language.

"Let it be, then," answered Brendon. "Go your way, and I'll go mine;

and not a word of this will pass my lips. We was both wrong--you to

think of such a vile thing, and me to curse you. 'Twas all fair, and

you had first say to her; but she likes me best, so there's no more

to be said."

"I'll abide by that," answered Jarratt Weekes. Then he turned his

horse's head and rode away, with Care behind him, and such a load of

hatred in his heart that it seemed to poison his blood and choke him

physically. He gasped, and the evil words of Daniel Brendon--uttered

with passion--were as thistledown to the thoughts that now bred

within the brain of his enemy. A violent lust for revenge grew up in

the soul of Jarratt Weekes from that hour; but Brendon, for his part,

quickly repented of the things that he had said; displayed a victor's

magnanimity; felt something of the other's tragic and eternal loss;

and found it in his heart to sorrow for him.

Daniel also mourned for himself and his mighty lapse of temper and

self-control. That night he prayed to be pardoned; he trembled to

consider where his sudden rages might some day lead him; he thanked

his Saviour for unutterable blessings, and implored that a greater

patience, humility, and gentleness might be added to his character.

He called also upon Heaven to sustain Jarratt Weekes under this

shattering stroke, and begged that it might presently be put in his

power to do the disappointed man some service.

BOOK II

CHAPTER I

FIRST BLOOD TO BRENDON

In the struggle between Daniel Brendon and Jarratt Weekes,

circumstances combined to strengthen the former's cause at every

point. Right, as a matter of fact, was on his side, but what

promised to be a greater source of strength, he found in Sarah Jane.

The ingenuous and fearless character of his betrothed and her

intrepid handling of truth, albeit embarrassing enough at times, made

her strong against enemies of the type of Jarratt Weekes. Moreover,

the lovers had many friends; the castle-keeper, few. His mother

tried to help him; but she was honest and her shifts proved

absolutely futile. She could only suggest that Jarratt should see

Sarah Jane and argue with her the folly of such action. She herself

invited Gregory Friend's daughter to tea, and used what powers of

persuasion she possessed to turn the girl. She also saw Mr. Friend,

and showed him the advantages of a union with the Weekes family. Her

attacks were direct and straightforward; therefore they failed.

Neither did Jarratt's more tortuous methods win him any advantage.

He worked what little harm he could, but it amounted to nothing.

Daniel's record was clean; he had a reputation for sober-mindedness;

no man could tax him with wrong-doing. To separate him from Sarah

Jane at any cost became the castle-keeper's problem; but, while

achieving this deed, it was vital that the woman's regard for Jarratt

should be increased rather than lessened; and the double task proved

altogether beyond Jarratt's power.

He trusted that Hilary Woodrow might prove an obstacle, and that

marriage must at least mean dismissal from Ruddyford; but even here

his hopes were disappointed. Matters combined at the farm largely to

advance Daniel Brendon's ambition, and a tower of strength appeared

in a quarter from which little might have been hoped. Tabitha Prout

smiled upon the match, first from kindness of heart, secondly to gain

private ends. Another woman at Ruddyford had long been her desire.

She sounded Brendon first, then finding that he approved, approached

her master. The person most vitally involved in Tabitha's plot was

her own brother; but she knew that John would make no difficulties,

and therefore left him until the last.

"Does your maiden know anything about milk and butter?" she asked

Daniel, on an occasion when they were alone.

"Can't say she does; but there's nothing she couldn't learn in a few

months--quick as light at learning she is," he answered.

Then Tabitha proposed that Sarah Jane on her marriage should come to

Ruddyford as dairymaid.

"As things go," she explained, "'tis all sixes and sevens; and now

the boy milks, and now Tapson do, and there's no proper system to it.

But with our cows, few though they be, a dairymaid ought to be kept;

and she'd help me here and there--I expect that. And if she comes,

we ought to keep three more cows, if not four. I only want to know

if you be willing. 'Tis worth your while, for if that was planned,

you could bide here after you're married and wouldn't have to look

round again."

"Too good to be true, Tabitha Prout; yet none the less a great

thought; and I lay you'd find Sarah Jane your right hand if she did

come. But where could us bide?"

"That's easy enough. The difficulty is with Mr. Woodrow. However,

I'll have a tell with him and put my grey hairs and increasing age as

strong as I can. I'm overworked without a doubt. This place has

suffered from lack of females for years, and I won't have no more

boys, so I've got to do it all--save for the messy, silly help you

men give. But there 'tis: with his hate of 'em, I doubt if he'd

stand a young woman about the place."

"I wonder. Make a point of the extra cows, Tabitha. That might win

him; and as for Sarah Jane, by the time we'm married, I'll promise

for her that she knows the whole craft of milk and cream and butter

near so well as you do."

But Tabitha would not allow that.

"In time--in time. She won't have my hand to butter in six months,

Daniel--perhaps not in six years. Butter-making's born with a woman.

But I'll teach her so much as she can learn. Not that anybody ever

taught me--save nature and my own wits."

Joe Tapson entered at this moment, knew not of the argument, but

heard Tabitha's self-praise and sneered at her. They often wrangled

hotly about the relative powers of the sexes; for while Tapson was a

cynic touching womankind, Tabitha declared that she had seen too much

of men in her life to have any admiration left for them.

"'Tis about Sarah Jane and work," explained Miss Prout.

"Work?" he said. "What about work? Let her do her proper married

woman's work and get boys.--plenty of 'em--eh, Daniel?"

Tabitha sniffed scorn upon him.

"Always the way with you vainglorious creatures. 'For us to be

mothers and get boys'--the conceit of it! As if there was nothing

else for a woman to do beside that!"

"Nothing--except get girls," said Joe bluntly. "There's nought else

in the world that men can't do a darned sight better than females.

Don't you deceive yourself there. Why, look around--even to cooking

and sewing; tailors and men-cooks beat you out of the field, when

first-class work has to be done. You work hard enough--too hard even

in your way; yet the likes of you--to say it in a perfectly kindly

spirit--don't really do much more than cumber the earth. Women be

wanted for the next generation--not for this one. Their work lies

there; and when you talk about the value in the world of all you

frost-bitten virgins, I'm bound to tell you, without feeling, that

'tis only in your own imagination."

"You speak like the withered stump of a married man you are," she

answered indignantly. "I blush for you--you to lecture me! 'Tis a

good thing you've no finger in the next generation, I'm sure; and I

lay the happiest moment in your wife's life was the last."

But Joe had not finished. He smiled at her temper and spoke again.

"Why, my dear soul, after the business of child-bearing's done, you

ban't so much use as cows; for they do give us milk; but such as you

yield nought but vinegar."

"What things to say!" exclaimed Daniel; "who ever heard the like?"

"Truth's truth; and the sharp truth about women none knows better

than me. But all the same----"

"Shut your mouth and get out of my kitchen," cried Tabitha. "What

woman could be blamed for treating you harsh? To insult the whole of

us--a poisonous, one-eyed rat like you!"

"A one-eyed rat I may be," retorted Joe; "but I can bite, and 'tis

easy to see the force of my words by the heat of your temper. You

hate men, and I hate women, so all's said."

The question to be answered was Hilary Woodrow's attitude towards the

suggestion of Sarah Jane as dairymaid. He had heard that Brendon was

going to be married, and supposed that the giant would leave

Ruddyford upon that event. But he cared little whether Daniel went

or stopped. The problem of labour on a Dartmoor farm was far less

acute fifty years ago than at present, and the master knew that

Daniel's place might easily be filled. He listened to Tabitha's

arguments but withheld judgment until he had consulted his head man.

John Prout, however, approved, and himself disposed of the only

difficulty attaching to the plan.

"I think very well of it," he said, "and to show how well, I'll help

by coming to live here, and letting Brendon have my cottage. That

makes all clear. She's a very nice, strong maiden, and Tabitha's

right when she says we want another woman about the place. There's

too much on her shoulders now. You'll do well to let it be so,

master; and then the girl can set about learning her work straight

away and be useful from the start."

Thus the matter fell out, to Sarah Jane's delight; and her father was

also well pleased, because his daughter would henceforth dwell close

to him. The woman asked for no assistance or advice in the conduct

of her life henceforth. Her object was swiftly to master the

business of the dairy, and to that end, after conversation with

Tabitha Prout, she went to Lydford and saw Mrs. Weekes. Whether

Hephzibah could be expected to serve her, Sarah Jane never stopped to

consider. Nobody knew more about the local dairy-farmers than the

wife of Philip Weekes; nobody therefore was better able to help

Gregory Friend's daughter, if she chose to do so. But Hephzibah

apparently did not choose.

"To have the face to come to me! 'Tis enough to make angels weep

tears of blood, Sarah Jane," she said. "You throw over the best men

in Lydford and go your own wild, headlong way to misery; and let me

waste torrents of advice upon you; and then walk in, as if nothing

was the matter in the world, and ax me to get you a larner's place

along with cows! What you'll come to, be hid with your Maker, for no

human can guess it. Never was such a saucy wench seen or heard of.

You'll be asking me for a wedding present next, I suppose."

"Don't see no reason why not," said Sarah Jane. "I can't marry two

men, I believe; and I love one and don't care a rush for t'other, so

there's an end to it. Because you wanted for me to take Jarratt and

I ban't going to--that's no reason why you shouldn't do me a

kindness."

"Loramercy! you talk just like a man. If you don't carry a heart

under your ribs, I do. You wait till you've got a proper son as

hankers after a girl, and she won't have him--then we'll see how

'tis. Don't you never ax me for the price of a shoe-lace to keep you

from the union workhouse, Sarah Jane, because you won't get it."

Sarah laughed pleasantly.

"For all you scream out at everybody, like a cat when his tail's trod

on, you're my sort, Mrs. Weekes. You say what you think--though you

may think wrong as often as anybody."

"You'm an outrageous baggage," said Hephzibah, "and I won't bandy no

more words with you. Not a hand--not a finger will I lift to help

such a thankless fool of a woman. Go to Mrs. Perkins at Little

Lydford, and get out of my sight, else I'll put my ten commandants on

your face!"

Thus, despite her ferocity and terrible threats, Mrs. Weekes told

Sarah Jane exactly what she wanted to know; and Hephzibah knew that

she had done so, and scorned herself in secret for a silly fool. But

her nature could not choose but like Sarah Jane. In secret she loved

all fearless things. Therefore, while hating the girl because she

would not take Jarratt, Mrs. Weekes had to admire her because she was

herself.

The work that Sarah Jane wanted was found for her, and during the

next three months she disappeared from Amicombe Hill. Sometimes on

Sundays, however, she visited her father. She worked as hard as she

possibly could, proved an apt pupil, made new friends at her

temporary home in Lew Trenchard, and saw Daniel Brendon now and then.

She also wrote to him and her father.

Meantime her betrothed planned his future, calculated the cost of new

furniture for Mr. Prout's cottage, and made himself very useful to

that large-hearted man.

John Prout was quite content to return to the farm and live under the

same roof as his master. For some reasons he relished the change,

since it would now be easier to devote a little more personal

attention to Hilary. He could see no faults in him; he pandered to

Woodrow's lethargic nature as far as he was able; he stuck stoutly to

it that the farmer was not a robust man and must be considered in

every way possible.

The time sped and Winter returned. Then Sarah Jane, her education

with regard to milk and butter complete, came home, and Daniel began

to clamour for marriage. Mr. Friend finally decided that the season

of Spring should be chosen. For himself he had planned to live

henceforth in a little building at the peat-works. He held that a

few slates and stones, some mortar and a pail of whitewash, would

render it habitable. An engineer had paid one of his rare, periodic

visits to the works, made some suggestions and departed again.

Therefore Gregory was full of new hopes. There had also come

increasing demands for Amicombe peat from various sources, and he was

very busy with a trolly on the old tram-line. He loaded it from his

stores, then steered it down the winding ways of the Moor, discharged

his fuel near the railway station, and, with one strong horse to drag

the trolly, climbed back again to his boggy fastness behind Great

Links.

The banns were called at Lydford, and Sarah Jane and Daniel listened

to them. He burnt under his brown skin; she betrayed interest, but

no visible embarrassment.

At this season Jarratt Weekes was much occupied by business, into

which he plunged somewhat deeply as a distraction. Widow Routleigh

passed away, and it was known that her cottage had been purchased by

the castle-keeper; but circumstances suspended the operations on the

water-leat, and its advent at Lydford became delayed by a year.

Therefore the advantages accruing to his new property were not yet

patent to every eye, and only Jarratt and his mother knew the real

quality of his bargain. In other directions he had obliged his enemy

Mr. Churchward with a loan, because an opportunity arose for putting

"the Infant," Adam's son, into business. William Churchward joined a

bookseller in Tavistock. The occupation, as his father explained,

was genteel and intellectual, and might lead to higher things. From

William's point of view his work was sedentary and slight, and led to

hearty thirst after the shutters were put up. He lived with his

senior partner, pursued his efforts at picture-painting, and often

came home at the end of the week.

No further meeting to discuss the water-leat celebrations had been

called after the postponement was announced. But Mr. Churchward only

waited a fitting time to proceed with his plans. The committee was

understood to continue to exist, and Mr. Nathaniel Spry still

flattered the schoolmaster; Mr. Norseman still went in doubt as to

the propriety of the enterprise; Mr. Pearn still talked about his

free luncheon; and Mr. Huggins still laboured under the thought of

impersonating Moses.

Then came the wedding day and the wedding ceremony. Save for the

master, Ruddyford was empty, because all asked and obtained leave to

see Daniel married. Dunnagoat cot was not large enough to hold the

wedding guests, and its inaccessible position made it impossible in

any case. Therefore Mr. Friend, who insisted on straining his

resources to the extent of a banquet, borrowed an empty cottage near

the church, and with the assistance of Mr. Pearn and his staff,

arranged a very handsome entertainment.

There were present the company from Ruddyford; and Mr. Churchward and

his daughter also accepted Gregory's hospitality; for Mary Churchward

and Sarah Jane were old acquaintance, and Mary, in secret, had liked

Sarah Jane the more for refusing Jarratt Weekes. Mr. Huggins, Mr.

Norseman and the latter's wife also attended; and five or six other

men and women, with their grown-up sons and daughters, completed a

throng of about twenty persons. Many more came to the church

ceremony, and all frankly agreed that such a splendid man and woman

had not within living memory been linked at St. Petrock's. But the

house of Weekes was unrepresented, save by Susan. She had taken

occasion to run away at dawn; and she thoroughly enjoyed the great

event, without any uneasiness as to the future. Her aunt would be

far too interested at learning all particulars, to waste time in

reproaches and admonishment.

So Daniel Brendon and Sarah Jane Friend were wedded, and, having

spent a week in Plymouth and watched the wonder of the sea, they

returned to their little home at Ruddyford and joyfully set about the

business of life.

CHAPTER II

THE GATES OF THE MORNING

Dawn had woven her own texture of pearl into the fabric of the Moor,

and the sun, like a great lamp, hung low upon the shoulder of the

eastern hills. Silence brooded, save for the murmur of water, and

all things were still but the stream, upon whose restless currents

morning wrote in letters of pale gold. The world glimmered under

sparkling moisture born of a starry night, and every blade of grass

and frond of fern lifted its proper jewel to the sun. Peace held the

waking hour a while, and living man still slept as soundly as the old

stone heroes in their forgotten graves beneath the heather. Then

newborn things began to suck the udder, or open little bills for

food. Parent birds and beasts were busy tending upon their young.

The plovers mewed far off, and swooped and tumbled; curlews cried;

herons took the morning upon their wings and swept low and heavily to

their hunting grounds.

Young dawn danced golden-footed over the stony hills, fired the

greater gorse, lighted each granite pinnacle like a torch, flooded

the world with radiance, and drank the dew of the morning. Earth

also awoke, and her sleeping garb of pearly mist, still spread upon

the river valleys, at length dwindled, and glowed, and burnt away

into the ardent air. Then incense of peat-smoke ascended in a

transparent veil of blue above Ruddyford, while from the cot hard by

came forth a woman.

Sarah Jane had been at her new life a week, and began to know the

cows and their characters. They waited for her now, and soon the

milk purred into her glittering pails. First the note of the can was

sharp and thin; then, as the precious fluid spirted, now right, now

left, from the teats under Sarah's firm fingers, the vessel uttered a

milder harmony and finally gave out only a dull thud with each

addition. The cows waited their turns patiently, licked one

another's necks and lowed; as yet no man moved, and the milker amused

herself by talking to the kine. She sat with her cheek pressed to a

great red flank, and her hair shone cowslip-colour against the russet

hide of the beast. Her splendid arms were bare to the elbow.

Already something of the past had vanished from her, and in her eyes

new thought was added to the old frankness. She thought upon

motherhood as she milked these placid mothers; she perceived that the

summer world was full of mothers wheeling the air and walking on

earth. Wifehood was good to her, and very dearly she loved the man

who had led her into it.

Sarah Jane whistled sometimes when she felt unusually cheerful. She

whistled now, and her red lips creased up till they resembled the

breaking bud of a flower. The sounds she uttered were deep and full,

like a blackbird's song, and they made no set tune, but rippled in

harmonious, sweet, irregular notes, as an accompaniment to kindred

thoughts.

Suddenly feet fell on the stone pavement outside the cow-byres, and a

man approached where she sat and milked the last cow. The others,

each in turn, her store yielded, had passed through an open gate into

the Moor, there to browse and repose and chew the cud until another

evening.

Sarah Jane glanced up and saw Hilary Woodrow standing and looking at

her. As yet she had but seen him once upon a formal introduction;

now he stopped and spoke to her.

"Good morning, Mrs. Brendon. I hope your house is comfortable, and

that you are settling down. Let Tabitha know if she can do anything

for you."

"Good-morning, sir, and thank you. 'Tis a very snug li'l house, and

nothing could be nicer."

He nodded. Then the last cow went off, and Sarah Jane rose, patted

it on the flank and stretched her arms. He remarked her height and

splendid figure.

"Rather cramping work, I'm afraid," he said.

"'Twas at first, but I like it better now. Cows be nice, cosy

creatures an' terrible understanding. Some's so peaceful an' quiet;

an' others that masterful they won't take 'no' for an answer, an'

push afore the patient ones and get their own way, and will be milked

first."

He nodded once more and smiled. Then she washed her hands in a

granite trough of sweet water and spoke again.

"You'm moving early," she remarked, in her easy and friendly fashion.

"John Prout said you always laid late for health, yet you be up afore

the men."

"I slept badly and was glad to get out into this sun."

"You'm over-thin seemingly, and have a hungry look, sir. Here--wait

a minute! Bide where you be, and I'll come back afore you can count

ten!"

She vanished into Ruddyford, and Hilary, wondering, watched her

swift, splendid speed. In a moment she returned with an empty glass.

She filled it from the milk-pail and held it to him.

"Drink," she said. "'Tis what you'm calling out for."

"I can't, Mrs. Brendon--raw milk doesn't suit me."

"Don't you believe that! Milk hot out of the cow suits everybody.

Take it so, and you'll get rounder and happier in a week. My own

father was largely the better for it. Try, sir; do please."

He could not resist her eyes, and took the glass from her hands and

thanked her.

"Here's good luck and all prosperity to you and your husband," he

said, and emptied the glass.

Her face brightened with pleasure.

"Lick your lips," she begged. "Don't lose a drop of it: 'tis

life--milk's the very beginning of life--so my mother used to tell."

"And do you think this cup is the beginning of mine?"

"No--yours beginned fifty year ago by the look of you. But milk will

help you. You're just the thin, poor-fed fashion of man as ought to

drink it. My Daniel's different. With his huge thews he must have

red meat--like a dear old tiger. Milk's no use to him."

"By Jove--d'you think I look fifty, Mrs. Brendon?" he asked.

"To my eye, I should guess you wasn't much under. Beg pardon, I'm

sure, if you be."

"I'm thirty-six," he said.

"My stars! Then you ought to take more care of yourself."

"I sleep badly."

"You think too much belike?"

"Yes--there's a lot to think about."

"You did ought to put a bit of wool round your neck when you come out

in the morning air, perhaps," she suggested; but he laughed at this.

"Good gracious! I'm not made of sugar. I look a giant of strength

beside town folk. 'Tis only in your eye that all of us seem

weaklings beside Brendon. To tell you the truth, I'm rather a fool

about my health. I said just now I had so much to think about: don't

you believe it! I've got nothing to think about--hardly more than

the cows. Now, I mustn't waste any more of your time."

He sauntered on towards the Moor.

Daniel Brendon was standing at his entrance as Woodrow approached,

and he touched his hat and said--

"Morning, sir!"

"Morning, Dan," the master answered and passed on.

Sarah Jane took her milk-pails to the dairy, and then went home to

breakfast. She chattered to her husband, narrated her morning's

experience, and explained at length her theories of Hilary Woodrow.

"To think as he be no more than six-and-thirty!" she said.

"How d'you know that?"

"He told me. I forget how it went, but I'd just said I reckoned he

was fifty, and he seemed rather troubled."

"Fancy your speaking like that!"

"He don't look much less, all the same. And I gave him a bit of

advice too."

"Advise him! Nought stops you," Daniel said with his mouth full.

"Why should it? After you've been married a month--there

'tis--you've got more wisdom and understanding of menfolk than a

century of maiden life could bring to 'e. I feel like a mother to

these here helpless men a'ready."

"Never was such a large-hearted female as you, Sarah Jane."

"What that man wants is a wife. I couldn't have read him any more

than you could a bit ago; now 'tis as plain to my understanding as

this cup of tea. A wisht, hangdog, sorrowful face to my eye; yet

very good-looking in his thin way. But hungry--awful hungry."

"As to women, he's had enough of them. One treated him shameful.

But 'tisn't them: 'tis his terrible vain ideas about religion makes

him fretful, I reckon. Well he may be hungry!"

"Don't you believe that," she answered. "Church-going don't put fat

on the bones, whatever else it may do. He should have a female after

him, to fuss a bit, and coddle him, and see he lets his proper food

down. He wants somebody to listen to his talk--somebody to sharpen

his wits on."

With startling intuition of truth she spoke; but Daniel did not

appreciate her discernment.

"Fewer that listen to his talk, the better," he said. "Ban't likely

Mr. Woodrow will be happy so long as he sucks poison out of all sorts

of godless books."

"Poison is as poison does," she answered. "Everybody says he's a

very good sort of man. The good man can't be godless."

"Because his Maker's stronger than his opinions and ban't sleeping,

though Woodrow's conscience may be. In time of trouble I wouldn't

give a rush for his way. There's nought to help then but Heaven; and

so he'll find it. Not that I judge--only I'm sorry for it."

"He wants a woman after him," repeated Sarah Jane decisively.

Daniel laughed at her.

"You think, because you and me are married, that nobody can be happy

otherwise."

"Men and women must come to it for sartain, if they'm to be complete,

and shine afore their fellow-creatures. A bachelor's an unfinished

thing; and so's a maiden--I don't care who she is. And she knows it

at the bottom of her heart, for all she pretends different."

"That's not Christianity," Daniel answered; "and you oughtn't to say

it, or think it. You speak in the first flush of being married; and

I feel just the same and scorn a single man; but 'tis silly nonsense,

and we'm both wrong. The saints and martyrs was mostly single, and

the holiest Christians that ever lived haven't found no use for women

as a rule. Christ's Self wasn't married for that matter."

She considered this view, then shook her head unconvinced.

"He went to marriages and was kind to the women. He might have found

the right maiden Himself, and won joy of her after He'd set the world

right, if they hadn't killed Him."

Daniel stared.

"Don't say things like that, Sarah Jane! You don't mean it for

profane speaking; but 'tis very near it, and makes me feel awful

scared."

"What have I said now, dear heart? I never know what you think 'bout

things. You change so. If 'tis holier and better to bide

single--but there--what foolishness! Jesus Christ set store by

little children anyway; and He knowed you can't have 'em without

getting 'em."

Brendon rose up from the table and kissed her neck.

"You'm a darling creature," he said, "and to look at you be to make

single life but a frosty thing in a man's eyes, no doubt. Certainly

'twould be false for me to say a word against marriage; only it ban't

for all; and the Christian religion shows that there are many can do

more useful work out of it than in it."

"Poor things!" she said in her pride. "Let 'em do what they can,

then. But I'd be sorry to think that a churchyard stone, getting

crookeder every year, was all that was left to remember me by when I

went."

"That's your narrowness, Sarah. There's other contrivances beside

babbies that a man or a woman can bring into the world. Goodness and

proper actions, and setting an example, and such like."

"Parson's work," she said. "What's that to taking your share in the

little ones? If I thought us should have no childer, I'd so soon

hang myself as not, Dan."

"Your ideas do hurtle about my ears like hail," he said, "And they'm

awful wild and silly sometimes."

"I know it. You'll larn me better come presently."

"I hope so," he said. "You're all right at heart--only the pattern

of your ideas now and then be a thought too outlandish for a

Christian home. You wasn't taught all you've got to larn. I don't

say it out of no disrespect to father; but--well--us all have a deal

to larn yet--the oldest and youngest--and me most of all."

Daniel heaved a contented sigh upon this platitude, and his day's

work began.

CHAPTER III

PROGRESS IN IDEAS

The Brendons always went to morning service at Lydford on Sunday.

Sometimes Mr. Tapson, who was a churchman, accompanied them; but Agg

and Lethbridge belonged to another sect, and their place of worship

was at Mary Tavy. Neither John Prout nor his sister ever went.

Indeed, Sunday dinner occupied the great part of Tabitha's energies

on every seventh day.

Once, being early for service, Daniel and Sarah Jane wandered amid

the tombs, and then sat down upon the churchyard wall and looked out

over a wooded gorge beneath. Brendon was always very serious and

sober on Sunday. It seemed to his wife that he donned a mental habit

with his black coat, and in her heart she rejoiced when the day had

passed. He looked strictly after her religion from the time of their

marriage, and had lengthened her morning and evening prayers

considerably with additions from his own. She fell in readily with

his wishes, and was obedient as a child; but none the less she knew

that the inward and spiritual signs he foretold from her increased

religious activity, delayed their appearance. The daily act of faith

was not necessary to her mental health, and it proved powerless to

alter her natural bent of thought. Sometimes she still shocked him,

but less often than of old.

She loved him with a great love; and love taught her to understand

his stern soul a little. Not fear, but affection, made her careful.

Meantime her own attitude to life and her own frank and joyous spirit

were absolutely unchanged. Only, from consideration for him, she hid

her thought a little, and often shut her mouth upon an opinion,

because she remembered that it might give him pain.

"Do you ever think about the graves?" asked her husband, looking

round thoughtfully at the grass-clad hillocks. But she kept her eyes

before her and only shook her head.

"No, Dan--can't say as I do. The churchyard's the place for dead

men--not living ones. Us shall spend a terrible lot of time here

come presently, and I don't want to waste much of it here now."

"'Tis a steadying job to read the verses above all these bones," he

said.

"Read 'em, then," she answered. "But don't ax me to. I hate graves,

and I hate everything to do with death. With all my might I hate it."

"You shouldn't feel so. 'Tis a part of life, and no more can we have

life without it, than we can have a book without a last page. And no

one of all these men carried anything into the next world but his

record in this. Yet to remember how soon we must give up our clay be

a solemn, useful thought."

She did not answer, and he strolled apart and considered the trite

warnings, pious hopes, and implicit pathos of dates, where figures

often told the saddest tale.

A man came into the churchyard, and, looking round, Daniel, very

greatly to his astonishment, saw Jarratt Weekes talking to his wife.

Scarcely believing his own eyes, he strode over a row of the silent

people and approached.

Neither his wife nor himself had spoken to the castle-keeper since

their marriage; yet at last it seemed that the rejected suitor was

recovering from his disappointment and about to forget and forgive

the past. Weekes shook hands with Brendon, as he had already done

with Sarah Jane; then he addressed them both.

"I'm hoping as you'll let bygones be bygones, Brendon. I was hard

hit, and--well, 'tis no good going over old ground. I did my best to

get you away from Sarah Jane here, and I failed. There's no more to

be said."

"Except that you didn't fight fair," answered Daniel calmly. "You

tried by very underhand ways to do me out of my own, and I'm sorry

for it. All the same, I'm willing enough to forgive you and be

friendly henceforth, Mr. Weekes."

"So am I," declared Sarah Jane. "'Twas a very great kindness in you

to be so fond of me, and I never shall forget it. But there was but

one man in the world for me after I met Daniel here, and so I hope

there won't be no more feeling against us."

"Not on my side there won't," answered Jarratt. "I'm glad to let it

go. Life's too short to harbour any bitterness like that. I hope

you'll be happy all your days, and if ever I can serve you, Brendon,

you've only got to tell me so."

Daniel glowed with satisfaction, took the other's hand again and

shook it.

"This is an extra good Sunday for me," he answered, "and nothing

better could have happened. And I'll say no more, except that I

trust it may come into my power to do you good some day, Mr. Weekes.

Which I will do, God helping."

"So be it," said the other. "I'll hold you friendly in my mind,

henceforward--both of you."

He did not look at Brendon during this conversation, but sometimes

cast a side glance into Sarah Jane's face. Now folk began to enter

the churchyard, and presently the bells rang.

During service Brendon very heartily thanked Heaven for this happy

event, and blessed his Maker, in that He had touched the angry heart

of Jarratt Weekes to penitence. But Sarah Jane regarded the incident

with a spirit less than prayerful. She was hardly convinced that her

old lover meant friendship henceforth. She knew what he had

attempted against Daniel; she remembered the things that he had said

to her; and this sudden change of mind and expression of contrition

found her sceptical.

As for Weekes himself, he had acted upon impulse and the accident of

meeting them alone. But his motives were involved. He was not yet

done with Sarah Jane. He rather wished to punish her, since he could

not possess her. He certainly had not forgiven, and still desired

revenge. Therefore he pretended a sudden regret, deceived Brendon,

and so ordered his apologies that henceforth he might pose as a

friend. He had, however, little thought of what he would do, and

revenge was by no means the dominating idea of his mind at present.

Much else occupied it, and so busy was he, that he knew quite well

nothing practical might ever spring from his secret dislike of the

Brendons. Time might even deaden the animosity, before opportunity

arose to gratify it; but, on the other hand, with free intercourse

once established, anything might fall out. So he left the situation

vague for chance to develop. His malignancy was chronic rather than

acute. It might leap into activity by the accident of events; or

perish, smothered under the press of his affairs.

As they returned home from church, Sarah Jane warned her husband to

place no absolute trust in the things that he had heard from Jarratt

Weekes; but Daniel blamed her for doubting. He explained that Mr.

Weekes was a Christian man and a regular attendant at worship. He

felt positive that the other was truly contrite, and out of his own

nature accepted these assurances without suspicion. He went further,

and blamed his wife for her doubt.

"You mustn't be small like that," he said. "It isn't worthy of you."

"I know him better than you do. He was very much in love with me.

He offered me a horse if I'd have him. That was pretty good for such

a mean man as him."

"You must always allow for the part that God plays in a person. When

anybody says or does a thing outside his character, don't jump to the

idea he's lying or playing a part. But just ask yourself if God may

not have touched the man and lifted him higher than himself."

"You can't be higher than yourself--so Mr. Woodrow says. I forget

what we was telling about, but, coming for his milk one morning, he

got very serious and full of religious ideas."

Daniel frowned.

"There's no true foundation to his opinions--always remember that."

"He's just as religious as you, in his own way, all the same," she

said. "He told me religion be like clothes. If it fits, well and

good; but 'tis no good trying to tinker and patch up the Bible to

make it suit your case if it won't. I dimly see what the man means."

"Do you?--well, I don't, and I don't want to; and I won't have him

talk to you so; I ban't too pleased at this caper of his, to come out

every morning for a glass of warm milk when you'm with the cows."

"And of an evening too, he comes."

"It must be stopped, then. He shall talk no more of his loose

opinions to you. 'Tinker and patch the Bible'! What will he say

next? Sometimes I feel a doubt if I did ought to bide here at all.

I'm not sure if one should be working and taking the money of a man's

that not a Christian."

"He's a good man enough. I've heard you say yourself that you never

met a better."

"I know it. And that's the mystery. I hope he'll come round and see

truth as the years pass by."

"He's the better for the milk, and a kinder creature never walked,"

said Sarah Jane.

In truth she had seen a good deal of Hilary Woodrow since first he

strolled abroad after a sleepless night and drank at her bidding. It

pleased him to find her at her work, for she was always the first to

be stirring; and now he had fallen into the way of rising early,

walking in the air, and talking with the dairymaid while she milked

the cows.

Sarah Jane, in some small measure, appeared to have revived his faith

and interest in women. Her artless outlook upon life came as a

novelty to him. Everything interested her; nothing shocked her. An

almost sexless purity of mind characterized her speeches. An idea

entering her brain came forth again chastened and sweetened. Her

very plainness of speech made for purgation of thought. The things

called "doubtful" were disinfected when she spoke about them.

Hilary Woodrow found Daniel's wife not seldom in his head, and as

time advanced he grew to anticipate the dawn with pleasure, and

looked forward to the fresh milk of her thoughts, rather than that

she brought him from the cow.

He protested sometimes at the narrowness of the opinions round about,

and told her, with gloomy triumph, that certain local ministers of

the church declined to know him.

"Which is best," he asked, "to say that every man is born wicked, as

they do, or say that every man is born good, like I do? Why, 'tis to

condemn without a trial to say that every man is born wicked."

"Men be born little, dear, dinky babbies," she said--"no more wicked

than they blind kittens in the loft."

"Of course not; but that's dogma. They find it in the Bible. It's

called the Fall. I can't talk to the men about these things--except

Prout. But I wish I could get at your husband a bit, because he's in

earnest. The fault with earnest folk so often is, that they never

will understand other people are earnest too."

"He knows you'm very good, sir, for all your opinions."

"You see, conscience and the moral sense are two different things;

but Brendon would never allow that. He says that conscience comes

from God. I say it is what you've been taught, or learned for

yourself. If I believed in God--then I'd say the moral sense was

what came direct from Him. But I don't, and so I explain it by the

laws of Evolution."

She shook her head.

"That's all a rigmarole to me, though I dare say Dan would follow it.

You don't believe in no God at all, then?"

"None at all--not the shadow of the shade of a God."

In her blue eyes nothing but the sky was reflected; in his there was

much of earth; and his own earth was unrestful as he looked at her

morning loveliness.

"Drink your milk afore the warmth be out of it," she said. "'Twould

be a terrible curious thing if there was no God, certainly."

"The sun's my God."

"Well, then, there is a God--though we don't see over-much of Him up

here."

"But we believe in him, and trust him with the seed, and the lambs;

and know that he'll bring back Spring again when Winter is done. So,

after all, I'm talking nonsense, because I've got as great faith in

my god as your husband has in his."

"To hear you run on! Like a book, I'm sure."

"I can talk like this to you, because you don't look at me as if I

was damned and you weren't sorry for it. That's what I get from most

people. Have you ever read about Jehovah and the burnt offerings and

the sin offerings, and how His altar was to be sprinkled with fresh

blood all day long, and how the dumb beasts and birds were to be torn

to pieces for a sweet savour before Him? That's the blood-sucking

vampire the parsons think made the stars, and the flowers, and--you!

I wish I'd lived a hundred years later: then I shouldn't have been

fretted with so many fools, Sarah Jane."

"Us ought to live and let live, I suppose."

"Charity--that's all I ask. I only want 'em to practise the first

and last thing their Lord begged for, and preached for, and prayed

for."

"You'm very charitable, I'm sure--and never name the kind things you

do--though John Prout tells about them."

"Does he? No, no, they're in his imagination. Prout spoils me and

thinks too well of me. So do you."

"I'm sorry for you, because you've got such a lot of queer opinions,

seemingly, and none to let 'em off upon. You must feel like bursting

with trouble sometimes, from the look of your eyes."

He laughed at that and abruptly left her. It was his custom now to

appear and depart without any formal salute. Sometimes, after

absence of days, he would suddenly be at her side after dawn, or at

evening. Then he would resume the thread of his last speeches, as

though no interval had fallen between.

There was no secrecy in these interviews, and often another, or

Brendon himself, might be present at them. But when once Woodrow

appealed to Daniel, before his wife, to be larger-minded and more

tolerant, the giant shook his head. He held it wickedness to be easy

with wrong ideas. To him that man was dishonest, who had not the

courage of his own opinions; and disloyal, who could even endure

arguments directed against his faith.

CHAPTER IV

SATURDAY NIGHT

After heavy rain the evening cleared awhile and the sky showed palest

blue, touched with little clouds that carried the sunset fire. But

banks of mist already began to roll up with night, and their vans, as

they billowed along the south, were touched with rose. Darkness

swiftly followed; the world faded away under a cold fog, that

increased in density until all things were hidden and smothered by

it. Into the valleys it rolled, swept croft and heath and the

channels of the rivers, sank into the deep lanes, searched the woods,

spread darker than night upon the lowlands. Outside the Castle Inn

it hung like wool, and across it, from the windows of the bar,

streamed out radiance of genial light. But this illumination was

choked within a dozen yards of its starting point; and, if a door was

opened, the fog crept in with the visitor.

Men appeared to take their familiar parts in the drinking and talking

of Saturday night, and each made a similar comment on the unusual

density of the mist, each rubbed the dewy rime from his hair as he

entered.

"If it freezes 'pon this, us shall have a proper sight of ammil in

the trees to-morrow," said Mr. Jacob Taverner, who was of the

company. "I haven't seen that wonder for ten years now; but well I

can mind it. 'Twas a day soon after the beginning of the New

Year--even as this might be; and us rose up to find every twig and

bough, and stone and fuzz bush coated with pure ice, like glass. The

sun played upon the country, and never such a dazzle was seen. 'Twas

like a fairy story--all the world turned to gold and precious gems

a-glittering. As Huggins said, it might have been the New Jerusalem

itself, if it hadn't been so plaguey cold along with. Didn't you,

Val?"

"I did say so--I remember them words," answered Mr. Huggins from his

corner. "Cold enough to freeze the bird on the bough 'twas. I hope

it won't never go so chill again, while I'm spared, for 'twould carry

me off without a doubt."

"You'll live to play Moses an' walk along with St. Petrock yet," said

Mr. Pearn slily.

Mr. Huggins always became uneasy when Moses was mentioned; and this

his friends well knew.

"I wish the water had run to Lydford when 'twas first planned. This

putting off for a year be very improper in my opinion," declared

Taverner; and Mr. Adam Churchward, from his snug seat behind a

leathern screen near the fire, replied:

"We can't honestly throw the blame on anybody, Jacob. You see, they

were suddenly confronted with some engineering difficulties in

getting the water over the railway cutting. 'Tis not as easy as they

thought to do it. And then there was another trouble in that hollow

full of springs under the Tavistock road. But I have no hesitation

in saying, after my recent conversation with the deputy assistant

engineer, that the water will be here definitely by June next, or

Autumn at latest."

"Will you call up another committee then?" asked Mr. Huggins.

"Certainly I shall. Spry wrote out the minutes of the last meeting,

and will be able to refresh your minds as to what was proposed and

seconded all in form and order."

"How's 'the Infant' faring to Tavistock?" asked Mr. Pearn. "I was

offered five shilling for that there little picture of the Castle he

made a while back, and give me for a bad debt. It hangs over your

head, Huggins."

Mr. Churchward was familiar with the sketch, and nodded.

"Yes, he has the artist's instinct. He colours still, I believe, and

has sold one or two little trifles at Tavistock. He doesn't take to

the book business, I find. If we could but get a patron for

him--somebody to send him to London free of expense to develop the

possibilities of art. But patrons are things of the past."

"Else you would be in a higher sphere yourself, no doubt,

schoolmaster."

"Thank you, Taverner. But I am quite content. _Multum in parvo_, as

we say. I get much into little. I hope the rising generation will

show that I have done my duty, if not more than my duty."

"Be they a very on-coming lot, or thick-headed?" inquired Mr.

Huggins. "I often think if us old men had had such chances to larn

as the boys nowadays, that we should have made a stir in the nation.

Anyway, we stood to work in a fashion I never see of late years.

Hard as nails we used to be. Now--my stars! you'll see the childer

going to school under umbrellas! 'Tis a great sign of weakness in my

opinion, and ought to be stopped."

"As to the main question," answered Adam, "my youthful charges may be

considered rather under than over the average in their intellects.

With the exception of Johnny Williams and his brother Arthur, I

should say my present classes will leave the world pretty much as

they find it. I need not tell you that I inculcate high moral

principles; and in that respect they are as good and honest a lot of

boys as Lydford has ever turned out--or any other centre of

instruction. But as to book learning--no."

"Too many school treats and holidays, in my opinion," said Jarratt

Weekes.

He had just entered, and was shaking himself like a dog that emerges

from the water.

"Hold on!" cried Jacob Taverner. "What be about?"

Weekes took off his coat and flung it on a settle.

"The usual," he said to Mr. Pearn, and, while his drink was being

poured, turned to the schoolmaster.

"'Tis all of a piece--the softness of the times," he said. "You larn

boys to be lazy to school. I don't say it specially of your school.

'Tis the same at all of 'em. Look at your own son."

"You mustn't say that," answered Adam. "I cannot suffer it. You

ought to remember that the average of human brain power is

exceedingly low. I am always against putting too much strain on the

human mind on principle. Our lunatic asylums are the result of

putting too much strain--not only on the mind, but on the body. It

should be the object of every schoolmaster to feel that, come what

may, no pupil of his shall ever be sent to a lunatic asylum or to

prison. That has always been my object, at any rate; and without

self-praise I may say that I have achieved it, except in the case of

Thomas Drury, the Saltash murderer."

"We're a canting lot of humbugs," said Weekes shortly. "We think

more of the fools of to-day than the wise men of to-morrow."

"Quite right too," declared Mr. Pearn. "They want it more. The wise

men coming will think for themselves; the fools can't."

"Yes; they'll think for themselves, and laugh at us," said Jarratt.

"Let 'em laugh," said Mr. Huggins. "Who cares? We shall be

underground, in other Hands than theirs. We shall answer to God

A'mighty for our works, not to the unborn."

"The unborn will judge us all the same--Weekes is right there,"

admitted the schoolmaster. "I always feel the truth of that when I

lift my rod. I say to myself, 'this erring child will some day be a

father. I am therefore not only teaching him to keep the narrow

road, but helping his children and his grandchildren to do so.' As I

wield the instrument of correction _in extremis_, I often think that

I may be moulding the character of some great man, who will not draw

his first breath until long after I am dust. This may seem merely

the imagination of the scholarly mind, yet so it is. Take your next

with me, Weekes. I always like our conversation to be raised to a

high pitch; and you always do it."

Of late, to gain some private ends, Mr. Churchward had resolutely

ignored the ill-will of the castle-keeper. Jarratt continued to

treat him indifferently; but Adam would never allow himself to be

annoyed, and always offered the cheek to the smiter. Everybody

perceived this change of attitude, and everybody, including Mr.

Churchward's daughter, knew the reason.

Mr. Weekes nodded and his glass was filled again.

"I hope your mother be having good trade?" asked Noah Pearn. "I hear

that the Christmas markets touched high water this year."

"All we could wish," admitted Jarratt. "She's worked like ten women

this winter."

"Very aggravating 'tis to hear it--to me," suddenly declared a

sad-looking, silent man, in a corner. "There's my wife might be

doing the very same; but rabbit it! she've never got time for nothing

now. We've gived up our market stall altogether. I've got to do

everything of late days. I never thought she'd have changed like

that--else I'd never have took her."

"How many children have you got, Samuel?" asked Mr. Huggins.

"But one," said Samuel gloomily.

"There 'tis!" cried the ancient. "They'm all the same with one--'tis

the commonest thing. But wait till she've brought 'e half-a-dozen or

more, and she'll have time for everything--market included."

"'Tis strange but true, like other ways of Providence," declared

Taverner; "but I've marked it in my own family, that one child be far

more trouble than six; an' takes far more time. 'Tis the want of

practice, no doubt."

Men came and went. Presently Weekes prepared to depart, and put on

his coat again.

"Where's my father to-night?" he asked. "'Tis past his hour. He had

rather a dressing down afore mother started this morning. I should

have thought he'd have come for an extra glass in consequence."

"He never takes but four half pints of a Saturday night, year in,

year out," answered Mr. Pearn. "Sometimes he'll top up with a

thimble of sloe gin, if the weather's harsh; but that's his outside

allowance."

"Life's a stormy voyage--without no harbour--for him," said Huggins.

"I don't speak disrespectfully of Mrs. Weekes--very far from

it--she's a born wonder; but one of the sort built for wild weather.

She likes it; she'd droop if everything went smooth."

"Everything do go smooth," said Jarratt.

"She is like a stately vessel that casts up foam from its prow,"

declared the schoolmaster. "Mrs. Weekes is a lesson to Lydford, as I

have always maintained, and always shall do."

The husband of the stately vessel appeared at this moment.

"Be blessed if I didn't miss the door," he said. "Never remember

such a fog. 'Twill be blind man's buff to-morrow."

He sighed and came to the fire.

"Have a drink, father," said Jarratt, as to an inferior. But Philip

shook his head.

"Not yet, Jar, thank 'e. I must get a thought warmer first. I'll

smoke my pipe a bit."

"Down on his luck he is to-day," explained the younger Weekes. "Down

on his luck--because he don't know his luck--eh, father?"

Philip did not answer; conversation became general, and the

castle-keeper departed.

Then, when he had gone, Noah Pearn endeavoured to cheer his customer.

"Us have got some hot ale here wi' a nutmeg and a bit 'o toast in it,

my dear," he said. "You sup a drop and 'twill brace your sinews.

The cold have touched 'e perhaps."

"Thank you, Noah," said Mr. Weekes, and took the glass. "You're very

good, I'm sure. I've had a lot on my mind to-day."

"She'd be a fine woman, if there was a thought less lemon in her,"

said Taverner soothingly.

"She is a fine woman," answered Mr. Weekes, "--fine enough for

anything; but fine weather's no good if you'm bedridden, and a fine

woman's no good to her husband if she won't--however, us needn't wash

our dirty linen in public. We've all our defects."

"Almost too high-spirited, if I may venture to say so," declared Mr.

Churchward. "She has the courage of the masculine gender."

"So have I, if I was let bide," explained Philip. "That's the

mischief of it. If I'd been a sort of weak man, ready to go under,

and do woman's work, and play second fiddle happily, it wouldn't have

mattered; but I ban't at all that sort of man by nature, and it hurts

my feelings to be made to do it."

"I'm sure you'm too wise to rebel, however," said Mr. Huggins.

"'Twas much the same with me, and often I wish I'd been so sensible

as you; but my manly spirit wouldn't brook nothing of that sort. 'I

won't have it!' I used to say in my fierce way. But I'm sorry now,

because she might have been alive yet if I'd been a thought easier

with her."

Noah Pearn winked behind the back of Mr. Huggins at the company

generally, for it was well remembered that Valentine's vanished

partner had ruled him with a rod of iron.

Mr. Weekes, however, showed no amusement. In his mind he was

retracing certain painful recent incidents.

"Take what fell out this very day at morn," he said, "to show how

rash and wilful Mrs. Weekes can be of a Saturday. I was down in the

garden attending to a thing or two and packing a pair of birds for

our own hamper. Suddenly she came out of the house and began. 'Twas

all about Mrs. Swain, of course, and how I never can send two birds

of the same size, and how my goings-on will ruin our custom and spoil

business and fetch us to the poor-house in our old age. She was in

full swing, souls, when down comes Susan from the kitchen, running as

if the dowl was arter her. 'Oh, Aunt Hepsy!' she begins. Then her

aunt cut her short, and told her not to dare open her silly mouth

while she was talking. So Susan stood still and the missis went on

at me. I was a greedy Gubbins, and a traitor, and a wolf in sheep's

clothing, and a lot of other things; I was a reed shaken with the

wind, a know-nought gert mumphead, and suchlike. Then, after ten

minutes of it, I should think, she turned to Susan, and asked what

she'd got to say. The toad of a girl grinned in our faces and said

'twas of no consequence, only a gert strange dog, with a bit of

broken rope round his neck, had got into the kitchen and put his paws

on the table and growled at her, like a bear, and showed all his

teeth at once. Well--there 'twas--you can guess what the room looked

like when I runned in. The dog--I know whose dog 'twas well

enough!--had done just what he damn pleased. He only made off when

he heard me coming, and a muck heap's a neat, orderly place to what

that kitchen was after he'd gone. Everything off the table, for he'd

got over the crockery to the bacon and swept the tea-pot and things

afore him like a river sweeps straws--bread, milk,

dripping--everything. Never you seed such a masterpiece! I lost my

presence of mind and turned on the missis and said, 'There--that's

your work! Let that be a lesson to you, you chattering woman!' I

oughtn't to have said it, and I was sorry enough after; but God He

knows 'twill be weeks afore I get in a word edgewise again. She had

her spasms first; then she come to and let me catch it hot and strong

from the shoulder, I promise you. She never stopped. While I drove

her to the station, and shut the carriage door on her, and the guard

he whistled and the train went, 'twas one shattering volume of

speech. However, I needn't trouble other people. We've all got our

cares, no doubt."

They expressed sympathy with Philip's difficulties, and Adam

Churchward especially dwelt upon the bright side. He reminded Mr.

Weekes of the noble character of his son, and explained that we all

have the defects of our qualities, and must give and take in a large

and understanding spirit, if we are to reach happiness, despite the

adverse circumstance of being human creatures.

These kindly words and his third glass of warm beer and nutmeg

comforted Philip; while the fourth and last found him resigned even

to the verge of renewed cheerfulness.

"Take my advice and say the word in season first minute you see her

to-morrow," said Mr. Pearn. "Then, if the market's been good, 'twill

come all right."

"I will do so," promised Philip. "That reminds me: I must take a box

o' straw to the station, for she was going to fetch home a new

tea-pot and a good few other things with her. 'Twill all come right,

and I dare say, after all, 'twasn't a bad thing that I forgot myself

and put my foot down so resolute. She may think on it after."

"She will," foretold Jacob Taverner. "Be sure she'll think on it,

and think none the worse of you for it. They like the manhood to

flash out of us now and again--even the most managing sort."

Closing time had come, and with great exclamations at the density of

the fog, Mr. Pearn's guests departed to their homes.

CHAPTER V

VISIT TO A HERMIT

The evidences of former humanity that abound upon Dartmoor may be

divided into remains prehistoric and mediæval. Amid the first shall

be found the ruins of the stone-man's home and the scattered

foundations of his lodges and encampments. To him also belong

certain cirques of stone lifted here and there in lonely places,

together with parallelitha, or avenues, and those menhirs and cairns

that rise solitary upon high hills to mark the sleeping-places of

neolithic heroes. Profound antiquity wraps up these memorials, and

the significance of their record is still matter of antiquarian

doubt. To what purpose was erected the hypæthral chamber and the

long aisle of stone, may never now be understood; but later entries

in the granite cartulary of Dartmoor are more easily deciphered.

From the middle ages date the tin-streamers' works, where Tudor

miners laboured; and scarce a river valley shall be searched without

offering many evidences of their toil; while upon the higher grounds,

marking some spot of special note, indicating boundaries or serving

as guide-posts from goal to goal, the old stone crosses stand.

It was significant of the different attitudes of Sarah Jane and her

husband that she found a measure of interest in the pagan hut-circle

or grave; he only cared to see the chance symbol of his faith. These

Christian evidences were rare round about Ruddyford, but marks of the

old stone men did not lack, and Sarah Jane, to whom Hilary Woodrow

had once explained their meaning, always professed active interest in

these fragments, and told the things that she had heard concerning

them to her husband.

There came a Sunday in March when the Brendons went up to see Gregory

Friend, that they might convey a great piece of news to him. The

young heather was rusty-red in the shoot, and here and there swaling

fires had scorched the bosom of the hills to blackness. The day was

wintry, yet clear, but many snug spots offered among the boulders,

where one might sit facing the sun and sheltered from the east wind.

Such a place Brendon presently found and bade his wife rest awhile.

"'Tis another of them hut-circles master tells about," said Sarah

Jane. "That was where the door opened without a doubt. To think as

folk lived here, Dan--thousands and thousands of years ago."

"Poor dust! I like the crosses better: they be nearer to our own

time, I suppose, and mean a comfortabler thing. 'Tis wisht to hear

farmer tell how savage, skin-clad folk dwelt here afore the coming of

Christ."

"They couldn't help coming afore He did. He ought to have come

sooner, if He wanted for them to know about Him," she answered.

Brendon frowned.

"You'm always so defiant," he said. "I still catch the master's way

of speech in your tongue now and again. An' very ugly it sounds."

"I'm bound to stop and listen to him sometimes, when he begins to

talk. But since he comed of a morning for his glass of milk and you

stopped it--or I told him I'd rather he didn't--us have had no words

about holy things. He's got a side all the same."

"I'm sorry to hear you say so. If you say so, you think so, no

doubt."

Sarah Jane laughed.

"'Tis a free country--as far as thoughts be the matter."

"That's him again. I heard him say the only sort of freedom we could

have was freedom of thought. But unbelievers shouldn't have that if

I could help it."

She looked at him with love rather than respect.

"You'm deep but not wide in your way of thinking. I mind once last

autumn coming to you and marking as you'd been trampling in the

whortleberries. Your boots was all red and purple, and it looked for

all the world as if you might have been stamping somebody to death."

"What things you say!"

"All the same now, be honest, Daniel--couldn't you do it? Can't you

feel that things might happen so bad that you'd even kill a person?

There's death in your eyes sometimes, when you talk of evildoers, and

them that are cruel to children, and suchlike."

"'Tisn't a wifely thing to remind me I've got a temper. You've never

had to regret it, anyway."

"How do you know that? But 'tis true: I never have. You're a deal

too soft with me, bless your big heart. I can't do wrong in your

eyes; and yet, sometimes, I wonder how you'd take it if I did do

wrong--such wrong as there could be no doubt about. There's some

things you'd kill me for, I do believe."

"You'm talking to a Christian man; but you don't seem to know it."

"A man be a man--Christian or heathen. Things do happen to men

sometimes, and their religion don't make any more difference then to

what they do than the hat on their heads. Quite right, too. I like

to think there's a bit of metal in you. Sometimes I almost wish

you'd make me feel it, when I startle you and say my silly speeches."

"How can I be angry with such speeches as yours? They'm silly enough

only too often; but they'm frank as light. 'Tis the hidden and

secret thing I'd rage against."

"If you found it out."

"I should find it out. There's no power of hiding in you, even if

there was the will."

"You'm a dear man," she said, and lifted her mouth and kissed him.

"All the same," she added, "every woman's got a power of hiding--even

the biggest fool amongst 'em--and--and the old gravestones of they

lost people be quite as interesting to me as the crosses are to you."

"I don't say they are lost. I only say that we've no right to say

anything about all them as went down to death before salvation came."

"Why couldn't Jesus Christ have hastened into the world quicker?" she

asked. "'Twould have saved a deal of sad doubt about all them poor

souls."

"You ought not to think such questions. I lay Woodrow said that."

"No, he didn't. 'Tis my very own thought. Suppose, Dan, that He'd

been the earliest man born of a woman, and comed into the world Eve's

first li'l one? How would that plan have worked?"

He stared at her.

"Who could have crucified Him?" he asked.

She sighed.

"I forgot that."

"It shows how ill-regulated your mind is, Sarah Jane. You oughtn't

to let your ideas run so wild."

"'Tis no fault of yours that they do. And yet your fault it is, I do

believe, Dan, for you keep me so terrible close to holy thoughts."

"The closer the better through the time that's coming. To think you

could picture my boots stamping life out of a fellow-creature!

'Twasn't a kind fancy, to say no more of it. As much as to say I

might be no better than a wild beast, given the temptation."

"All men are beasts when the wind blows from somewhere," she said.

"Let a certain thing but happen, and they'll be as hot and stubborn

and hard and fierce as the animals. Some would never forgive being

robbed; some would never forgive being laughed at; some would never

forgive being deceived by another person. Everybody's got one spot

like that. Some will go mad for a woman; some for a thing. Why did

Agg quarrel with Lethbridge and knock him off his feet into the

stream last week? Such an easy, lazy man as Agg to do it!"

"Because Lethbridge said that Agg would get a girl at Mary Tavy into

trouble before he'd done with her. 'Twas an insult, and Agg was

quite right to knock him down. 'Twas no fault in him."

She did not answer. Then he spoke again.

"Don't think I don't know my faults. I know 'em well enough. The

gospel light shows them up very clear. But jealousy ban't a fault,

and I never will allow it is. 'Tis a virtue, and every

self-respecting married Christian ought to be jealous. I'm jealous

of the whole world that comes near you. I'm jealous of every male

eye I catch upon your face--at church or anywhere. 'Tis my nature so

to be. A man that marries hands over to his wife the best he's got,

and 'tis just as precious to a day labourer as to a crowned king. He

does well to be jealous of it. He'd be a mean-minded fashion of

creature if he wasn't."

"I don't feel like that," she replied. "You've said yourself that

nought can hurt a man from the outside; so how can a wife hurt a man?"

"Good Lord! what a lot you've got to learn, Sarah Jane! To talk of a

wife as being outside! Ban't she the innermost of all--a man's own

self--next to his God? 'Outside'! I wouldn't like for anybody else

to hear you say a man's wife is outside him--and you a wife yourself."

"I'm rested," she said. "Us'll go on. I wish I was so deep-minded

as you, but I never shall be. A regular Old Testament man you are."

"'Tisn't deep-mindedness," he answered; "'tis religious-mindedness.

The puzzle to me is that you, who be so good as gold and honest as

light, ain't more religious-minded. John Prout's the same. I know

he's all wrong, yet I can't get up and point out where he's all

wrong. 'Tis what he leaves undone that's wrong."

"It takes all sorts to make a world."

"But only one sort to make heaven," he answered very earnestly.

"Lucky we are not called upon to decide what sort."

He laughed rather grimly.

"You an' Prout would let all through, if you had to judge," he said.

They reached the peat-works presently, and found Mr. Friend awaiting

them. Sarah Jane praised him for putting on his Sunday coat, but she

expressed greater dissatisfaction than ever at seeing the place he

called home. For Gregory had been true to his word, and left

Dunnagoat cot after Sarah Jane's marriage.

Now he dwelt at the scene of his futile work, and only left it once

or twice a week to gather his supplies. He had taken a chamber in

the ruin, boarded the floor, built up a wall in the midst, removed

his grate and oven from Dunnagoat, and established himself, much to

his satisfaction, in the very midst of the skeleton of the

peat-works. There he dwelt perfectly happy and content. No

anchorite ever chose a spot more lonely and desolate for a home; but

a repellent condition usually absent from the hermit's cell belonged

to Mr. Friend's abode. Here were no surroundings of a natural grot,

no ivy curtain at the door, no matin song of birds to rouse the

recluse. Instead scowled rotting roofs, broken walls, rusting metal

and a sullen spirit of failure. The very perspective of the

tram-lines, stretching straight into the midst of the ruins, by some

accidental stroke upon the mind through the eye, added another

mournful character to this scene.

Mr. Friend greeted them cheerfully. Tea was made, and chairs were

set about his little table. His daughter protested with all her

might at the miserable conditions in which he now chose to dwell.

"Look at the damp on the walls! Ban't a place for a dog to live in,

let alone a man. Dunnagoat was weather-proof, anyway."

"'Twill serve very well. There's a talk of something definite come

the spring. So like as not we shall set to work again afore another

year's gone; and I must be on the spot. I be going to see if I can

get steam in the boiler this week. But I almost doubt it. Then

there's an order for Plymouth will fetch best part of a five pound

note."

"Us have brought 'e a bit of news," announced Dan; "but Sarah Jane's

set on telling you herself."

"Guess, father," she said.

"That Dan's got advancement. 'Twas time he had too."

Brendon shook his head.

"I wish you was right," he answered. "But you're not. It don't look

as if I was ever to be raised. However, farmer may see it presently."

"He does see it," declared Sarah Jane. "He's sharp as a needle

behind his quiet, casual way. He knows what you're good for. Who is

it he seeks if any thing's to be done? Who is it gets the difficult

work, where brains be wanted to a thing? 'Twill come right, only us

can't hurry it."

Brendon laughed.

"I shall get advancement the same time that you'll set your

peat-works going again, and not sooner, father," he told Gregory.

"I hope so. They be both things delayed; but both be bound to happen

sooner or later. You'm like Amicombe Hill--good all through, Dan.

The time will come when other people will be sorry enough they didn't

find it out sooner."

They discussed the various problems of Daniel Brendon and Amicombe

Hill for some time. Both men were sanguine, and both wondered why

other people so obstinately failed to see with their eyes. Daniel

put his faith in God and declared that he felt no fear of the

ultimate issue; but Mr. Friend inclined to trust man. It was idle to

suppose that the results of his personal investigations on Amicombe

Hill peat would be ignored for ever. He believed that some sagacious

spirit must presently arise at headquarters, justify his patient

belief, and delve for the treasure that he still so zealously guarded.

Presently Gregory turned to his daughter.

"And what's the secret only you are to tell me, my dear?" he asked.

"I be going to have a little baby," said Sarah Jane.

"A big one more like! And a boy I do hope. That's capital news, and

I wish you both joy of him with all my heart. If 'tis a boy, call

him 'Amicombe' for luck--eh?"

"No, no! He shall be called 'Gregory' after his grandfather,"

declared Daniel.

The news cheered Mr. Friend, and he became very solicitous for Sarah

Jane.

"Don't you let her do too much work," he said. "She mustn't tramp up

here no more. I'll come down of a Sunday instead."

But his daughter laughed.

"You old dear! I shall call you a grandmother instead of a

grandfather."

"I can see him running about here taking his first lessons in peat,

an' messing his little self up to the eyes in it," said Mr. Friend.

"An' right welcome he'll be. There's many wonders up here as I'll

show him."

"Might be a girl, however," said Daniel.

"I hope not and I think not," declared the peat-master. "'Twill be a

brave boy, I'm pretty sure. Us may be doing a roaring business

before he appears; but be that as 'twill, I'll always make time to

play a game with him. When's he coming, Sarah?"

"In September, I reckon."

"A very good time. Well, well--what would your mother think!"

"She knows all about it, be very sure," said Daniel. "And now us

must get going, for the dusk be down a'ready."

"I'll come to you next Sunday," promised Gregory, as he bade them

"good-bye," after walking part of their road with them. "And there's

four sacks more of my special fuel for you when you can draw them,

Dan. You must keep her so warm as a toast through the spring

weather, and 'if you want heat, burn Amicombe peat,' as I made up

twenty years ago."

"'Tis a rhyme that will never be forgot," said his son-in-law; and

Gregory, well pleased at the compliment, kissed Sarah Jane, then left

them and returned to his den.

CHAPTER VI

AWAKENING OF WOODROW

Daniel Brendon had long since stopped the meetings of his master and

his wife at dawn, when Sarah Jane milked the cows. He was naturally

a jealous man, but in this matter emotion took an elevated form. No

earthly consideration tainted it. His only concern was for Sarah

Jane's soul. To let her come within the breath of infidelity, from

Daniel's standpoint, seemed deliberate sin. His God was a jealous

God, and, as he himself declared, he held jealousy, in certain

aspects, a passion proper to healthy man. Therefore he had desired

his wife not to speak with Hilary Woodrow more than she could help,

for her soul's sake; and she had obeyed him, and avoided the master

as far as she might without rudeness. Yet her heart felt sorrow for

Woodrow. She perceived the wide want in his life and explained it

more correctly than could her husband or any other man.

On the Sunday after their visit to the peat-works, Daniel took Sarah

Jane to Mary Tavy instead of to Lydford. They went to chapel with

Agg; and the service pleased Brendon well. He had debated as to the

propriety of praying in a place of dissent, but Agg spoke highly of

his minister, and induced the other to accompany him. The incident

served powerfully to affect Brendon's future, for this service,

largely devoid of the familiar formulæ of his own church, impressed

him with its life and reality. The people were attentive, their

pastor was earnest and of a warm and loving heart. A few got up and

spoke as the sitting extended; and presently, to the amazement of

Sarah Jane, her husband rose and uttered some words. He rehearsed a

text from Isaiah, proclaimed it to be his favourite book in the

Bible, declared that it covered all things and was tremendous alike

in its threats and promises. For three minutes he stood up, and his

great voice woke echoes in the little, naked, white-washed

meeting-house. When he knelt down again there followed a gentle hum

of satisfaction.

From that day forward Brendon threw in his lot with the Luke

Gospellers and made Sarah Jane do the like.

Agg congratulated him very heartily as they returned home, and Daniel

explained that to have acted thus was far from his thought when he

started.

"Something pulled me on to my feet and made me speak. 'Twas a force,

like a strong voice, whispering in my ear. I oped Isaiah at

hazard--my Bible always falls open there--and them words fell under

my eye, and I had to speak."

"You'd make a very valiant hand at it with a bit of practice,"

declared Agg, "and the deaf would come miles for to hear you. Your

voice be like a big drum."

"There was a bird sat up on the rafters," said Sarah Jane. "The poor

thing had flown in, an' couldn't find the window. It sat so still as

a mouse through the sarvice, till Dan spoke. Then the rafter shook,

I suppose, for it flew about, and drove against the window with its

little wings."

"I'm mazed to look back and think that I've actually stood afore my

fellow-men and spoke to 'em from God," said Daniel. "To do such a

thing never entered into my mind."

"'Twas a terrible brave deed," declared Sarah Jane. "But I ban't

surprised; there's nothing you can't do, if you think 'tis right to

do it."

That night Agg took Brendon again to chapel; but the wife stayed at

home.

It happened that Hilary was returning from a long ride after the hour

of dusk, and as he came up through his fields he met Sarah Jane

alone. She had walked to meet Daniel, who would presently be

returning with Agg from the evening service at Mary Tavy.

The farmer stopped, and when she prepared to go on her way, bade her

wait for a few moments.

"I'm in luck," he said. "I wanted to speak to you, Sarah Jane, and

here's the chance. Where are you off to at this hour?"

"Going to meet Dan. Him and Agg have gone to worship with the Luke

Gospellers down-along."

"You astonish me. Such a pillar of the church as Brendon to seek

some new thing!"

"We went this morning, and Daniel was terrible pleased, and liked the

homely feeling of it. They'm kind folk, and Mr. Matherson, the

minister, speaks and prays beautiful."

Woodrow had often mentioned serious subjects to this woman without

perceiving the futility of such a course. But he did so more for the

pleasure of hearing his own ideas, than from any wish to influence

her. There was none to heed his opinions, none with whom to exchange

thoughts and arguments touching the topics that so largely interested

him. At first, therefore, he had regarded Sarah Jane as a useful

listener, and enjoyed talking to her for the sake of talking. Then

her own attitude attracted him, and he spoke less and listened more.

Her views arrested his mind a little. She was uneducated, yet nature

had actually led her to some ideas that he had only reached through

the channel of books. Once or twice, in her blunt speech and with

her scanty vocabulary, she uttered a thing that wise men had only

found by taking thought. Her natural mind drew Woodrow; then the

lovely body of her interested him, and she began to fill his

attention.

Women had almost passed out of his life after one of them jilted him;

now this particular woman reminded him that they were not all alike.

His eyes opened; it struck him that he was deliberately depriving

himself of a great part of the joy of life by ignoring them. His

thoughts began to play upon the subject, and his memory revived

events of the past.

Whether it was Sarah Jane's sex, or Sarah Jane's self that had

awakened him, remained to be seen. He told himself, despite his

admiration for her spirit and her beauty, that it could not be the

individual who had aroused dormant sense, but rather the accidental

fact of having been thrown into contact with her. The world was full

of women. He pondered the problem, and now, by light of moon, told

Brendon's wife of a decision at which he had recently arrived.

"A great one for the Bible, my Dan," said she. "Miles of texts he've

got by heart. A regular word-warrior he is."

"If he believes it, he's right to stick to it. Why, if I believed

'twas the Word of God--actually the very thoughts of the Almighty

sent by Him--I'd never open any other book, Sarah Jane. I'd think

that every second of my reading time spent with man's writings was a

wasted moment. If I had faith--it would move mountains."

"That might be my Dan speaking. But you know pretty near so many

verses as him, for all you don't believe in 'em."

"We free thinkers are much keener students of the Bible than

thousands who profess to live by it."

"And yet you reckon there's no God and not another life after we die?"

"My old grandfather had a saying, 'When a man's dead, there's no more

to be said.' That was his philosophy, and though my father called

him a godless heathen, yet I always agreed with the old man, though I

wouldn't have dared to say so. But mind this, Sarah Jane--this I

will grant: if there's another world after death, then there's a God.

You won't have one without the other. Nature can look after this

world; but it will take a God to look after the next. Don't think I

believe there's another. I'd scorn to believe anything that nature

doesn't teach me. But, none the less, it may come true; and if it

does, that means God."

"This life's mighty interesting," she said. "To me 'tis full to the

brim; but Dan says the only drop in the cup that matters is the sure

thought of the Kingdom of Heaven after."'

"Trust to this life. That's a certainty, at any rate. Look after

this life, and the next will look after itself."

"Funny you should say that. Dan's way's just different. He says,

'Look after the next life, and this one will look after itself'!"

"Nonsense--I'm right. And you know I'm right."

Sarah Jane felt in a mind to tell him that she was with child. As

yet only her husband and her father knew it. She was about to do so,

when he spoke again.

"I shall not live to be an old man," he said. "I know, as well as I

know anything, that the longest half of my days are done. I thought

the best of them were done too. But you've made life very

interesting again and well worth living."

"You shouldn't say things like that, I'm sure, though I'm very glad

you like me, Mr. Woodrow. What's amiss with you?"

"Nothing--everything."

"Your cough's better, so Mr. Prout says. I wish you'd find a wife,

sir. That might be the best physic for you."

He did not answer immediately. The moon came from behind a cloud,

and Sarah Jane strained her eyes into the distance.

"Dan ought to be coming," she said.

"A wife?" he asked suddenly. "Perhaps if I could find another Sarah

Jane----"

"My stars! what a thought! Poor company for 'e--the likes of me!"

"I've never seen such another, all the same."

She laughed.

"Well, why for don't you look round?"

He stood still and did not reply.

"My! how bright the moon be this evening," she said. "There they

are--Daniel and Walter Agg. I see 'em long ways off.":

"Do you know that the moon was alive once?" he asked. "She was a

mother; and now she's only a grave for all the things she bore.

She's our picture, too--the skeleton at the world's feast of life.

It will be just the same here, Sarah Jane--cold--dead--the earth and

moon going round together--like two corpses dancing at a dying fire."

"What dreadful things you know!"

"Life's only conjuring with dust. I suppose we shall never find out

how 'tis done. But there are clever chaps in the audience always

jumping up and saying 'That's it! I see the trick!' Only they

don't. Each new book I get hold of gives the lie to the last.

There's nothing true that I can see. Like a boy chasing a butterfly:

down comes his hat after a long run. But the butterfly's in the air."

"Proper place for it."

"Perhaps so. A butterfly pinned into a case is only half the truth

of a butterfly. Words in a book can never be more than half the

truth of ideas. But I'm sick of reading. I'm sick of

everything--but you. Don't be frightened. You said just now I ought

to go and look about. Well, I'm going. I'm going to London for a

while, and then down to Kent to a cousin of mine--a hop-grower there."

"The change will do you a world of good."

"That's doubtful. I shan't be very contented out of sight of

Dartmoor. Perhaps if I can't see Great Links for a while, I shall

value it all the more when I come back."

"And do, for pity's sake, bring a wife with 'e."

Daniel Brendon and Agg approached, and Hilary spoke to them as they

arrived.

"I'm telling Mrs. Brendon that I mean to take a holiday, Dan. Going

to look at London again. 'Twill make me long to be back home pretty

quick, if it does nothing else."

"You might buy one of them new mowing machines against the

hay-harvest, if you be up there, master," suggested Agg; but Daniel

did not speak. He had returned from chapel in a spirit very amiable,

and to find Sarah Jane under the moonlight with Woodrow instantly

changed his mood.

They parted immediately, and Brendon spoke to Sarah Jane as they

entered their home.

"What be you doing, walking about with the man after dark?"

"I was afraid you might be vexed. We met quite by chance as I came

to seek you, and he stopped, and would be talking. He said he ban't

going to be a long-lived man, and I told him he wants a wife; and

then he said if he could get another like me he might think of it."

"Be damned to him!" said Brendon violently. "I can't stand no more

of this. I won't have this talking between you. 'Tisn't right or

seemly, and you ought to know it, if you're a sane woman."

"He's never said one syllable to me you couldn't hear," she answered,

believing herself, but forgetting a word or two. "All the same, I'll

avoid him more, Daniel, when he comes back. He may fetch along a

wife with him. But don't you be angered, dear heart. I'd rather up

and away from Ruddyford at cocklight to-morrow for evermore, than you

should frown. 'Tis silly to be jealous of the sun for throwing my

shadow, or the wind for buffeting me."

"I am jealous. I'm a raging fire where you be concerned, and always

shall be--for your soul first. I won't insult you to speak of any

other thing. Any other thing's not speakable. You know I'm built

so, and you don't strive to lessen it, but just the contrary. I wish

you was more religious-minded and more alive to the sacredness of the

married state."

"I'm myself, Dan--for good or bad."

The man was gloomy for some days after this scene, and Sarah Jane

went her way with patience and unfailing good humour. She felt no

anger with him on her side. She understood him a little; but

jealousy was a condition of mind so profoundly foreign to her own

nature, that her imagination quite failed to fathom its significance

and its swift power of growth in congenial soil.

Hilary Woodrow kept his word, and presently left home for an

indefinite period. He told himself that he was going away to escape

temptation; in reality he went to seek it. His object was simple: to

learn whether the arrival of Brendon's wife at Ruddyford had merely

awakened his old interest in women generally, or whether it was she

herself, and only she, who had roused him out of a long sexual apathy.

CHAPTER VII

IN COMMITTEE

Hilary Woodrow's departure from Ruddyford made no difference to the

course of events. Routine work progressed according to the

prescribed custom of Dartmoor husbandry. Oats were sown during the

last week of March; potatoes followed; then the seed of mangold went

to ground, and lastly, in June, with the swedes, this protracted

planting of crops ended.

There came a night when John Prout found himself too weary to keep an

appointment at Lydford. Therefore he asked Daniel to go instead.

"'Tis the business of the water-leat," he explained. "The water's

coming in autumn some time, and now Churchward and the rest are going

to set about things again in earnest. The committee sits at the

schoolroom this evening."

Brendon, however, doubted.

"I can't just go and say I've come to take your place," he answered.

"The rest might not want me on the committee."

"Oh yes, they will," declared Prout. "You'll do a lot better than

me. You'm younger and have your ideas. 'Tis about the procession

and so on. A lot was done last time; but 'tis such a while agone,

that I dare say they'll have to begin all over again. Anyway, I

couldn't ride to Lydford to-night for a fortune. I'm dog tired."

"'Twill fit very well," said Sarah Jane, who was clearing away the

tea-things in Ruddyford kitchen. "I walk into Lydford myself this

evening, to take the butter to Mrs. Weekes. Say you'll go, Daniel."

"I'm willing enough. The only point is if I can serve on a committee

in place of another man."

"Certainly you can," said Mr. Prout. "They'll be very pleased to see

you, I'm sure. Jarratt Weekes is a member, and he'll take you along

with him."

"I'll go, then," assented Daniel, "and Weekes will post me up in the

business, no doubt."

It happened that relations of a harmonious character existed at

present between the family of Philip Weekes and Ruddyford. Hephzibah

took large quantities of Sarah Jane's butter into Plymouth every

Saturday; and sometimes Philip himself, or the girl Susan, came for

this produce. Occasionally it was brought to Lydford by a messenger

from the farm. The Brendons were now on terms of friendship with

Jarratt's parents and of superficial friendship with the

castle-keeper himself.

To-night Sarah Jane and Daniel heard the familiar voice raised as

they entered the front gate, and, despite a loud summons, they stood

some while under the dusk, with the scent of the garden primroses in

their nostrils, before any attention was paid to them.

Then Susan appeared, and as she opened the door the full and

withering blast of Hephzibah's rhetoric burst upon the air.

"Didn't hear 'e first time," said the girl. "Aunt's in one of her

tantrums. A very awkward thing's happed just now. Awkward for Uncle

Philip, I mean. He was in the street talking to Mr. Churchward; and

unbeknownst to him, on our side the wall, not two yards off, Aunt

Hepsy chanced for to be."

"Never mind all that," interrupted Sarah Jane. "Here's the butter,

and my husband be come to see Jarratt. We don't want to hear none of

your rows, Susie."

"You'll have to hear--you know what Aunt Hepsy be."

They went into the kitchen, and Mrs. Weekes, without saluting them,

instantly turned the torrent of her speech in their direction.

Philip sat by the fire with his hands in his pockets and his wistful

grey eyes roaming, rather like a wild animal caught in a trap; his

son was eating at the table; Mrs. Weekes stood in the middle of the

kitchen; her legs were planted somewhat apart, and her arms waved

like semaphores to accentuate her speech.

"Your eyes be enough," she said. "You cast 'em to the ceiling, an'

search the floor an' the fire with 'em; but you can't hide the guilt

in 'em--you evil-speaking traitor! He'd have me dead--what d'you

think of that, Sarah Jane? As a wife you can understand, perhaps.

Every word I caught when I was in the garden--doing his work, of

course, and picking the lettuces that he'd ought to have picked and

washed and packed two hours afore. An' him t'other side of the wall

telling to that wind-bag that teaches the children--though what he

does teach 'em except to use long, silly words, I can't say. 'The

sooner she's dead the better!' That was the thing my husband

spoke--in a murdering voice he spoke it. And my knees curdled away

under me--the Lord's my judge! I could almost hear him sharpening a

knife to do it! 'The sooner she's dead the better.' That was what

he said. Murder, I call it--black murder; and he'll hang in the next

world for it, if he don't in this. Wished me dead!

Knave--foul-minded rascal!--beastly coward to kill the wife of his

bosom with a word! And now----"

The familiar gasp for which her husband waited came, and he spoke

before she could resume.

"I'll only say this. I was speaking of Adam Churchward's old collie

bitch--may I be stuck fast on to this settle for evermore if I

wasn't; and when I said 'sooner she's dead the better,' 'twas in

answer to schoolmaster's question. If I was struck dumb this instant

moment, that's the truth."

"Truth--you grey and godless lump of horror! Truth--who be you to

talk of truth? After this the very word 'truth' did ought to rust

your tongue black and choke you! Not a word of that will I believe.

'Twas me you meant; an' when I heard it, I tell you the sky went

round like a wheel. I catched hold of a clothes-post to stop myself

from falling in a heap. And now if cherubims in a flaming, fiery

chariot come down for me from heaven, I wouldn't go. Nothing would

take me--I'd defy death for my indignation! I'll see you out yet,

you wife-murderer, you vagabond, you cut-throat dog of a man--ess

fay, I'll see you out if I've got to wait twenty thousand years to do

it!'

"Here," said Jarratt Weekes to Daniel Brendon, "me and you will get

from this. When she lets go, you might as well try to put in a word

with a hurricane as with her."

"All the same, it was Churchward's old worn-out dog, as he'll testify

to," said Philip. "The creature's suffering, and she'll be killed

to-morrow morn; an' that's evidence for anybody who's got a level

mind and no grudge against me. Be it sense or reason that I'd say a

thing like that to a neighbour--even if I thought it?"

"How you can sit there with your owl's eyes a-glaring----" began Mrs.

Weekes--then Daniel followed Jarratt.

"I'll come back along for you presently," he said to Sarah Jane.

"You stop here till we're home from the committee."

A moment later he explained his purpose, and Weekes raised no

objection.

"'Tis a silly business altogether," he said. "I so good as swore I'd

not join 'em again myself; but if the thing's to be, 'tis well there

should be a little sense among these foolish old men. You can take

Prout's place and welcome. Churchward will try to talk Latin about

it when he hears, and pull a long face, and say 'tis irregular or

some rot. But if I tell him I wish it, he'll cave in. Last meeting

was at his home; but we turned the room into a public-house bar

before we'd done with it, and so his daughter won't let us assemble

there again. Quite right too."

"A very fine woman she is--so Sarah Jane tells me."

"She is--and plenty of sense. In fact----"

Jarratt broke off and changed the subject; but Daniel, without tact,

returned to it.

"I hope we'll all soon be wishing you joy in that matter."

Weekes made no answer at all. The thought was bitter to him that

this common man, who had beaten him and won Sarah Jane, could thus

easily approach him as an equal and congratulate him on his minor

achievement. He hated anything to remind him of the past, and

disliked to think that the fact of his rumoured engagement to Mary

Churchward had reached the Brendons' ears. This girl was a promising

wife enough; but she fell far short of Sarah Jane in beauty and

strength and melody of voice.

"There's the schoolroom--the hour was seven-thirty, so we'm a thought

late," said Jarratt Weekes.

They entered to find the rest of the committee assembled. Mr.

Churchward, Mr. Spry, Mr. Huggins, Mr. Norseman, Mr. Pearn and Mr.

Taverner--all were there.

Weekes explained that Daniel Brendon had come to represent John

Prout, and suggested that the rest should fall in with this

alteration. Some questions arose whether it could be permitted, and

the schoolmaster instantly fulfilled Jarratt's prophecy by doubting

if Daniel might stand for Prout--_in propria persona_.

Nathaniel Spry was referred to, but would express no definite

opinion; then Weekes spoke again, inviting the committee to use its

common sense, if it had any, and asked what earthly difference it

could make to the upshot whether one farming man or another joined

their deliberations.

"Me an' Mr. Prout think alike in some ways--not in all," explained

Brendon. "As to such a matter as a revel, when the water's brought

into Lydford, we might be of one mind. But I warn you, please, that

in matters of religion we're different."

"That's all right, then," declared Noah Pearn, the publican, "for

this hasn't nothing to do with religion--any more than my free lunch

have."

"All the same I'll be party to nothing that can hurt religion, and

well the committee knows it," declared Mr. Norseman.

"Don't you shout till you're hurt," said Weekes. "We're not heathen,

I believe. I propose that Mr. Brendon takes Prout's place on the

committee, and I ask you to second, schoolmaster."

None raised any further objection. Daniel took his place and Mr.

Churchward turned to Nathaniel Spry.

"Read the minutes of the last meeting," he said.

The postmaster rose rather nervously and shuffled his papers.

"Keep it short as you can, Spry. We wasted a lot of time over that

meeting--don't want to be here all night," remarked Jacob Taverner.

"I can't be 'urried, Jacob," answered the other. "I'm secretary, and

I've done the work in a very secretarial way, and it's got to be

read--all of it--hasn't it, Mr. Churchward?"

"Certainly it has," answered the schoolmaster. "In these cases the

minutes of previous assemblies have to be kept carefully, including

all memoranda and data. There is a right way and a wrong way,

and----"

"Get on!" interrupted Weekes. "If Spry have to read out all that

mess and row we had at the first meeting--sooner he's about it the

better."

Nathaniel Spry rose and wiped his glasses.

"Go under the lamp, postmaster," said Brendon. "You'll see better."

"Thank you," answered the secretary. "Much obliged to you. I will

do so."

"One thing," suddenly remarked Noah Pearn. "I want to ax whether

among the characters in the show we might have Judge Jeffreys. I

seed his name in an old book awhile ago, and 'tis clear he held his

court to Lydford castle. Shall he walk with the procession?"

"We can go into that later. We _must_ read the minutes first.

Otherwise everything is _ultra vires_ and illegal," declared Mr.

Churchward.

"Well, Spry can set it at rest in a minute by saying who Judge

Jeffreys was--that is if he knows," suggested Mr. Taverner.

"We all know that," declared Mr. Norseman. "He was a regular

historical Lydford character."

"Would he do to walk, Spry, or wouldn't he? Answer in a word. If

he's no good--we need say no more."

"Order!" cried Mr. Churchward. "I call everybody to order who

interferes with Spry. We must have the minutes!"

"You ought to know about Judge Jeffreys yourself," said Weekes

shortly. "You're a schoolmaster, and should have the whole history

of the man at your finger-ends."

"And so I have," declared Mr. Churchward. "Of course I have. Who

doubts it?"

"Then let's hear it. Ban't for the chairman to deny information to

the committee," said Mr. Pearn.

Adam shrugged his shoulders.

"I bow to your opinions, though it's very unbusinesslike and

improper."

Then he turned to Spry and spoke with resignation.

"Tell them about Judge Jeffreys, Nathaniel--since they insist upon

knowing. If you make any mistake, I'll correct you."

Mr. Spry dropped his report hopelessly, took off his glasses and

scratched his head over the right ear.

"He wasn't a very nice man, if my memory serves me, gentlemen. A

thought 'asty and a thought 'arsh. There's poetry written about him.

He did his work in the time of Charles I., or it might be Charles II."

"Or the Commonwealth," interrupted Mr. Churchward.

"Very true--very true, 'or the Commonwealth,' as you say,

schoolmaster. He was rather what is called a hanging judge. Still,

his red robes and flowing wig would be a great addition to the scene."

"Let the man walk!" cried Mr. Huggins. "A solemn judge would be so

good as a sermon to all the young youths for miles around, and show

'em what wickedness might bring 'em to at any moment."

"You don't mean that, Mr. Huggins," explained Brendon, who knew the

veteran. "You mean----"

"We all know what he means," declared Mr. Taverner. "Well, you

propose Jeffreys and I'll second it, Noah."

"In due course--in due course. The judge shall pass committee in his

proper turn," said Mr. Churchward. "Now, Spry, read as quickly as

you can, but nothing's to be missed."

"How long is the report?" asked Henry Norseman.

"Twenty-four pages of foolscap and a half," answered the secretary.

"I've written it all out twice, and it filled my spare time for three

weeks doing it."

"Let's take the thing as read!" suggested Mr. Taverner.

But Nathaniel objected indignantly.

"Not at all!" he said. "I won't have that. I appeal to the

chair--three weeks' work----"

"Don't want to have any words with you, postmaster; but all the same,

without feeling, as a member of this committee, I propose we take the

minutes as read," answered Taverner firmly.

"Who'll second that?" asked Weekes.

"I will," said Noah Pearn.

Mr. Churchward sighed, shook his head tragically, and put his hand

over his brow.

"I do wish, Jacob Taverner, you would bend to the law of committees

and listen to the chair," he begged. "Don't you understand me? I'm

pretty good at making myself clear, I believe--it's my business to do

so to the youthful mind--and I tell yuu it can't be done. Legally

everything we enact before the minutes are read is nothing at all--a

mere _lapsus lingua_, in fact."

"Besides," said Daniel, "I beg to say I ought to hear the

minutes--else how can I know what was settled at the first meeting?"

"You're soon answered," replied Jarratt Weekes. "Nothing was settled

at the first meeting."

"I beg your pardon, Jarratt," said Adam Churchward. "That is neither

kind nor true. A great deal was settled--else how would it take

Nathaniel Spry twenty-four and a half pages of foolscap to put it all

down? And no man writes a better or neater hand. Therefore I ask

you to call back that statement."

"There was a lot said--I admit. But surely you must allow there was

mighty little done," retorted Weekes.

"The question is whether the minutes are to be taken as read. I've

proposed that and Pearn's seconded it," repeated Mr. Taverner.

"And I rule it out of order, Taverner, so there's an end of that,"

answered Adam.

"The question is if you can rule it out of order," replied Jacob

Taverner.

"Certainly he can. Bless the man, he's done it!" said Brendon.

"He says he's done it; but if it's not legal, he can't do it.

Everybody's got a right to speak on a committee, and I never heard in

all my born days that a chairman could rule a thing out of order, if

'twas properly proposed and seconded," answered the other.

Much irrelevant but heated argument followed, and none could satisfy

Jacob that the chair was in the right.

Suddenly the landlord of the Castle Inn turned to Valentine Huggins.

"Let's abide by you, Val," he cried. "You'm the oldest among us. I

warrant Taverner will abide by you. What do you say?"

"I say 'beer,'" piped the ancient man. "I be so dry as a dead bone

along o' listening; what you talking members must be, I can't

picture."

"I second," declared Weekes; "and 'tis idle for you to pretend that

can't be passed, Churchward, because we're unanimous--except

Norseman, who'll have his bottle of lemonade as per usual, no doubt."

Mr. Pearn had already put on his hat.

"I'll nip round myself an' tell 'em to send it in," he declared.

Then he hurried off.

"I'm in your hands, of course," began the schoolmaster. "I merely

remark that I don't pay again. If you had listened to the minutes,

you'd have been reminded that the chairman stood liquor and tobacco

last time. We must give and take--even in committee."

"I'll pay half," said Mr. Taverner.

"And I'll pay the rest," declared Nathaniel Spry,--"provided the

committee will keep quiet and let me read the minutes while it's

drinking."

"That's fair enough, certainly," said Brendon. "By the looks of it,

this meeting won't have no time to do more than hear what fell out at

the last. 'Tis near nine o'clock now, and us no forwarder."

When Mr. Pearn returned with a pot-boy and three quarts of ale, the

secretary had started upon his report. Nobody paid much attention to

him save Daniel Brendon; but as soon as the liquor was poured out--by

which time Mr. Spry had come to St. George and the Dragon--an

interruption took place.

"I ask for that passage to be given again," said Mr. Norseman. "I

heard my name, but I didn't catch what went with it."

Nathaniel read as follows:--

"Mr. Valentine Huggins then proposed that the Dragon should go along

with St. George, and it was suggested that Mr. William Churchward

should enact the Dragon. Mr. Norseman then said that he would be

party to no play-acting, because play-acting in his opinion was

wickedness; and he added that if the committee persisted in this

opinion, he would think it his duty to put the matter before the

vicar. Mr. William Churchward was privately approached by the

chairman subsequent to the meeting and refused to play Dragon----"

"If that's still your opinion, Norseman, you'd better go off the

committee," said Mr. Taverner; "because to dress up to be somebody

else is play-acting in a way, even though nought's said. You be in a

minority of one, so you may just as well retire."

"I may be, or I may not be," answered Mr. Norseman. "I'm here to do

my duty to the best of my power, and, in a word, I shan't retire."

"I don't hold with play-acting either," declared Daniel suddenly.

"Ban't sure that I do, on second thoughts," added Mr. Huggins.

"Anyway, I want to say that if any other member would like to be

Moses----"

"That's all settled and passed, and you can't withdraw, Valentine,"

replied Mr. Churchward. "Go on, Nat."

"What is play-acting and what isn't?" asked Mr. Pearn. "We'd better

settle that once for all. I say 'tisn't play-acting if no speeches

are made."

"If it has been carried that Mr. Huggins is to be dressed up as

Moses, I'm afraid I must vote against it," said Daniel. "I'm very

sorry to do anything contrary to the general wish, but I couldn't

support that. In my view 'tis playing the fool with a holy

character."

"Don't be so narrow-minded," said Mr. Taverner.

"You must be narrow-minded if you want to keep in the narrow way,"

declared Norseman. "The man's right, though I haven't seen him in

church for three months."

"If we're going back on what we passed last time--'tis idle for you

to read any more, postmaster," said Mr. Churchward. "I may remind

the committee that Mr. Norseman himself had no objection to Moses

before."

"More shame to me," answered the churchwarden frankly. "I was weak,

as them in a minority too often find themselves; but now, with this

man beside me, I'm strong, and I stand out against Moses tooth and

nail."

"Let's drop Moses, souls!" said Mr. Huggins. "We can walk very well

without him, and we don't want to offend church or chapel, I'm sure.

'Twould be a bad come-along-of-it if we had vicar and the quality

against us. If I can give him up, I'm sure all you men ought to."

Jarratt Weekes had been turning over the pages of Mr. Spry's report

while the rest talked. Now he suddenly rose to his feet and shouted

loudly:

"Look here, Spry--what's this you've got here? Like your

insolence--making me look a fool in the eyes of the committee! This

stuff shan't be read--not officially. You've put words here that I

spoke in heat. Not that they wasn't perfectly reasonable ones--all

the same, they shouldn't be recorded. I'm not going to be written

down, in cold blood, as using swear words. 'Tisn't fair to anybody's

character. Here it is, neighbours, and I ask you if 'tis right--page

twenty-one--"

He read as follows:--

"'The chairman then quoted the Latin language, which annoyed Mr.

Jarratt Weekes, who thereupon asked him, why the hell he couldn't

talk English."

"You oughtn't to have put that down, Nathaniel," said Mr. Churchward

reproachfully. "It would far better have become you to leave that

out. If I could forgive it--which I did do--surely----"

"There it is for anybody to see," continued Weekes; "and I propose we

burn his silly minutes, for they'm nothing but a tissue of twaddle

and impertinence and----"

"I rise to order!" cried Mr. Spry. "I'm not going to be insulted to

my face and stand it. I claim the protection of the chair and the

committee in general. What right had I to doctor the report? If

people use foul language on a committee and lose their tempers and

misbehave themselves at a public function, let 'em take the

consequences!"

"You shut your mouth!" shouted Weekes, "or I'll make you. A

pink-eyed rabbit of a man like you to stab me in the back with your

pen and ink! I----"

"Order--order!" cried Pearn and Taverner simultaneously. Everybody

began to talk at once, and Brendon turned to the chairman.

"Why the mischief don't you keep order?" he asked.

"Easy to say--easy to say," answered Adam wildly. "But what mortal

man's going to do it?"

"'Twas you broke up the last meeting, Weekes, an' I don't think none

the better of you for it," grumbled Mr. Huggins. "All the same us

shan't get through no business now--an' the beer be all drunk and the

time's past ten----"

"I propose we adjourn," said Mr. Norseman.

"And so do I," added Brendon. "Never knowed myself that a lot of

growed-up men could make such a row and be so foolish."

"The meeting is suspended _sine die_, gentlemen," declared Adam

Churchward, "and I may add that I'll not be chairman again. No--I

will not. The strain is far too severe for a sensitive man."

"Just like you," answered Weekes. "The moment you get into a mess,

you curl up, same as a frightened woodlouse. You're not the proper

man for a chairman."

"And you're not the proper man for a committee," answered Adam, very

pink and hot. "'Tis all your fault, and I say it out,

notwithstanding the--the relations in which we stand. You've not the

self-control for a committee. And you do swear a great deal too

much--both in public and private life."

They wrangled on while Norseman and Brendon departed, and Spry only

stayed to see his report scattered on the floor under everybody's

feet. Then, with an expression of opinion unusually strong for him,

he took his hat and went home. Mr. Pearn looked after the crockery,

Mr. Taverner assisted Valentine Huggins into his coat and saw him on

his way.

"Out of evil cometh good, Jacob," said the ancient. "Be it as

'twill, I've got Moses off my back. But this here have furnished a

dreadful lesson to me not to push myself forward into the public eye.

Never again will I seek to be uplifted in company. 'Twas only the

sudden valour of beer made me offer myself, and I've never had a easy

moment since."

Elsewhere Mr. Churchward and Jarratt quickly settled their

difference. Indeed, as soon as Spry had departed, the chairman

adopted an attitude very disloyal to the postmaster, and even called

him an officious little whippersnapper. This appeased the injured

Weekes, and when his future father-in-law went further and invited

him home to see Mary and drink some whisky, Jarratt relented.

"Us'll drop this business once for all," he said. "It don't become

your position to sit over a lot of silly fools that don't know their

own mind. You've got something better to do with your time, I'm

sure. When I'm married to Mary, you shall help me with figures and

suchlike. Anyway, don't you call them ignorant men together again.

I won't have it. Let the water come and be damned to it. 'Tis

nothing to make a fuss about when all's said."

"You may be right," admitted Mr. Churchward. "In Christian charity

the committee meant well, but they have not been educated. There's

no logic--nothing to work upon. I'm disappointed, for I had spent a

good deal of thought upon the subject. However, if it's got to fall

through--there's an end of it."

And Brendon, as he tramped home with Sarah Jane, made her laugh long

and loud while he told of the meeting. He was not much amused

himself--only somewhat indignant at the waste of hours represented by

that evening's work.

CHAPTER VIII

ADVENT

Gregory Daniel Brendon was born on the first day of October, and work

nearly stood still at Ruddyford until the doctor had driven off and

the great event belonged to past time. Nothing could have been more

splendidly successful than his arrival, or himself. There was only

one opinion concerning him, and when in due course the child came to

be baptized, he enjoyed a wide and generous measure of admiration.

Hephzibah, who was nothing if not superlative, attended the

christening, and, after that ceremony, proclaimed her opinion of the

infant. Sarah Jane, whose habit of mind led her to admire Mrs.

Weekes, had asked Philip's wife to be godmother, and such a very

unusual compliment awakened a great fire of enthusiasm in the

sharp-tongued woman's heart.

After a Sunday ceremony, according to the rite of the Luke

Gospellers, all walked on foot back to Ruddyford, and Mrs. Weekes,

with Sarah Jane upon one side of her and Susan, carrying the baby, on

the other, improved the hour.

"Only yesterday, to market, Mrs. Swain said 'My dear Hephzibah'--so

she always calls me--'why, you'm not yourself--you'm all a-dreaming!

I ax for a brace of fowls,' she says, 'and, merciful goodness,' she

says, 'you hand me a pat of butter!' 'Twas true. My mind ran so

upon this here child, as we've marked wi' the Sign to-day. I tell

you, Sarah Jane, that, cautious as I am in my use of words, I can't

speak too well of him. He's a regular right down masterpiece of a

child. Look at his little round barrel, if you don't believe me.

An' a hand as will grasp hold that tight! An' a clever child, I warn

'e. Did 'e mark the eyes of un when he seed parson's gold

watch-chain? He knowed! 'Twas his first sight of gold--yet up his

fingers went to i' an' he pulled a very sour face when he had to let

go. There's wisdom there--mark me. And hair like a good angel's.

True 'tis only the first crop an' he'll moult it; but you can always

take a line through the first what the lasting hair will be. Curly,

I warrant, an' something darker than yours, but brighter than his

father's."

"He've got his father's eyes to a miracle," said Sarah Jane.

"He'm listening to every word you be saying!" declared Susan.

"A precious, darling, li'l, plump, sweet, tibby lamb!" cried Mrs.

Weekes in an ecstasy. "Hold off his blanket, Susie. Yes, if he

ban't taking it all in. A wonder and a delight, you mark me, mother.

You've done very clever indeed, and never have I seen such a perfect

perfection of a baby, since my own son Jarratt was born. Just such

another he was--a thought more stuggy in the limbs, perhaps, as was

natural with such round parents; but noways different else. Would

fasten on a bit of bright metal like a dog on a bone."

"My little one's got lovelier eyes, if I may say so--lovelier eyes

than Jarratt's," said Sarah Jane.

"'Tis a matter of opinion. Some likes blue, some brown, some grey.

Eyes be same as hosses: you can't have good ones a bad colour.

Taking it all round, grey eyes see more than brown ones, and little

eyes more than big ones. But long sight or short, us can all see our

way to glory. This here infant's marked for goodness. Mind you let

him use my spoon so soon as ever he can. 'Tis real silver, Sarah

Jane, as the lion on the handle will tell 'e, if you understand such

things."

"I knowed that well enough the moment I saw it, and so did Tabitha.

'Tis a very beautiful spoon indeed. He's had it in his mouth

a'ready, for that matter."

"Trust him!--a wonder as he is! There ban't nothing he won't know

the use for very soon. That child will be talking sense in twelve

months! I know it! I'm never wrong in such matters. A lusty tyrant

for 'e; an' a great drinker, I warrant!"

"A grand thirsty boy for sartain," admitted the mother. "An' my

bosom's always brimming for his dear, li'l, red lips, thank God!"

Mrs. Weekes nodded appreciatively.

"You've got to think of his dairy for the present. Who be looking

after Ruddyford's?"

"Why, I be," said Sarah Jane. "I was only away from work five weeks."

"When do Mr. Woodrow come back?"

"Afore Christmas, 'tis said; and that reminds me: Mr. Prout wants a

tell with your son. There's something in the wind, though what it is

I can't say."

"I'll carry the message. I see Prout chattering to Weekes behind us

now; but 'twill be better he gives me any message that's got money to

it. When Philip Weekes says he'll bear a thing in mind, 'tis a

still-birth every time, for nothing's ever delivered alive from his

addled brain. That poor man! But 'tis Sunday and a day of grace.

However, I'll speak to Prout. Susan--what--here, give me over the

child this instant moment. You hold un as if he was a doll, instead

of an immortal Christian spirit, to be an angel come his turn. An'

that's more'n ever you can hope to be, you tousled, good-for-nought!"

Joe Tapson and Walter Agg joined the women.

"These be the two men gossips," said Sarah Jane. "I wanted for Mr.

Prout to be one, but Daniel mistrusted his opinions. Dan's very

particular indeed about religion, you must know."

"Quite right too," said Mrs. Weekes. "And I hope as you men will

keep that in mind and never say a crooked word or do a crooked thing

afore this infant hero. He's a better built boy than either of you

ever was, without a doubt, and you can see--by the make of his

head-bones--that he'll be a master one day and raised up above common

men--just like my own son be. But never you dare to lead him astray,

or I'll know the reason why. I'm his god-mother, and I don't take on

a job of this sort without being wide awake. An' if there's any

faults show in him presently, I'll have a crow to pluck with you men

very quick."

"What about his father, ma'am?" asked Agg.

"I'll say the same to him as I say to you," she replied. "I'll stand

no nonsense from his father. The child's worth ten of his father

a'ready. Lord! the noble weight of him! Here, take hold of him,

Sarah Jane, for the love of heaven. He's pulling my arms out of the

arm-holes!"

At the rear of the party walked together the father and grandfather

of the baby.

Daniel had talked about his child until he felt somewhat weary of the

subject. But nothing could tire Gregory Friend. Already he planned

the infant's first visit to the peat-works, and every time that his

son-in-law changed the subject, he returned to it.

Daniel laughed.

"Well, you'll have two things to talk about now," he said. "Afore

'twas only peat--now 'twill be peat an' the baby."

"Yes," answered Gregory, "you'm quite right there, Daniel. I'll larn

him all I know, and I dare say, if he's spared, he'll find out more

than I know. But my secrets that child shall have in course of

time--if he proves worthy of 'em."

John Prout and Philip Weekes walked together and discussed another

subject.

"He's coming home presently," said the head man of Ruddyford, "but

the doctors reckon he'll be wise to stop off the high ground and

winter in the valleys. His idea be to put up at Lydford for the

winter, and he's divided between taking a couple of rooms at the

Castle Inn, with Noah Pearn, or renting a house if he can get one.

He'd rather have the house for peace and quietness. But 'tisn't

often a house worth calling one be in the market to Lydford. Now I'm

thinking of your son's place--what he bought back-along from widow

Routleigh before she died."

"Might suit Jar very well, I should think," said the other. "'Tis

true he's going to be married to the schoolmaster's daughter; but

they'm not in any hurry. In fact, there's more business than

pleasure to the match, I fancy, though I wouldn't dare to say so.

Anyway, the cottage is empty now. 'Twould want doing up. 'Tis the

very house for a tender man--sheltered from north and east and west,

wi' a face that catches every glimmer of sun that shines."

"I'll name it to master in writing. I'm sadly troubled about it all.

I suppose you don't know what your son would ax?"

"Can't tell you that. The more Mr. Woodrow wants it, the higher

Jarratt will rise. That's business, of course. I'm not saying

nothing in praise of such a way of doing things, but merely telling

you what will happen."

"Of course master may prefer Bridgetstowe or Mary Tavy. Your son

mustn't think there's no competition."

"I'll name it to him," said Mr. Weekes. "By rights I ought to get a

little bit of a commission if it goes through; but nobody won't think

of that."

They talked further, and Prout deplored the fact that Hilary

Woodrow's condition had called for a visit to the doctor. It was

thought he had been exceedingly well and happy among his friends and

relatives in Kent. Then came the frosty news of indifferent health.

Philip shared John's regret, and they still discussed the matter when

Ruddyford was reached.

Tabitha had prepared a handsome tea which all attended, and Gregory

Daniel sat on his grandfather's knee and watched the eating of the

christening cake. A handsome silver mug quite threw Hephzibah's

spoon into the shade. The gift commanded very general admiration,

and Mrs. Weekes, when appealed to, declared that it could not have

cost a penny less than five pounds. It came from Hilary Woodrow.

"I'm hoping he'll lift Dan up a bit after he comes back," Sarah Jane

said privately to Mrs. Weekes, as the tea progressed. "My man's

worked like a pair of hosses since master went away; and everybody

knows it."

"Why for do he stop if he'm not satisfied with his wages?" asked

Hephzibah. "Such a mighty man he is. Why, if there was an inch or

two more of him, he might a'most have got his living in a doom-show,

an' never done a stroke more work. I seed a giant at Plymouth fair

two or three years back--a poor reed of a man, up seven foot high,

wi' death written in the great, sorrowful white face of him. But

Dan's so strong as he be large."

"He wouldn't fling up Ruddyford for anything. He gets very good

money, you know, though not so good as he could wish. Then there's

father up to the peat-works. I promised, and Dan promised, not to go

very far off from him."

Mrs. Weekes shook her head at Gregory Friend, though he did not

appreciate the fact, for he was talking to Philip.

"A wilful and a silly soul, though your father," she said. "'Tis

wasting the years of his life to stop up there--no better than a

pelican in the wilderness. He ought to be made to drop it."

"I wish you could make him," said Sarah Jane. "Already he's planning

to teach the baby all about peat."

"'Peat'!" cried Hephzibah scornfully. "I hope no godchild of mine

will sink to peat. Let me make a market-man of him, and take him

afore the nation, and teach him the value of money, and the knack to

get it, and the way to stick to it!"

"'Tis very good of you, I'm sure," declared the mother. "I hope

he'll be much drawed to you, come he grows."

"He's drawed to me already," asserted Mrs. Weekes. "We understand

each other mighty well."

Going home with her husband, Hephzibah heard the news concerning

Hilary Woodrow and his proposed winter lodgment. She was much

excited, and even Mr. Weekes won a word of praise. But he deserved

it, and, in justice, his wife dispensed the same.

When first he told her, she stood still and rated him.

"You post--you stock of a man!--couldn't you see that the first thing

was Woodrow's address? Now others will get to hear tell of this, and

then Thorpe will be offering his dog-kennel of a house at Little

Lydford, or them Barkells at Bridgetstowe will try to get him for

that tumble-down hovel by the church. Why didn't Prout tell me

instead of you? If you were a man instead of a mommet,[1] you'd turn

back this minute and not rest till you'd got farmer's address for

Jarratt. 'Tis taking bread out of your son's mouth if you

don't--mark me."

[1] _Mommet_, Scarecrow.

"I'll run back an' get it, if you like," said Susan, who walked

beside her aunt.

"As a matter of fact, the address is took down in my pocket-book,"

explained Mr. Weekes with calm triumph. "An' more than that: I've

got John Prout's faithful promise not to tell nobody else the address

till we've had two days' start. That may be the work of a post or a

mommet, or it may not. For my part, I'm pleased with myself."

"Then why ever didn't you say so?" asked Mrs. Weekes. "'Twas a very

proper, smart thing to do, Philip--and a very hopeful thing in you.

I always say, and always shall say, that so far as Almighty God's

concerned, He've done His part in you. You've got a handsome share

of intellects--in fact, more than your share, if you wouldn't be so

rash and reckless."

"So I say my self," answered the huckster; "and another thing: I

ought to have a bit of commission from Jarratt, if this goes through.

A lot of these little bits of business I do for him, off and on, but

I never get a half-crown from the man."

"If it goes through, us ought to be thought upon, certainly,"

admitted his wife; "but what with his marriage next year, and that

bad debt to Sourton, and one thing and another, Jar won't be flinging

his money about over-free just now."

CHAPTER IX

A HUNGRY MAN

Hilary Woodrow returned home at Christmas. In the meantime he had

heard from Jarratt Weekes and agreed to take his cottage at Lydford

for an indefinite period.

The farmer conversed at length with John Prout, but told him little

respecting his adventures in London, or in Kent. His health appeared

to be entirely satisfactory, but Hilary explained that he had

received certain medical warnings. His lungs were not strong. His

physician did not object to a winter spent in Devonshire, but advised

that the master of Ruddyford should seek a milder home than the Moor

until spring returned.

"In soft weather I shall ride up every day," explained Woodrow; "but

when the frost is heavy, or we're getting nothing but rain, I shall

keep down below."

It was arranged that he should go into Jarratt's house immediately

after Christmas, and, to her immense satisfaction, Susan secured the

post of Hilary's servant. Her aunt managed this, and duly impressed

upon the maiden that here was the opportunity of a lifetime. Let her

but cook and order the simple household in a manner to suit Mr.

Woodrow, and her fortune must unquestionably be made, so Mrs. Weekes

assured her; but, on the other hand, if she failed to satisfy an

unexacting bachelor, then her case was hopeless, and she must never

expect to achieve the least success in service or in life. To

Susan's face Hephzibah expressed the most fearful doubts; behind her

back she assured the neighbours that her niece was well suited to the

post.

"Have I been a-training of her four years for nought?" she asked. "A

flighty wench, I grant you, and full of faults as any other young

thing, but she can stand to work and take care of herself very well;

and she've always got me to fall back upon for advice and teaching,

seeing I'm but fifty yards away."

Of Hilary's inner life, while absent from his home, John Prout

naturally heard nothing, and it was a woman, not a man, who shared

the farmer's confidence. He had striven to seek escape of mind from

Sarah Jane in the society of other women; and he had failed. He

spent very little time in London, and found himself glad to quit it

again. His old enjoyment thereof was dead. The place offended him,

choked him, bored him. He had no desire towards any of its pleasures

while there. Instead, he grew anxious about his health.

In Kent he found himself happier, yet the conditions of agriculture,

rather than any personal relations with kindred, occupied his days.

The hops gave him much interest. His cousins and their friends found

him cold and indifferent. Sarah Jane's image haunted his loneliness,

and her picture in his mind's eye was a lovelier and more tangible

thing to him than the living shapes of the amiable young women he

met. He had devoted a day to purchasing the silver cup for Sarah

Jane's baby; and on return home he had pleased Daniel greatly by his

attitude towards the infant.

"I would have offered to be a godparent," he explained to Brendon;

"but you must take the will for the deed. With my views I could not

have done so, and you would not have desired it. Nevertheless, I

wish your child every good. 'Twill be a pleasant thing presently to

have a little one about the place; and it should make us all younger

again."

Brendon was gratified, and since his master henceforth adopted

extreme care in his approach to Sarah Jane, relations proceeded in a

manner very satisfactory to all.

But fierce fires burnt in both men out of sight. One's natural

jealousy and suspicion kept him keenly alive to every shadow on the

threshold of his home's honour; the other knew now with absolute

knowledge that Brendon's wife was the first and greatest thought in

his mind. Passionately he desired her. He believed that his own

life was not destined to be lengthy, and his interests largely

narrowed to this woman. Of late ethics wearied him. He was

impressed with the futility of the eternal theme. For a season he

sickened of philosophy and self-restraint. He found Sarah Jane

lovelier, sweeter, more distracting every way than when he left her.

At Ruddyford no opportunity offered to see her alone. Then, as he

knew they must when taking the Lydford cottage, chances began to

occur.

She often came with the butter for Mrs. Weekes, and Friday was a

fever day for Woodrow, until he saw her pass his dwelling on the way

to the village.

Once they spoke at some length together, for he was riding back to

the farm for an hour or two. The time was dry and cold. A powder of

snow scattered the ground, but the air braced, though the grey north

spoke of heavier snow to come.

"You never asked me about all my adventures when I was away, Sarah

Jane," he said. "I had such a number of things to tell you, but

unkind fate seems to make it impossible for me to talk to the one

person in the world I love to talk to."

"What silliness! I'm sure John Prout's a better listener than me."

"Prout's an old woman--you're a young one. That's the difference.

He bothers over my health as if he was my mother. You don't let that

trouble you, Sarah Jane?"

"Indeed but I do. 'Twas only a bit agone, at your gate, I was asking

Susan if you took your milk regular, and ate your meat as you should.

And when she said what a poor feeder you was, I blamed her cooking,

and told her I'd bring a recipe or two from Tabitha, who knows the

things you like. And I did."

"If you're hungry one way, you've no appetite another. Let me tell

you about myself. We always want to talk of ourselves when we're

miserable, and only care to hear about other people when we're happy.

I went to seek peace and I found none. Nobody comforted me--nobody

knew how to. Nobody knew Sarah Jane, and that was the only subject

that could interest me."

"Doan't 'e begin that foolishness again. I had hoped so much as you

might have found a proper maiden to love you and marry you."

"Who can love me? No, I don't ask that now. But--oh, Sarah Jane, I

do ask you to see me sometimes--only very seldom--so that I may hear

your voice and look into your eyes."

"Dan----"

"Is it my fault? Can you help loving your husband or your child?

Can I help loving you? No--don't look wild and wretched, as if you

thought you were going to be caught in a thunderstorm. I do love

you, and only you; and my love for you is the only thing that kept me

from going mad in London. You can buy sham love there, and sham

diamonds, and sham everything. Shams are on sale to suit all purses.

Once, when first I went there, I enjoyed them--not now. There's only

one real love and one real woman in the world now. But don't be

frightened, Sarah Jane. The knights of old loved just as I love

you--a love as sweet and clean and honest, as reason is sweet and

clean and honest. I only want to make you happier. The happier you

are, the happier I shall be. You can't be angry with me for wanting

to make you and yours happy. You might see me sometimes. It would

be to lengthen my days if you would."

"Daniel----"

"I guess what you're going to say. He's not satisfied with things as

they are. Well, leave that for the moment. He's safe enough. Safer

and luckier than he knows."

"I wasn't thinking of that. I was thinking what he would say if he

heard you."

"Don't tell him. Never make a man miserable for nothing. Another

man couldn't understand me. But a woman can. You can, and you do.

You're not angry with me. You couldn't be. You haven't the heart to

be angry with me. Think what a poor wretch I am. I saw you once

before you were married. I actually saw you up at Dunnagoat cottage.

Saw you and went away and forgot it! 'Twas a sin to have seen you

and forgotten you, Sarah Jane; but I'm terribly punished."

"What wild nonsense you tell whenever you meet me!"

"It was after that woman jilted me. I had no eyes then for anything

or anybody. I was blind and you were hidden from me, though I looked

into your face."

"Enough to make you hate all of us. She must have been a bad

lot--also a proper fool."

They talked in a desultory manner and he spoke with great praise of

her husband and promised fair things for the future. Then he

returned to her and strove to be personal, and she kept him as much

as possible to the general incidents of his visit to Kent. He told

her of the cousins there, and described them, and explained how they

were mere shadows compared with the reality of her. He spoke of the

crops, of the orchards, strawberry-beds, osier-beds, and green

hop-bines, whose fruit ripened to golden-green before the picking.

But to return from the fertile garden to the stony wilderness was the

work of a word; and before she could prevent it, Daniel's wife found

herself again upon his lips.

Under White Hill he left her, and she went straight homeward, while

he made a wide detour and rode into the farm near two hours later.

That day John Prout found his master vigorous and cheerful. He

detailed the fact gladly, and they asked themselves why it was; but

only Sarah Jane guessed, and she did not enlighten them.

She could not, and the necessity for a sort of secrecy hurt her. She

thought very long and deeply upon the subject, but saw no answer to

Woodrow's arguments. He had frankly told her that he loved her; and

while her mind stood still at the shock, he had asked her how it was

possible to blame him for so doing. He had gone away into the world

that he might seek peace, and he had found none. Instead, she had

filled his sleeping and waking thoughts, and the mere memory of her

had proved strong enough to stand as a sure shield and barrier

between him and all other women. His love was an essence as pure and

sweet as the air of the Moor. He had solemnly sworn it; and she

dwelt on that, for it comforted her. She retraced other passages of

their conversation, and marked how again and again it returned to

her. And not only her did he discuss, but her husband also, and her

child, and the future welfare of them all.

She fought with herself and blamed herself for being uneasy and cast

down. What made her fearful? Why did sex move her to suspicion

before his frank protestations? He was a very honest and

truth-loving man. He hated hypocrisy, and cant, and the letter that

killed; he stood for the spirit that quickened; he longed to see the

world wiser, happier and saner. Such a fellow-creature was not to be

feared or mistrusted.

She told herself that she ought to love him, as he loved her; and

presently she assured herself that she did do so. He was a

gentleman, delicate of speech, earnest, and--his eyes were beautiful

to her. She found herself dwelling upon his outward parts, his gaze,

his features, his thin, brown hands.

Prosperity must spring out of Woodrow's regard for Daniel, otherwise

the professed friendship was vain. She assured herself of this; then

she endeavoured to lift the problem of her mind into the domain of

religion. Her husband worked hard to make her religious; now she

brought her difficulties on to that higher plane, and strove to find

more light upon them.

Nothing hurt her here. Religion, as she understood it, spoke clearly

and did not reprove her. She must love her neighbour as herself, and

seek to let a little of her own full cup of happiness flow over to

brighten the hearts of those less blessed. The sole difficulty was

in her teacher, not in her guides. How would Daniel approve such a

large policy? She asked him. But she did not ask him quite

honestly. She knew it, and she was very unhappy afterwards. And

then she told herself that the end had justified the means; and then

she doubted. And so the first real sorrow of her life dawned, became

for a season permanent, and shamed her in her own eyes.

"I met Mr. Woodrow to-day, Daniel," she said, "and walked a bit

beside his horse as I came back from Lydford. I thought once he was

going to begin about you, and hoped to hear the good news that he

meant to lift you up at last; but he didn't actually say it. Only he

asked me to see him sometimes when I brought in the butter of a

Friday--just to bring news of Ruddyford."

"Well, you do, don't you? If there's any message, Prout always sends

it by you--by you, or anybody that happens to be going in."

"Yes; only I generally see Susan, or leave the message with

Hephzibah. But Mr. Woodrow said he'd like me to call myself if he

was in. And my first thought was 'no'; then I saw he was so much in

earnest, that I said 'yes.'"

"You'll do no such thing, and 'twas very bold for him to ask it, or

you to grant."

"Of course I won't, if you don't like; but listen a minute, Daniel.

He was kinder about you than ever I remember him to be. 'Don't you

fear for your husband,' he said. 'I'm a quiet man, but I'm wide

awake. I know him. I know him better than Prout knows him, though

Prout's never tired of praising him. Leave your husband's future in

my hands. I mean to make the man in my own good time.' That's

actually what he said, Dan. And he knew very well that I should tell

you."

Brendon thought awhile.

"That's very good news, and a great weight off my mind," he answered.

"But why did he tell you? Let him tell me, if 'tis true. And that's

neither here nor there, so far as your seeing him goes. Anyway, I

forbid you to call at his house again."

CHAPTER X

KIT'S STEPS

The inevitable thing happened, and, after numerous evasions, Sarah

Jane consented to meet Hilary Woodrow, that he might talk to her

without restraint or fear of any eavesdropper.

Not until many months had passed did she agree to his petition; then,

on a day when the year again turned to autumn, they met beside the

river at a lonely place known as Kit's Steps.

The farmer had found Jarratt's cottage suit him extremely well, and,

moved by more motives than he declared, continued to rent it. For a

month only, during high summer, he returned to Ruddyford; but

afterwards, though he rode over twice or thrice a week to his farm,

Hilary dwelt in Lydford. Meantime Jarratt Weekes had married Mary

Churchward, and since the master of Ruddyford offered him a very

generous rent for the cottage, Mr. Churchward's son-in-law, as a man

of business, felt not justified in refusing. For a further term of a

year he let his house, and by arrangement, lived with the

schoolmaster during that period. His wife little liked the plan, but

was not consulted. Jarratt, however, promised her that in the

following June, at latest, she should occupy her own dwelling; and

with that undertaking Mary had to be content.

Now, on an afternoon of September, Sarah Jane came to Kit's Steps to

pick blackberries and meet Hilary Woodrow.

Here Lyd drops through a steep dingle, over a broken wall of stone;

and then, by pools and shallows and many a little flashing fall,

descends with echoing thunder into the fern-clad gloom of the gorge

beneath.

At Kit's Steps the river gushes out from a cleft in the rock, and her

waters, springing clear of the barrier, sweep down in a fan-shaped

torrent of foam, all crimped and glittering, like a woman's hair.

But the waterfall is white as snow, and, like snow, seems to pile

itself upon a deep pool beneath. Hence Lyd curls and dances away all

streaked and beaded with light. Bound about, shaggy brakes of furze

and thorn drop by steep declivities to stream-side, and the grey

crags that tower above are decked with oak and rowan and ash. At the

cleft whence the stream leaps out, a curtain of moss hangs down, and

great wealth of ferns and lush green things prosper. Briars dance in

the fall; and now they spring aloft, as the weight of the water

leaves them, and now are caught by the sparkling torrent and bent

again. The dark rocks, eternally washed by spray, shine like black

glass; at autumn time the lesser gorses flame; cushions of heather

creep to the edge of the low precipices and fledge each boulder;

while loud upon the ear there sounds the roar of tumbling Lyd. It is

a place cheerful in sunshine, solemn at evening or under the darkness

of storm; but always singular and always beautiful. No spirit of

fear or sorrow haunts it, despite the myth of one whose griefs were

ended here on a day forgotten.

[Illustration: KIT'S STEPS.]

Hilary was first at the Steps, and found a sheltered spot under an

oak tree, where mossy stones made an easy couch. Here impatiently he

awaited Sarah Jane; and at length she appeared with a basket half

full of ripe blackberries.

At first she was uneasy; but he quickly made her forget the adventure

of the moment, by interesting her mind with other matters.

"You ought to begin by praising me," he said, "for being so

exceedingly good when I was at Ruddyford. I only spoke to you thrice

all through that long month. At what a cost I avoided you, you'll

never guess!"

"I was the happier that you did. I thought you was growing

sensible--about things."

"Sarah Jane, there's no sense nor sanity for me away from you. I

never knew, till I went away to London, what you were to me. I said

to myself, 'She interested me in women again, because she's so

lovely'; but it wasn't that at all. I soon found out you yourself

interested me, and only you. The light dawned, and first I feared;

then I feared no more. Now I glory in loving you. It is far and

away the best thing that's ever happened to me."

"Was this what you wanted to say? It only makes me

miserable--Hilary."

"Thank you for calling me that."

"You made me promise to."

"I didn't make you. We can't make our gods do what we want. We can

only pray to them. What a curse it is that we weren't born under a

different star, Sarah Jane. For me, I mean. If your fearless mind

had only been taught otherwise--but that's vain to regret now."

"Always the same with you--trying to teach me things too hard for me,

and mix up right and wrong."

"But I don't do anything of the sort. Right is a great deal to me.

In this matter right and wrong are not the problem at all. I'm only

mourning custom and convention--not the clash of right and wrong."

The sexual relation had never occupied this woman's mind apart from

marriage. Now he made it do so, and very leisurely, very carefully,

explained what he meant by "custom." His manner was light and

bantering; none the less, he revealed to her his own deep interest in

this discussion. He was a special pleader. He laughed at religious

interference in this connection; told her that it was an outcome of

yesterday; that foreign races shared wives and husbands; that where

life was easy, many men had many wives; where life was hard, one

woman might take several spouses.

"Marriage laws," he said, "have always been a matter of physical

propriety and convenience. Temperature and latitude, the food

supply, the possibilities of population, and the dearly bought wisdom

of the community, have regulated it--not any false nonsense about

right and wrong."

He told her nothing that was untrue; but everything he said was an

indirect petition, and she knew it. She was not shocked at the facts

he placed before her; indeed, they interested her; but she refused to

let him influence her own opinion. She contrasted Hilary's

information with the fierce and fiery ideas of her husband on the

subject. Between the two her own mind, through forces of education,

inclined to Daniel; yet she saw no great horror in a wider freedom.

"'Tis wonderful how opposite men's thoughts can be," she said. "You

and my husband do look at life almost as differently as the people

you be telling about. 'Tis all one to you, so long as folk do what's

good to themselves, without hurting other folk; but to him--why, the

very name of evil be evil's self! Yesternight he was talking to a

tramp who took one of your turnips; and Daniel saw him. And he said

that, according to Christ, to look over a hedge with hunger after a

root was as bad as pulling and eating it."

"Doesn't it scorch you, living with such a narrow spirit?"

"'Twould scorch me to make him unhappy."

"That you must never do, Sarah Jane."

He began to talk again of the subject in his mind. But she begged

him to desist.

"Leave it," she said. "What's the sense of telling me all these

curious things about the way people go into marriage? Our way is so

good as any, surely?"

"I only want to enlarge your ideas, and prove my argument: that

there's no right and wrong in the matter, only the question of

fitness and custom. You're too large-minded to care a button for

peddling quibbles. But leave it, if you like. What you want to do,

before all else, is to make your husband happy; and so do I. Then

we'll talk of that, for there we quite agree."

"Thank you," she said. "'Tis more to me than anything."

"And you'll feel a little kind to me for coming to it?"

"Yes, I will. I always feel kind to you, because I'm sorry for you."

"Then 'tis my turn to thank you; and from my heart I do. You know

why I'm going to talk of Daniel?"

"For honesty, and because he deserves it."

"Yes--and for love, and because you wish it."

"That spoils all, Mr. Woodrow."

"Call me Hilary, or I'll not go on. There's one more thing you must

remember--in fairness to me. All good comes from God--doesn't it?

Grant Daniel is right about a God, and you'll grant all good comes

from Him."

"Why can't you say that good things come out of us ourselves? So you

have said before to-day."

"And so I say again. But we must think with your husband's mind over

this. If I lift him up a bit--what then?"

"He'll thank God for certain."

"Exactly. He'll be the better for advancement--body and soul. He's

got a bit peevish of late. Success will sweeten him and make him a

gentler man."

"He feels he's not made enough of at Ruddyford."

"Well, I promote him. I answer his prayers."

"And perhaps his God will pay you well. For Dan's very likely right."

"That's the point--I'm coming to that. I expect no payment--not from

God; because I happen to know that God is an idea and not a fact.

Therefore----"

"What?"

He was silent awhile. Her face changed, and he saw that she had

caught his meaning. He gave her no time to dwell upon it then, but

plunged into another subject suddenly.

"Nothing can happen that is not for good--if your husband is right.

Always remember that, Sarah Jane. God rules everything and rules

everything wisely and perfectly. Therefore, whatever you do, you are

working out His pattern--whether you are making the world happier or

more miserable. Now I'll ask you one question about something

altogether different. Last Sunday I read the story of David and

Uriah and Uriah's wife. You know it?"

"Yes, of course."

"Have you ever thought about it?"

"Only to be terrible sorry for the woman. 'Tis awful to think what

she must have suffered if she loved her husband."

"I'm always sorry for Uriah. 'Twas a cruel way out of the

difficulty. If I had been David I should have lifted that noble

soldier's head high in the world, and studied his ambitions, and

striven to make his life happier."

"David knowed the man better maybe. He reckoned 'twould be safer to

put him out of the way--perhaps even kinder, too--if he was such

another as my man."

"Don't think it. David had merely to keep Uriah ignorant. Many

things, not the least evil in themselves, only become so by the

revelation of them. Prevent those who will think them wrong from

hearing of them, and no harm is done. I love another man's wife.

Well and good. Is that a crime? Can I help it by an effort of will?

Suppose that other man's wife is sorry for me, and fond of me too?

Suppose that she finds me interesting, and useful to enlarge her

mind, and helpful to throw light on the difficulties of life owing to

my long years of study? Is that wrong of her? Can she help it? Can

you help it, Sarah Jane?"

"I'll never come to you no more, then. I can help that, anyway."

"No, you can't help even that. You must come to me if you

love--Daniel. I'm his destiny. I'm the maker of his future. His

light shall shine, and he shall be a happy man, and do good and great

work in the world long after I'm dead and gone. I'm only the poor

means, yet vital. A stone counts for less than the tool it sharpens;

but the steel couldn't do its work without the stone. You--you are

your husband's light, and his life, and his salvation. You shall

give him his heart's desire if----"

He broke off, was silent a moment, then asked a question.

"What would Bathsheba have said if David had put it so?"

"Depends on the sort she was. Might was right for her, poor woman.

She had no choice."

"She'd have spoken according to the reality of her love for Uriah,"

he said positively. "She'd have said, 'I am in the hands of my God,

and if good things may come to my husband through me, 'tis my joy and

glory as a loving wife to take them to him.' Can God do wrong?"

He stopped and looked at her.

Her bosom panted and she grew weeping-ripe.

"Never--never, wrong or right. 'Tis cruel to put it so. He'd rather

cut my throat with his own hand. He'd----"

"But think--so much for so little. I want so little, and yet not

little, for I ask what's worth more than all the money I've got in

the world. Kiss me--once, Sarah Jane--only once--and I'll do more

for your husband than his highest dreams or hopes. For love of him

kiss me--not for love of me. Would I ask you to do an evil thing?

Is it evil to put new life into a very sorrowful man and purify every

drop of blood in an unhappy heart? Is it evil to make the sick whole

again at a touch? Didn't Daniel's Lord and Master do as much a

thousand times----?"

She stared and turned pale, save for her lips. Twin tears glittered

in her eyes. He put his arm round her swiftly and kissed her. For

the briefest moment he held her, then he leapt to his feet and drew a

great breath.

"If I did that often, I, too, should believe in God!" he said.

A moment later he had hurried away, and she sat solitary and tearful

there for nearly an hour.

Through intervals of wild uncertainty the things that he had spoken

returned to her memory, and she clutched at them, like the drowning

at straws. To her husband and his opinions she also turned. The

outlook of neither man was admirable to her now. She sickened at

both surveys, and wished herself a maiden again.

Then, with great yearning, she yearned after Daniel, and rose and

hurried off to her home. Before she reached it her husband actually

met her. Upon White Hill he came, with his face to Lydford, and when

she stood by his side he stopped and helped himself from her basket.

"Brave berries, sure enough," he said. "I wish I could carry 'em

back for 'e; but Tommy Bates runned over five minutes agone with a

message from farmer. He wants to see me at once, and I mustn't waste

a moment. Can't say what's in the wind, I'm sure."

He went his way, and Sarah Jane returned to Ruddyford. As she

arrived, a little boy came out. Tommy Bates had just enjoyed a good

tea, and the jam that had smeared his bread left many traces about

his mouth.

"Mr. Woodrow catched sight of me in the street by the post-office,

an' ordered me to come out-along and tell Mr. Brendon as he wanted

him this very minute," explained the child.

CHAPTER XI

TROUBLE AT AMICOMBE HILL

Tabitha Prout, despite her general contempt of the married state and

those duties that belonged to it, awoke into a very active love for

Mrs. Brendon's baby; and Gregory Daniel, doubtless appreciating the

importance of having Tabitha upon his side, did all that he could to

increase this regard. So it came about that when the little boy's

mother was called away, as sometimes happened for a few hours at a

time, the child found a friend in the old maid. She enjoyed to have

the baby beside her at Ruddyford kitchen, and Daniel foretold that,

as soon as the infant could steer a steady course from his mother's

cottage to the farm, Tabitha would quickly find him a nuisance.

Brendon returned from his master in a very happy and exalted frame of

mind. To Sarah Jane only he imparted his news; and it was not until

nightfall that he did so. Then he chose the curious form of a prayer

for his intelligence, and while they knelt together and he prayed

aloud, as his custom occasionally was, she heard for the first time,

in her husband's thanksgiving to Heaven, how Hilary Woodrow had kept

his promise.

"O Almighty Father, I thank Thee for touching this man's heart to

lift me up and advance my earthly welfare. And I pray Thee to be on

my side always, that I may do wisely with Thy good gifts and turn

more and more to Thee and trust Thee. And let me do worthy work and

never bate my mind from thinking how to help Ruddyford and advance

the prosperity of Mr. Woodrow. I thank Thee humbly, O God, for all

Thy mercies, through Jesus Christ. Amen."

Before she slept he told his wife that Hilary had added ten shillings

a week to his money.

"I must go on as I'm going, so he said," explained Daniel; "but his

eyes are opened at last. I gathered from him that he quite

understood what I am here. I must give him time, and all will come

right. It's a lot of money, and better things in store, I do think.

'Tis the beginning of great blessings, Sarah Jane."

She expressed her delight; but when another morning came and the man

awakened, like a joyful giant, to run his course, it was not only

happiness, but the cloudy pain of a memory unhappy that dawned in his

wife's spirit. Two different emotions pressed down upon her heart:

remorse at the thing never to be recalled, and wonder at the price.

The remorse waned and the wonder grew.

She mourned and rejoiced and went on with her life, into which

henceforth Hilary Woodrow intruded.

Then her abstracted soul was rudely shaken out of itself, for one day

there came running from the Moor a boy with an evil message. He had

been picking whortleberries near the peat-works, when a man hailed

him, and, approaching the ruin, he encountered Mr. Friend.

"He's cruel bad, seemingly. In a great heat--so he tells me. I was

to let Mrs. Brendon know as he was ill. He'm short of victuals, and

drink, too, and I was to say as if you could bring up a drop of

spirits in a bottle, no doubt 'twould soon put him right. And I was

to have sixpence, please, for coming. He hadn't got any small money

by him for the moment; but he said he'll pay you back presently."

In ten minutes Sarah Jane was hastening over the Moor, and soon

afterwards Daniel, carrying a basket, set out after her. He had

visited the farm and collected such things as Tabitha advised. The

man made light of his load, however, and soon overtook Sarah Jane.

"Don't you fret," he said. "You know what he is. The wonder is he

haven't been struck down a score of times ere this. So careless of

hisself as a child. 'Tis a bit of a tissick on the lungs, I reckon.

Us'll soon have him to rights again."

"If he'm bad, I shall bide along with him, Dan. I can't leave him

here--not for anything in the world."

"Of course not. I shouldn't ax it. Very like I'll bide too. If we

think he's bad enough for a doctor, I'll go off for one myself."

She thanked him gratefully, and they spoke on indifferent subjects to

calm their hearts. Sarah Jane hesitated not to praise Hilary Woodrow

for his recent action. Indeed, she felt they owed him a very real

debt of gratitude, and said so many times.

"You're almost too affectionate and kind to everybody," her husband

declared. "Pushed so far as you push it, 'tis weakness."

"How can that be, Daniel? Even you hold it right to love your

neighbour as yourself."

"You can strain that into foolishness," he answered. "And you are

prone to do it. 'Tis a sort of gush in you. You mean nought--yet

there 'tis. See how you look at a tramp that comes begging, and how

Tabitha Prout looks at him. She tells the truth in her eyes, and

shows her contempt of the rascal; you look as if you doted on his

lazy carcase, and would gladly pour out the fat of the larder for

him."

"I know 'tis so. I be fond of my kind--just because they be my kind,

I think. I like 'em all--men, women, childern."

"So you should do--in a general spirit of religion, because they are

made in God's image."

"No!" she said vehemently. "Not that--not that. Because they are

made in mine!"

He showed discontent.

"You won't come to see the truth, talk as I may."

"Look at the night when you heard our good news," she answered.

"That shows the difference betwixt us. You was thanking God so deep

and true, that you hadn't a thought for Mr. Woodrow. You was so

wrapped up in heaven that you never seemed to think 'twas a man on

earth--a creature like yourself--that had lifted you up. All the

credit went to God Almighty--all. Not a drop to farmer. Can't us

poor human souls have a bit of praise when our hearts are generous

and we do good things?"

So she argued in all honesty and out of a passionate abstract love

for her kind. At that moment she forgot the circumstances and the

nature of the bargain. She only begged that her husband should

bestow a little of his gratitude on his earthly master.

"As for that, a good human being be only the middle-man between God

and us," he said. "The Book says all good comes from Him, and only

from Him. Same as evil comes from the Prince of Evil into man's

heart."

"Then what be we but a pack of dancing dolls with them two--God an'

the Dowl--fighting for the strings? Is that all you'd make of us?

Is that all you'd make of me? You'll live to know different, Daniel."

"You fly away so," he said. "Of course there's Free Will, an' a very

great subject 'tis; an' Mr. Matherson be going to preach upon it next

Sunday, I'm glad to say. So I hope we'll both win a bit of light

when he does."

Sarah Jane said no more. Strange thoughts, not wholly unhappy,

worked in her heart, and she felt frank joy to think that, though

Daniel Brendon had not paid Hilary for his kindness, somebody had

done so.

So the husband and wife each failed to grasp the reality of the

other. While she thus reflected, he was busying himself with how to

earn this handsome increase of salary. A dozen plans began to

develop in his mind. Only the inertia of old routine and custom

still opposed his various enterprises. But now had dawned a promise

of power, and he was full of hope.

They reached the mournful habitation of Gregory Friend to find him

very ill. He sat by his fire with a couple of sacks over his

shoulders, and complained of great pain in the lower chest and back,

with difficulty of breathing.

"It came on two days ago, and I thought I'd throw it off, as I have

many an ache before," he said. "But it gained on me. Then this

morning, with light, I began to wonder what I'd better do, for I felt

some deep mischief had got hold upon me. I put on my clothes and

thought to try and get down to Ruddyford, as the shortest road to

people. But by good chance there came a boy picking hurts, and no

doubt he reached you."

They spoke together for five minutes. Then Daniel started for

Bridgetstowe to get a doctor, and Sarah Jane attended to her father.

She got him out of his clothes and into bed; she built a big wood

fire that set the moisture glimmering on the walls of Gregory's

hovel; she heated water and made him drink a stiff glass of hot

spirits; and she set about a dish of broth, the ingredients of which

Daniel had brought in the basket. Mr. Friend revived presently, but

his pain was considerable and he found it difficult to breathe.

"Give me some more brandy," he said. "It lifts up the strength. I

did ought to have a plaster put upon my back without a doubt, for I

mind a man up here being took just like this. And they put a fiery

plaster on him and drawed the evil out."

"There's nought but bread to make it of," said Sarah Jane. "Or else

peat."

His eyes brightened.

"That's a good thought--a capital idea! Fetch a bit of the soft and

make it red-hot in a saucepan, and 'twill be a very useful

thing--better than mustard, very like."

She did her best, and presently Mr. Friend, with a mass of hot peat

pressed against his side in a piece of Sarah Jane's flannel

petticoat, declared himself much easier.

"'Tis life every way," he said. "This be a great discovery, and very

like, if doctors come to know about it, 'twill go further than all

they bird-witted engineers to set Amicombe Hill up again."

He stuck to it that the peat was doing him immense good. He drank a

little broth when Sarah Jane brought it to him. Then he wandered in

his speech, and then for a time he kept silence.

"Better for certain--better for certain now," he said at intervals.

Presently he asked after his grandchild.

"Must have him up here a lot next summer when the weather's good," he

said.

He seemed easier presently, and his daughter had leisure to think of

herself. She loved him dearly, and, since marriage, the gentleness

and simplicity of his character had more impressed her than formerly.

Before, she had no experience by which to measure his virtues. Now,

with a larger knowledge of men and life, she could appreciate the

single-hearted Gregory, sympathize with him and perceive the pathos

of his life and futile hope.

She talked to him now very openly of her own secret tribulations and

the difficulties of late forced upon her by her husband's master.

"He's lifted Daniel up, father; and Daniel have thanked God ever

since; but--but 'tis me he ought to thank."

Then she proceeded, told her father of the scene at Kit's Steps, and

asked him to help her.

"Do nothing to anger Daniel," he said. "You're playing with death

and worse. This can't come to good, and I only hope to God you

haven't gone too far already. That man Brendon as--as--build me up

another hot poultice, will 'e, while I talk?--Brendon is a lion of

the Lord; and he'd be a lion on his own account if anything happened

to cross him in his den. Have 'e ever marked his eyes, Sarah Jane?

But of course you have. They glow sometimes in the dimpsy light,

like a dog's do glow. When you see that in a human's eyes, it means

that, down under, there's a large share of burning fire in 'em. If

Dan thought that he'd been wronged, not heaven or earth would stand

between him and payment."

He began to cough and held his hands to his head.

"'Tis like red-hot wires going through the brain," he said. "But

'twill be better presently. I'm in a proper heat now. I've been

praying to God to fetch out the sweat on me. Now the peat have done

it."

"Don't talk no more, dear father. Bide quiet a bit an' try an' see

if you can't sleep."

"So I will, then; but there's two things I must say first. One is

that you must go away from Ruddyford. Mark me, 'tis life or death if

the wind's in that quarter and Woodrow's after you. He's a desperate

sort of man because he've got nobody to think of but himself--no

family to consider--no wife or child--nothing. You must go--go--far

ways off, where he can't come at you."

He stopped, and shut his eyes. Then, when Sarah Jane hoped that he

slept, her father spoke again.

"The other thing is my knife--the famous one wi' the ivory handle and

long, narrer blade, that I use when I do my chemical work. It have a

history. My uncle fetched it from a foreign land, and it be made of

a steel called Damascus--the best in the world; and there's gold

letters let into it in a foreign tongue. 'Tis in the works, along

with a few other things, Sarah Jane. My watch be there--not that

'tis any use, for it haven't gone for a year. Still, if the worst

comes, I'd like little Greg to have 'em from me--also the shares in

the Company. He'll live to see them a useful bit of money. And the

rest must go to you and Dan."

"Don't--don't be talking. You've got to get well again quick," she

said. Then she took away his plaster and brought another hot from

the saucepan.

"A great invention," he said. "A great invention. If I'm spared,

the thing shall be known far and wide afore long."

He dozed between fits of coughing, and moved uneasily in a

semi-dream. Then came the sound of a galloping horse, and Sarah

hastened to the door.

"Can't be doctor yet, unless by happy fortune Dan ran across him,"

she said.

But it was not the doctor. The bearded and grave countenance of Mr.

Henry Norseman met Sarah Jane's eyes.

"Just met Brendon," he explained, "and hearing that Mr. Friend was in

peril, I come up so hard as my hoss would go, to see if I could

comfort him. I've been light at more death-beds than one in my time,

including my own father's, and often a word helps the wanderer in the

Valley."

"He'm not in the Valley, or anywheres near it," answered the woman

stoutly. "But come in by all means. If you could bide with him a

little, I'll look about, and set his living chamber in order, and try

to make an egg pudding for him."

Mr. Norseman, who knew Gregory and his daughter but slightly, now

dismounted, tethered his horse, and presently sat by the sufferer;

while Sarah Jane, glad of the opportunity, worked hard to make the

dismal hole that was her father's home a little clean and a little

comfortable.

"Very kind of you to call, I'm sure," said Mr. Friend, when his

daughter had gone. "Don't tell her yet, for I may be wrong; but I'm

very much afraid 'tis all up with me. 'Tis awful deep in me. I got

properly wetted two days ago, and went to sleep afore the fire."

"Where there's life there's hope," said Mr. Norseman. "But you're

wise to face it. I wish you'd been more of a church-worshipper,

Friend."

"Well, well. I've worked hard and tried to do my duty."

"But more goes to life than that. What are man's days without faith?

Here you've lived for years, more like a wild savage of the woods

than a devout Christian. I wish you'd planned your life wiser,

Friend, I do indeed."

"So do I. So do all. So will yourself, when you'm down."

"As to that, I think I can look forward in hope. But you--you see,

you put this life first always. Your thoughts ran upon making a

fortune out of fuel in this world. You never thought about making a

fortune in the next, I'm afraid."

Gregory laughed painfully.

"Plenty of free fuel where you think I'm going," he said.

Mr. Norseman was hurt.

"You ought not to jest about a sacred subject--never--and least of

all at a time like this," he answered. "You're wise to face it--as

we all should--but not in a ribald spirit. Don't die with a jest on

your lips, Gregory Friend."

The other moved and groaned, but with present misery not in future

fear.

"For your comfort I can tell you that hell's not what it was," said

Henry Norseman kindly. "The more understanding way with respect to

it, so parson says, is to believe that it won't last for ever. 'Tis

a noble discovery, if true. No man was better pleased to hear the

sermon he preached about it than I was. I can say that honestly. If

hell's only a matter of centuries and not eternity--think what an

uplifting thought for a death-bed! I don't say you're on your

death-bed, Friend, and I hope you're not. But some day you will be

for certain. And 'tis a great thought that the Lord may be found so

forgiving that He'll abolish the place of torment once and for

all--so soon as justice have been done. Justice first, of course.

Even you, as can't be called a church member, or even chapel--very

likely a thousand years will see you through it--or less."

"God is Love, my mother used to tell," said the sufferer.

"And for that reason we have a right to be hopeful," declared the

churchwarden. "And I'm for limiting hellfire heart and soul; though,

I warn you, everybody ban't of the same opinion. 'Tis justice

against love weighed in the balance of the Almighty Mind; and ban't

for us worms to say which will come out top."

Sarah Jane returned a little later, and found her father somewhat

agitated.

"This man reckons I shan't have more than a thousand years in hell,

if I'm lucky, Sarah," he said. "'Twas kind of him to come and lift

my thoughts. And I said that I'd like to be buried up here 'pon

Amicombe Hill, in the peat; but he reckons 'twould be against high

religion."

"A most profane wish without a doubt," answered Mr. Norseman; "and as

a Christian man, let alone other reasons, I shall object to it."

Gregory's daughter looked at him, then she turned to her father.

"Try and eat a little bit of this, dear heart," she said. "'Twill

strengthen you, I'm sure."

A moment later she drew herself up, regarded Mr. Norseman, and

pointed to the entrance with a simple gesture.

"And you--you that could talk of hell to this poor stricken man,

whose good life don't harbour one dark hour--you, that can bring your

poor church stuff to my father--I'll ax you to leave him if you

please. When he dies--and may it be far off from him--he'll go where

the large, gentle hearts go--to the God that made him and that

watches over the least. He's done man's work and been faithful.

He's been loving and kind to all. Not here, nor in heaven, can any

harsh word be spoke against my dear, dear father."

Mr. Norseman pulled his black beard and began to get annoyed.

"This isn't at all the way that Brendon would speak," he said--from

the door.

"No," she answered. "He's a man, and strong in the arm. He wouldn't

speak: he'd do. He'd take you by the neck and fling you back into

Lydford--and your horse after you."

"You'll be sorry for this disgraceful behaviour," said the

churchwarden. "'Tisn't a nice way to treat a religious person who

rides four miles out of his way to comfort the sick."

"Rides four mile out of his way to bring hell-fire to a better man

than himself," she retorted hotly; then Mr. Norseman turned his back

and went to his horse.

Gregory chid Sarah Jane, but she would not let him talk, renewed his

poultices and strove to make him eat and drink. He could, however,

do neither, and he was wandering in his speech and partly unconscious

before another hour had passed.

Time stretched interminably, and not until the evening of the day did

a medical man arrive on horseback.

He had guessed from Daniel's description of the case what was amiss,

and had directed Brendon to bring certain things to the peat-works as

quickly as possible.

Sarah Jane watched while the physician made his examination. Then he

took her into the other room, and told her that her father was dying.

CHAPTER XII

THE HERMIT PASSES

Jarratt Weekes came into his father's home with an item of news.

"That old madman at the peat-works--Gregory Friend--is about done

for," he announced. "I met Brendon yesterday, running about for a

doctor. I couldn't feel too sorry myself, and angered him.

'Wouldn't you do as much for your father-in-law?' he asked me; and I

thought of Adam Churchward, and said I wouldn't."

"A man didn't ought to marry his wife's family," admitted Mrs.

Weekes. "But you'm too hard without a doubt. Well, if Friend be

going, there's an end of the peat-works for evermore. 'Twill be the

last breath of life out of the place."

"All the same," said her son, "there's no call for that long-limbed

man to reprove me, as if I was a creature not made of flesh and

blood. He's so dreadful serious--can't see any light play of the

mind."

"A deadly earnest creature, no doubt," admitted his mother. "I

wonder if Sarah Jane will be any the better for Gregory's going?

Probably not. But come to think of it, they've had their luck of

late. Her man's getting what I should call fancy wages myself."

"He's worth it," ventured Philip Weekes. "The things he does--Joe

Tapson was telling me. Even Joe, who's a jealous man, and didn't

take at all kindly to Daniel's rise--even Joe admits that he's a

wonder."

"Bah!" said Jarratt. "He's not half so wonderful as a

three-horse-power steam engine, and can't do half the work of it."

"You're wrong there," answered his father. "He's got plenty of

brains in his head, and Prout himself has let it be known that them

alterations he begged to be allowed to make will certainly be for the

better, though he stood out against them at the time."

"We're friends now, anyway," continued his son. "I'm not saying he's

not a very useful man; but I do say, and always shall, that he wasn't

good enough for Sarah Jane."

"Us don't want to hear her name no more," declared his mother--"not

on your lips, that is. 'Tis Mary now, and she's a proper girl too.

Where she got her wits from I never can make out. 'Twasn't from her

mother, for the poor soul was only moon to schoolmaster's sun, and

hadn't more sense than, please God, she should have. That gert,

hulking chap, William, as paints his silly little pictures, be so

like his mother in character as two peas, though he carries his

father's body."

"Mary hasn't got no higher opinion of 'em than you have," declared

Jarratt. "She can suffer her father, but not the 'Infant.' She'm

twice the man he is."

"For my part, I'd sooner do with him than schoolmaster," answered

Hephzibah. "Lord save us--such an empty drum never was. Why, to

hear his great, important voice, you'd think he'd met a lion in the

path. Moses--when he comed down from the Mount--couldn't have felt

more full of news. And what do it all come to? Nothing at all--save

that he's just drunk a dish of tea round the corner with some other

old fool; or that one of the school-childer's got the mumps; or some

such twaddle."

"Not that us should seek to set Mary against her own father,

however," said Philip mildly.

"Be quiet, you mouse of a man!" answered his wife. "Who wants to set

children against parents, I should like to know? If a child be set

against parents, 'tis the silly parents' own fault--as you ought to

understand--nobody better."

The family met again that night, and Susan, coming across from Mr.

Woodrow's for some butter, brought the expected news with her.

"Mr. Gregory Friend was took off about midday," she said. "I met

young Billy Luke--him as he apprenticed to Mr. Medland, the

undertaker. He knowed all about it. They be building his coffin

this minute, and 'twill be taken up to-morrow morning; and 'tis

ordained that poor Mr. Friend shall be drove on the trolley that he

used to work up and down the line with his peat."

"Quite right," said Mr. Weekes. "For that matter, there's no other

way they could fetch him down. Well, well--who'd have thought of him

going?"

"They've allowed Mr. Brendon to have the corpse took to the vicarage;

and the funeral party will walk from there; and he's to be buried

Friday; and two wreaths have come in already, if you'll believe it,"

continued Susan. "One from them people at High Down, that Mr. Friend

did use to keep in firing free of cost; and one from somebody

unknown."

"Us will do the same," declared Philip. "There should be some

Michaelmas daisies near out, but I haven't looked at the front garden

for a fortnight."

"If you had," said Mrs. Weekes, "you'd have found that owing to your

mazed foolishness in leaving the gate open a while back, Huggins' cow

got in, an' the daring hussy ate our Machaelmas daisies down to the

roots afore I could force her out again. All the same, we'll do

something, else Sarah Jane won't send us a memorial card; and I like

to see them black-edged cards stuck in the parlour looking-glass.

They be good for us, and remind us that a time will come when they'll

be printing ours."

"Leave that to me," said Philip. "Not your card--God forbid!" he

added hastily, "but the wreath. I thought well of poor Friend--very

well--a most hopeful creature. 'Twas only back-along, at his

grandchild's christening, that me and him had a great tell over

things in general."

"If 'tis a boughten wreath, I'd be wishful to put a shilling from my

savings to it," said Susan. "I'm terrible fond of Sarah Jane, and

she'll be cruel sad for him."

They rolled the morsel of other folks' sorrow upon their tongues.

Mrs. Weekes surprised nobody by deciding to attend the interment. A

funeral was an event she rarely denied herself, if it was possible to

be present. She found the ceremony restful and suggestive.

"You and me will go, Jar," she said. "You can't come, master,

because you'll have to be on your rounds against market-day. But Jar

and me will stand for the family."

"And me," said Susan. "I can borrow a bit of black easily from a lot

of girls."

"I want to go," began Philip. "I really want to go. As a rule

funerals ban't all to me they are to you, my dear; but this is out of

the common. Yes, I must ax of you to let me go, out of respect to

poor Friend."

Thereupon Mrs. Weekes took the opportunity and her voice rose to a

familiar and penetrating pitch.

"Nought to you if we starve," she began. "You--amusing yourself on

Friday of all days--and the people along your beat waiting and

wondering, and coming down on us next week for damages; and me going

empty-handed to market Saturday, to be the laughing-stock of Devon

and Cornwall; and----"

Here Philip, with deprecatory attitudes, withdrew.

For once the man stood firm, and having started on his rounds at dawn

upon the burial day of Gregory Friend, he was able to pay final

respect to the peat-master and be numbered with the mourners.

Their company was small, but among them stood one most unexpected.

Hilary Woodrow had sent a wreath the night before, and its beauty

occasioned comment and admiration among those who saw it; but that he

should come to the funeral was a great surprise. Come he did,

however, and attended the opening portion of the service; but he did

not join the party in the churchyard.

Brendon waited to see the grave filled; then he returned to his wife.

She went with her little boy to the house of Mrs. Weekes after the

funeral; and there he presently found her.

Hephzibah insisted on Sarah Jane drinking a glass of brown sherry,

while the child ate a sponge-cake.

"Pale sherry-wine be right at a funeral--not dark," said the

market-woman; "but, at times like this, the right and wrong of such a

small thing really don't count for much to a sad heart." Then she

turned to Gregory, the child.

"You darling boy! Behaved so beautiful, he did, with his curls

a-shining like gold over his poor little black coat! 'Tis one in ten

thousand, as I said from the first. I could wish vicar had read the

lesson himself, instead of letting schoolmaster do it. But

Churchward's always turned on to the lessons nowadays. 'Tis like a

bumble-bee reading, to my ear. And Farmer Woodrow there too! Fancy

that!"

Sarah Jane nodded. She had suffered very bitter grief in this loss,

but she showed little of it except to her husband. Only he knew the

extent and depth of her sorrow. He had asked her not to come to the

funeral, but she chose to do so. Pale and dry-eyed, Sarah Jane

endured. Of her sorrow very little appeared. She lacked her

husband's faith, and strove with poor success to pass the barrier, or

see herself in her father's arms when life's day was done.

She drank the wine and brushed the crumbs from her baby's frock and

face.

"He wrote Daniel a very beautiful letter--Mr. Woodrow, I mean. He

don't think about death like my husband do; but the letter made even

Dan think. 'Twas deep, lovely language," she said.

"He'll be meat for the grave himself if he ban't careful," answered

Mrs. Weekes. "A poor, starved frame and hungry eyes, though there's

a wonderful gentlemanly hang about his clothes. Something be burning

him up in my opinion--we all mark it. Jarratt says 'tis his harmful

ideas about religion; I say 'tis a decline. I told the man so to his

face last week, when I went over to see Susan; and he laughed in his

gentle way, and said he was all right. Still, I don't like his

look--more don't John Prout."

Sarah Jane listened, but she knew a good deal more about Hilary

Woodrow than any other living creature save himself. Little by

little there had risen an intimacy between them--not of the closest,

yet of a sort beyond friendship. She met him by appointment, now

here, now there. To this extent she lived a double life, since

Brendon heard nothing of these occasions. Woodrow talked of going

away for the winter, but she knew that he would never do so. The

days when he did not see her were blank days to him. He often spoke

warmly of Brendon and of the future that he designed for him. He

longed to make her presents, but could not. Now thinking upon almost

the last words that her father had spoken to her, Sarah Jane

determined to throw herself upon Hilary's goodness and honour. But

she reckoned without his passion.

That night, while Brendon slept beside her, she turned and turned

sleepless, with a wet handkerchief rolled up in her hands. She mused

upon the dear dust in the churchyard, and the living man beside her,

and of that other who thought waking, and dreamed sleeping, of none

but her. How did she regard him?

For a month after her father's death Hilary Woodrow spared her, and

she appreciated his self-denial. But during the days he saw her not

he revealed a constant and steady thought for her. He had continued

speech with Daniel, and Sarah Jane noted that Brendon's enthusiasm

for his master grew as Woodrow's trust in him increased. Then she

saw Hilary again herself, and his flame leapt the fiercer for their

weeks of separation.

CHAPTER XIII

BURSTING OF THE SPRINGS

A year passed by and little happened to mark it. Then full store of

incident fell upon the dwellers at Ruddyford Farm.

It is to be recorded to the credit of Jarratt Weekes that, in the

bitter difference which now happened between him and Daniel Brendon,

he was not altogether at fault. Nevertheless an underlying element

of malignity mingled with his attitude. In giving of advice, subtle

personal satisfaction often lurks; yet sometimes the emotion belongs

merely to that implicit sense of superiority felt by the critic over

the criticized. When Weekes met Brendon on an autumn day and plunged

into the most dangerous subject that he could have chosen, he did so

quite awake to the delicacy; but he did so from motives at any rate

largely blent with good. He was now himself happily married, for

Mary Churchward, despite a harsh voice and a hard nature, had plenty

of sense, and proved practical and patient. Jarratt's feeling to

Brendon and his wife was mainly friendly, and if some sub-acid of

memory still tinged thought, that recollection had largely faded. To

sum up, if his motives in this encounter were mingled, he meant no

lasting evil, but rather lasting good from his action. That Daniel

might smart a little he guessed, and the fact did not cause him any

regret. Frankly, he was glad of it. The giving of this advice would

lift him above the lesser man, and, by so doing, help him to win back

a little self-esteem. As for the upshot of his counsel, he felt very

certain that it must tend to benefit the other and establish him more

securely in his home and its vital relations. Since he acted in

profound ignorance of Brendon's own character, his conscience was

clear, and his mind free to state the case with all the force and

tact at his command. He told himself that he was doing his duty; but

his deed, none the less, had a relish that duty usually lacks.

Under any circumstances danger must attend the operation--how great

Weekes did not guess; and in the event, the added circumstance of

Daniel's mood had to be reckoned with. This precipitated the

catastrophe with terrific suddenness.

When they met, Brendon's dark star was up. Matters were contrary at

the farm, and a thing, little to be expected, had happened in the

shape of a quarrel between Daniel and John Prout. Their master was

the subject, and a word from the younger man brought sharp rebuke

upon him.

"'Tis all tom-foolery about his being ill," said Daniel. "He's as

tough as any of us. 'Tis laziness that keeps him mooning about with

his books down at Lydford--that's my opinion."

But Prout flashed out at this, and, for the first time, the other saw

him in anger.

"Tom-fool yourself!" he said; "and never you open your mouth to chide

your betters in my hearing again, for I won't stand it. You ought to

know wiser. You to speak against him! If you had half his patience

and half his brain power, you might presume to do it; but you

haven't: you've got nought but the strength of ten men and a very

unsettled temper to make it dangerous. I'm sorry for you--you that

pose for a righteous man and mistrust them as be set over you. What

do you know about the sufferings of the body? When do a cough rack

you of nights and rheumatics gnaw your bones like a hungry dog?

Don't you dare to say a disrespectful word of Mr. Woodrow again, for

I'll have you away if you do! After the master he's been to

you--lifting you above the rest and making you free of the farm to

work where you will, as if 'twas your own. Dear, dear!--'tis a bad

come-along-of-it, and I'm greatly disappointed in you, my son."

[Illustration: RUDDYFORD.]

His anger waned towards the end of this speech, as his words

testified; but Brendon, having heard, hesitated and showed

self-control. He was bitterly hurt at this tremendous reproof, yet

he perceived that it was justified from Mr. Prout's standpoint. He

did not seek to set himself right. His first anger died out when

John reminded him of the things that the master had done for him. He

apologized, but in a half-hearted manner; and then, with darkness of

spirit, betook himself about his business.

It was necessary that morning that he should go into Bridgetstowe,

and through a wet autumnal Moor he walked, passed under Doe Tor, and

presently reached the little Lyd, where she foamed in freshet from

the high lands.

The springs had burst, and the wilderness was traversed with a

thousand glittering rillets. In the deep coombs and wherever a green

dimple broke the stony slopes of the hills, water now leapt and

glittered. Traced to their sources, the springs might be found

beginning in little bubbling cauldrons, from which, through a mist of

dancing sand, they rose out of the secret heart of the granite.

Then, by winding ways, they fell, and the green grass marked their

unfamiliar passing with beads of imprisoned light on every blade. It

was the death-time of heath and furze, the springtime of moss, lichen

and fungus. Quaint fleshy caps and hoods--some white and grey, some

amber and orange-tawny--spattered the heath; and many mosses fell

lustrously in sheets and shone in pads and cushions. The great

lycopodium spread green fingers through the herbage, and his little

lemon spires of fruit thrust upward in companies and groups. Beside

him the eye-bright still blossomed; the whortle's foliage turned to

scarlet; and in the marsh the bog mosses made splendid mosaic of

delicate and tender colours. At river's brink the seed-cases of the

asphodel burnt, like a scarlet flame; the sky-coloured bells of the

least campanula still defied death; and the later gentian grew and

lifted purple blossoms from the glimmering grass.

Daniel Brendon crossed Lyd by the stepping-stones and met with

Jarratt Weekes. They walked along together, and the elder man

happened to speak of a matter then in the other's thoughts.

"I suppose you know Mr. Woodrow's going at last? My wife says she

can't live with her father no more, and she's right; so I've had to

say that I must have the cottage empty after Christmas. What's he

going to do?"

"Can't tell you," answered the other. "There's a general opinion

that he's not strong and didn't ought to spend his winters up here."

"I reckon we shouldn't have heard about his health if he'd been a

poor man. He's well enough to do everything he wants to do. Have 'e

marked that?"

Daniel nodded.

"All the same, we mustn't judge people by their looks," he said. "I

was thinking much as you do only an hour agone--and saying it too.

But I got a pretty sharp rap over the knuckles from Prout for my

pains. Ban't our business, after all. He's a very good

master--never heard of a better."

"And a very good payer. I've nothing to grumble at. Only a man's

wife must be his first thought. Mrs. Weekes wants to go into the

house."

"Us married ones can afford to laugh at the bachelors," declared

Daniel.

"So us can--though the bachelors have been known to pay back the

compliment sometimes, and make us a laughing-stock. When I was

married, kind-hearted people whispered 'twas the rasp wedding with

the nutmeg-grater. That's the sort of gentlemanly thing one's

friends say behind one's back. But I think it has been proved

different. My wife's a wonder in her way--got all my mother's sense

without her tongue."

"You're lucky for certain. I'm glad Sarah Jane and her be such good

friends."

"So am I, and--and friendship's nothing if it won't---- Look here,

may I say a thing to you on a delicate subject, Brendon? Will you

promise not to be angered if I do it?"

"If you speak of friendship, who can be angered?" asked Daniel.

"What delicate subject should you have to speak to me about?"

"The tenderest a man can touch to a neighbour. But from pure

goodwill I speak it. You'll judge that when you hear me. A man

doesn't strain friendship and say ticklish things for fun. 'Tis only

out of kind feeling for you and Sarah Jane that I'm going to say it."

"Better leave her out," said Daniel. "Her welfare's the same as

mine. She've not got any good away from my good. If you do me a

friendly turn, you'll be doing the same to she."

"I can't leave her out. She's the matter."

Brendon stopped and stared.

"What be you talking about?"

"About Sarah Jane. There it is. I told you 'twas a delicate matter.

If you won't stand it, I'll leave it alone."

"Go on," said Brendon shortly. His voice had changed, and Weekes

noticed it.

"Don't be angry for nought. It's a free country, and I've a right to

my opinions, I suppose. I say again, 'twas a great act of friendship

in me to touch this thing at all; but if you're going to take it in

an evil spirit, I'll stop. 'Tis no better than the old saying of

Lydford Law--when they hanged a man first and tried him

afterwards--for you to speak in that tone of voice, and command me to

go on, as if I was a servant and you the master."

"What do you want, then?"

"I want you to understand that I'm not doing this because I like it.

I know the gravity of what I'm going to say; but I'm not a

word-of-mouth friend, but a real one--where a man will let me be. So

I say to you that unwise things are being done--not by Sarah

Jane--not for a moment--but by Hilary Woodrow."

"I must ask you to name them."

Weekes did not answer immediately. Then he went to the heart of the

matter, so far as he knew it.

"They walk together. They meet--accident on her part, no doubt; but

not on his. Yet could he meet her if he hadn't fixed to do it?

'Tisn't wrong, of course; but 'tisn't wise."

"You've been watching Sarah Jane?"

"Not I. What is it to me? They've been seen together in lonely

places, that's all--no harm, of course--still----"

The other blazed out and his voice rose.

"You're a dirty-minded man to say these things to me, and 'tis far

off from friendship that makes you say them! Quick to think

evil--and wish evil. To cloud the fair name of a man's wife--because

she's a fool----"

"Don't be a fool yourself! I'm clouding nobody and nothing. I'm

only telling you that----"

"Tell me no more!" roared Daniel.

"If I did, perhaps you wouldn't make such a silly row," answered

Jarratt, hot in his turn. "Why, you great stupid lout, what is it to

me if she's his mistress? I don't care a damn--I----"

Brendon cut him short, made a loud, inarticulate sound like an

animal, and struck the smaller man to the earth. He hit Weekes with

his right fist full upon the forehead; and the blow dropped the

castle-keeper backwards, and deprived him of consciousness.

Daniel shouted at the prone figure, raved at him and cursed him. Any

chance beholder had fled with fear, under the impression that a

maniac rioted there. The passion-storm was terrific, and for a time

Brendon seemed not responsible. Then his wrath gradually passed, and

both the conscious and unconscious men came to their senses. Weekes

recovered, sat up, then stood up unsteadily, and looked round for his

hat and stick. Daniel immediately left him and went upon his way.

That night Brendon told his wife what he had done, and she listened

while he spoke at length. He cast no blame upon her; but very

sternly he bade her be more mindful of herself henceforth; and he

warned her with terrible earnestness that he would hold it no sin to

destroy any man who injured him in his most sacred possession. His

great self-control on this occasion impressed her more than rage

would have done, and she uttered no protest when he told her of a

fixed intention to leave Ruddyford.

"You're right to go," she declared.

"John Prout threatened to have me turned off for speaking rudely of

the master this morning," he said. "Well, I'll go without being

turned off. I can stop no more after this, and I won't. Don't think

I'm angered with you or with him. I'm not. I scorn to be. 'Tis

only that knave that has angered me by his evil lie. This won't end

here. He'll have the law of me for what I've done and disgrace me,

be sure of that. I must suffer what I must suffer: my conscience is

perfectly at peace about that. He got less than he deserved."

But time passed, and Jarratt Weekes made no sign. So far as Brendon

could judge, none even heard of the encounter. At any rate, it did

not reach his ear again. It was said that the horse of Mr. Weekes

had lifted its head suddenly, and given him a pair of black eyes

while he was stooping over its neck.

CHAPTER XIV

A LUNAR RAINBOW

The folk often called at the cottage of Philip Weekes, for, despite

her loquacity, Hephzibah was known for a woman of judgment, and her

friends, with practice, had learned to pick the grains of sense from

that chaff of words in which it whirled.

On an evening some time after the reported accident to her son, Mrs.

Weekes sat in the midst of a little company, for several men had

dropped in on various errands.

Her kitchen reeked with tobacco-smoke. Philip and Mr. Huggins were

side by side on a settle by the fire; Mr. Churchward occupied a chair

near the table, and Mrs. Weekes herself sat beside it darning

stockings. A bottle of sloe gin stood on a tray near her.

The schoolmaster thought more highly of Hephzibah than did she of

him; but since Jarratt had chosen his daughter, she was always civil.

The talk ran on Adam's son.

"He has succeeded in getting a pictorial effort hung at a public

exhibition in Plymouth," said Mr. Churchward. "They are holding a

picture show there--all West Country artists; and I confess I am

gratified to hear that William has been chosen. I think of taking

Mary down to see it presently. Perhaps, if we selected the

market-day, you would join us, Mrs. Weekes?"

"Likely!" she answered. "Me trapsing about looking at pictures, and

my stall----there, you men! Guy Fawkes and good angels! And you go

about saying you've got all the sense! I could wish your son might

find something better to do, I'm sure, for there's no money to it,

and never will be."

"The art of photography will be a serious stroke to the painters of

pictures, no doubt," admitted Mr. Churchward. "Yet such things have

not the colours of nature which the artist's brush produces--nor have

they the life."

"As to life," she answered, "there's a proper painted picture down to

Plymouth in a shop near the market--the best picture as ever I see in

all my days. Two mice gnawing a bit of Stilton cheese. Life! Why,

_'tis_ life. You can pretty near smell the cheese. And only two

pound ten, for the ticket's on it. If you want life, there you are;

but it have been in that window a year to my certain knowledge.

Nobody wants it, and nobody wants your son's daubs. He'd much better

give over and burn all his trash."

"He can't, my dear woman. 'Tis in his blood--he must be painting,

like I must be teaching and you must be selling. We're built on a

pattern, Mrs. Weekes, and that pattern we must work out against all

odds. William is a _lusus naturæ_ as one may say--a freak of nature."

"I'm sorry for you," answered she. "There's nought to be proud of,

anyhow. Where's the cleverness in fashioning things that ban't worth

more in open market than the dirt pies the childer make in the road?

Better paint houses, and get paid, than paint pictures and get

nought."

"'Tis a most curious thing that such a huge man as the 'Infant' do

always paint such little pickshers," said Mr. Huggins. "Why--them

things what Noah Pearn have got hanging up in the bar parlour ban't

bigger than a sheet of writing paper. Yet, from the tremendous size

of the man, you'd have thought he'd have taken a public-house

signboard at the very least."

"Size in matters of pictorial art is nothing, Valentine," explained

the schoolmaster. "Some of the biggest books and pictures have been

written and painted by the smallest men of their inches you could

imagine."

"All the same, give me they whacking pickshers you see hanging

outside a circus," said Mr. Huggins. "In my time I've marked

pickshers to the full so large as a rick-cloth, all a-flaming with

tigers and spotted leopards and wild men, till you might think you

was walking straight into them savage, foreign places where such

things come from. If William could paint like that, I doubt he'd

make a fortune."

"He would scorn to do it, Val. However, you are quite right when you

say they would produce more money, for such is life. People don't

want----"

Philip Weekes rose.

"There's somebody knocking at the door," he said.

"Susan, I expect," answered his wife. "My stars, the airs and graces

of these giglet girls nowadays! What d'you think? She's started an

evening out! And Mr. Woodrow--more shame to him--never raised any

objection; and now, of a Thursday, she puts on her little silly

frills and feathers, and goes off on her own account, Lord knows

where, like a grown-up person! But I told him, as her aunt, that she

had to be in by half after nine. And that she does do--else I'll

have her back here again."

It was not Susan, but John Prout, who now entered. "Just dropped in

for a tell and a pipe afore I go homeward," he explained. "Been

seeing master, and it have cast me down."

"He's a deal better, in my opinion," said Philip. "Livelier like,

and I should say he'd put on flesh. Anyway he's going to leave

Lydford come spring, for Jarratt means to be in his house afore Lady

Day."

Mr. Prout nodded and filled his pipe. At the same moment Jarratt

Weekes himself entered.

"Hullo!" he said. "Have 'e got a party?"

"'Tis your mother's ripe wisdom, Jar, as draws us men," answered Mr.

Huggins.

"An' her ripe sloe gin, I reckon. Has anybody seed Mrs. Brendon? My

wife tells me that she's in Lydford to-night."

"I seed her at tea-time," answered Philip. "She was going up to

visit Billy Long's wife--her that broke her leg in the gorge last

August."

"Then I'll go that way myself," declared the younger Weekes. "I want

a word with her."

"Tell her to call here, then, please; 'tis a rough night. Us'll go

home-along together," said John Prout.

"She don't want you," answered Hephzibah.

"I know that; but I want her. She's as strong as a man, and I ban't

now, worse luck. Sarah Jane will give me an arm up over White Hill,

where the wind will be blowing a hurricane to-night. I had to go

down in a hurry to Little Lydford on foot, and I'm cruel weary."

Mrs. Weekes poured out a large wine-glass of cordial for him.

"How's Mr. Woodrow?" she asked.

"Just been there. There's things troubling him. Even to me he was a

thought short--distracted like. Wouldn't talk business, and sent me

off almost afore I'd sat down. There's something on his mind without

a doubt."

"His health?"

"Not that. I judge he's better if anything. But he's terrible

lonely."

"Vicar's son often goes in to have a talk, I believe," said Philip.

"Vicar would stop it if he knowed, however. Mr. Woodrow's opinions

are very queer, so 'tis rumoured," declared Mr. Huggins.

Prout sighed, drank his sloe gin, with many thanks to the giver.

Then he rose painfully.

"I won't stop, for if I get stiff 'twill be a grief to my bones going

home. If you don't mind, Jarratt, I'll go along with you."

"What I want to say to Sarah Jane's a matter of a little business

touching her better half," the castle-keeper explained.

"So you shall, then. I'll walk out of earshot. But the night gets

worse, and we'd better be on our way, if I'm to make as far as

Ruddyford at all. I ought to have ridden, but I'd been on my pony

all morning, and he was tired too."

They departed into rough weather. The moon was rising through a scud

of light thin cloud, and fine rain, swept by the wind, drove out of

the west.

"What will Hilary Woodrow do when he leaves my place?" asked Weekes.

"Don't know no more than you," answered the other.

They went to the house of Billy Long, and found that Sarah Jane had

left it an hour before.

"She's half-way home now, no doubt," said Prout. "Well, I'll be

going, Jarratt. I'll tell her you want to see her."

"And tell her unbeknownst to her husband, please. There's no harm

brewed, I need not tell you that; but he's a peppery chap and his

temper sometimes obscures his wits."

"It does. He talks of going away now."

"Going away! I hadn't heard that."

Mr. Prout proceeded. Then an idea struck Jarratt.

"You'm weary--see here; if we cross my orchard, behind the cottage,

you'll save more than a quarter of a mile. 'Tis trespassing, so long

as Woodrow rents the place, but he'll pardon the owner; anyway, he'll

pardon you."

"Anything to save a few yards. I'd ask master for a shakedown here,

but they'd be frighted out of their wits at Ruddyford if I didn't

come back."

"Shall I see if I can get somebody to drive you out?"

"No, no; I can do it, if I go slow and steady. Us'll walk through

the orchard certainly."

"Don't speak near the back-side of the house, then, else he'll hear

you, and think 'tis people stealing the apples."

They went silently through the orchard, but the wind concealed lesser

sounds and panted loudly overhead. Then they passed under a lighted

window that faced upon their way. The blind was drawn down, but a

bright beam shot along one side. On the impulse of the moment Weekes

peeped in.

"Reading one of his eternal books, I'll wager," he whispered.

Then every muscle tightened. He glared and grinned out of the

darkness into the light, and fell back with a great gasp. His mind

worked quickly. Prout had plodded on, and Weekes now hastened after

him.

"Come back, come back," he said. "'Tis worth a few steps. 'Twill do

your heart good--quick!"

The other found himself dragged to the window before he knew what

Jarratt meant. His face was thrust to the aperture at the blind

edge. He could not choose but see. The whole incident occupied but

a second, and John Prout fell back and nearly dropped upon the grass.

His stick left his fingers: both his hands went up over his face.

"Ban't true--ban't true!" he groaned.

Jarratt Weekes picked up his stick and hastened the old man away.

"True as hell-fire," he said. "And never fool yourself to think you

haven't seen it; for you have."

He laughed.

"Thank the Lord I waited," he went on. "This was worth waiting for!

This be worth chewing over too! I shan't be in no hurry now! I'll

bide a thought longer still. Keep up, my old chap! Your master's

got a bit of life in him after all--eh?"

The other pushed off the arm that had supported him.

"Go--go, for God's sake," he cried. "And if you're a man, forget----"

"The beauty of it is, that if he'd not quarrelled with me, I should

never have found this out," said Weekes gleefully. "You know so

much, John, that I'll tell you a bit more now. 'Twasn't my horse,

but Daniel Brendon's leg-o-mutton fist, that blacked my eyes and

turned my face yellow and blue a bit ago. He felled me with a blow

that might have killed me, because I warned him that his wife saw too

much of yonder man. And if he'd not done it, I should not have

wanted words with the woman, and never been here to-night. So he's

brewed his own drink. D'you mark how God works in the world, Prout?"

He laughed again, and, waiting for no answer, vanished upon his way.

The old man remained trembling and irresolute. Then he turned again

and went back and stood opposite Hilary Woodrow's dwelling under the

rain. For twenty minutes he waited; then the church clock struck

half-past nine, and Susan, with a youth holding an umbrella over her

head, arrived. Her friend put down the umbrella, kissed Susan twice,

then shook hand with her, and then departed. She entered the house,

and a moment later Sarah Jane left it by a back entrance, and slipped

into the road.

"Be that Mrs. Brendon?" Prout called out.

She stopped, and he approached her.

"Why, John, whatever are you doing down here? Lucky we met. I can

give you an arm up-over. 'Tis a fierce night, seemingly."

Through the wild weather they passed, presently breasted White Hill,

and bent to the tremendous stroke of the wind. Fierce thin rain

drove across the semi-darkness, and where a rack of cloud was torn

wildly into tatters, the hunter's moon seemed to plough and plunge

upon her way, through the stormy seas of the sky. The wind whistled,

but the heath was wet, and the dead heather did not utter the

musical, tinkling note that the east wind's besom rings from it.

Mr. Prout was very silent.

"Be I travelling too fast for you?" she asked him.

"No, no," he answered.

"I'll ax you not to tell Dan that I went to see the master to-night,"

she said.

He did not reply.

"Dan don't understand him like you and me do," she continued.

"For God's sake don't talk," he begged. "There's a cruel lot on my

mind."

"And on mine, for that matter. I'm a wicked, joyful woman, John

Prout!"

For some time silence fell between them as they were thrust before

the wind.

"Oh, my God, what a terrible, beautiful world it is!" she cried

suddenly. "But cruel difficult sometimes."

He could not speak to her.

"D'you know what's going to happen?" she asked. "I mustn't tell

Daniel, but I must tell somebody or 'twill kill me. Mr. Woodrow--he

thinks the wide world of dear Daniel. He puts him first--first afore

all in his mind."

Mr. Prout groaned, and she extended her hand to him.

"I do wish you'd take my arm, John. This be too heavy work for your

weak legs."

He took it. He longed to speak and pray her for her own sake, and

for his master's sake, to keep Brendon to his resolution. His master

was the uppermost thought.

"Mr. Woodrow's going to write a will," said Sarah Jane. "I prayed

him not; I prayed him not to think of death, or any such thing. His

be a very beautiful, generous life, John."

"Oh, woman, why was you let come into it?"

"I love him, John."

"Don't--don't, for Christ's sake, tell these things. I can't bear

'em."

"I love him--because he loves me, but more because he loves Dan so

much. He mustn't die--he----"

"Leave it--shut your mouth, or I won't say what I'll answer. God's

over all--let me cling to that. I'd cut my heart out for

him--but--there, never you speak to me about him again--never--never.

I wish I had died afore to-night."

"Don't take on. I'll pay if---- You won't tell Dan I was with him.

'Twould spoil all--Dan being what he is. And you won't say a word of

this great news. He's to speak to Daniel himself. What joy for

Daniel! How he'll bless his God--eh, John?"

Prout dragged himself helplessly and silently beside her. Then a

wonderful spectacle appeared above them in the firmament.

From the depth of the northern heavens there sprang an immense halo

of colourless light, where the moon shone upon unnumbered particles

of flying rain. Wan, yet luminous, flung with one perfect sweep upon

the storm, it endured--the only peaceful thing in that wild world of

tumultuous cloud and clamouring wind. The arch of the lunar rainbow

threw its solemn and radiant span across the whole earth from west to

east. It framed all Dartmoor, and one shining foot seemed to sink

upon the Severn Sea, while the other marked the places of the dawn.

They stood and stared a moment; then both were nearly blown off their

legs and driven forward by the sudden buffet of the gale.

"Heaven be over all, like that beautiful silvery bow above our

heads," she cried loud in his ear.

"There's no rainbow for me," he answered. "And there didn't ought to

be for you, woman."

"How do I know? I only know my heart be merry when I think on

Daniel. Who can do wrong that brings joyfulness to good people?"

He groaned again and she misunderstood.

"Don't take on so and be sad for master. There's happiness even for

him in the world still--here and there; and happiness is God's gift,

I suppose. None else can give it to a man--so my Dan says. Them as

bring it be the messengers--only the messengers. All the same, I

hate only Heaven to be thanked when a man or woman does a brave,

lovely thing."

"Won't you never be like other females?" he asked. "Seeing what your

husband is, God help the reckoning."

"Leave it so," she answered, "and say nought to nobody. You know

nothing more than that I love the man--so do you--for pity--and for

his gentle thoughts--and for his loneliness--aye, and for his own

self too. I'll say that to you. He's a good man. He does countless

good things; you know that. Don't torment yourself for him--or me.

Forget you met me to-night. Here's the stepping-stones, an' the moon

hidden, just when we wanted the light most. Take hold of my hand.

I'm stronger far than you."

They crossed the water carefully, and the great shape of Daniel

Brendon loomed up ahead.

"At last!" he shouted. "I beginned to think you was night-foundered

in the storm. Did you see that wonder in the sky a bit ago?"

Once more Sarah Jane spoke swiftly to Prout before they reached the

other.

"Mind this too," she said. "There's the joy of giving, John. 'Tis a

dear joy to give! Hilary Woodrow knows that--so do I--none better

than him and me."

The old man drew a grief-stricken breath, and left her with her

husband.

BOOK III

CHAPTER I

BRENDON STOPS AT RUDDYFORD

Even Joe Tapson expressed regret when Daniel Brendon decided to leave

Ruddyford, and let his decision become known. All begged him to

reconsider the step; all bluntly asked where he expected to find more

satisfactory employment, a happier home, and equal money. Prout had

been among those who urged him most strenuously to reconsider his

determination. Then shone the lunar rainbow, and from that hour the

head man was silent.

Three days later Daniel, after long brooding, set off to do two

things. He meant to visit Jarratt Weekes and express contrition for

his recent violence; and he intended to call upon his master, that he

might give notice of his approaching departure from Ruddyford.

Joe met him on the way, saw that Daniel wore Sunday clothes, guessed

his mission, and made a final appeal.

"Don't you be a fool, Dan. A man's only worth what he'll fetch, as

you ought to know. I withstood you so long as I could do it, and, to

this day, I don't reckon you be worth a penny more in open market

than what I be myself; because, though I've but one eye, it sees

further than the two of many men I could name; and though you've got

larger muscles upon you than me, yet I won't grant your brains be

ahead of mine by an inch. However, he thought different, and he's

the purse, so 'tis for us to mind our own business and keep our

opinions in check. I've long larned to do that."

"You mistake me, Joe," answered the other. "My money's all right,

and the place is all right, and I shall be mighty sorry to go from

you all--you as much as any man, for in your way you've taught me a

great deal worth knowing. But life have got an inside and an outside

to it; an' 'tis the inside of mine I ban't too pleased with. More

than good wages and good friends go to peace of mind."

"Well, I hope he'll make you change your ideas, for I'm sure he'll

try."

"The more he tries, the steadfaster shall I stand."

"More fool you, then. However, go your way. I know a chap who'd be

very wishful to fill your shoes, an' a very willing boy, though

'twill be like David coming to do Goliath's work."

Brendon called at Adam Churchward's and learned from Jarratt's wife

that he was at Lydford Castle.

"'Tis his last season there," she said; "for he've grown too big a

man for that small work now, and his time's better worth. I wanted

to make him give it up long ago, but he don't like dropping sure

money, even though 'tis small money. However, they've appointed

young Teddy Westover to succeed him--old Westover's grandson."

"I'm much obliged to you," answered Daniel. "I'll seek him there."

Presently, as a party left the ruin, Brendon met Weekes, and asked to

be allowed to speak to him.

Jarratt hid his heart and consented to listen. He nodded gravely

while Brendon apologized, explained that he had acted from worthy

motives, and added that he had told nobody--not even his wife--of the

outrage put upon him by Daniel.

"I'm sorry to God," said Brendon. "I was wrong every way to smite

you. Whether you was right to speak what you did, I won't say. I

don't know. I only know that I'd no right to answer so. And I ask

you to forgive an erring man. I was shaken from my hold on the

Lord--surprised away from it by the shock of what you said. You were

wrong in your opinion--that I do steadfastly know; but none the

less---- But I ban't here to make any excuses. I'm sorry to the

heart, and I beg you to forgive me."

"I will do so, Daniel Brendon."

"Thank you. There's another thing. I've got a five-pound note here.

I heard as you kept your bed for two days. That means I did more

than hurt you. I robbed you of money. Please to take this. 'Tis a

sign that you forgive me properly if you take it."

He held out the note and Weekes extended his hand quickly, then drew

it back.

"I was off work three days, to be exact. But five pounds for three

days would be ten for a week. That's five hundred and twenty for the

year."

"Ban't it enough?"

Weekes laughed.

"That's a home question; however, since you want to do the honest

thing, I won't stand in your way."

He took out a heavy leather purse and put the note into it.

"Now we'll cry quits. Don't let this go no further."

Weekes shook hands and left Daniel abruptly; but the big man felt

satisfied. He held that, save for his own lasting regret, the matter

was now concluded. He continued to be ashamed of himself when he

reflected upon it; but he ceased to feel any pity for Jarratt Weekes,

and he could not satisfy himself that the other's motives had been

pure.

Now Daniel called upon his master and found him at home.

"I came because of the rain," he said. "I knew 'twould hold you to

the house."

Hilary was writing, and held his hand for silence. Then he finished

a page and blotted it. Various papers littered his desk, and, among

others, lay a large one, rolled up and tied round the middle with

pink tape.

"Good-morning, Dan. This is a funny coincidence. I sent for you an

hour ago. You missed my messenger."

"I met no messenger."

Woodrow rose and took his pipe from the mantelshelf.

"Let's have your business first, then you shall know mine. Sit down.

We don't see one another often enough. I wish you'd come more

frequently."

Brendon took a chair and put his soft black hat under it.

"'Tis harder to speak afore those kind words, master. And yet--I've

got to do it. I want to go--I must go. This is to give notice,

please. I'll suit your convenience, of course. Perhaps after

Christmas. I'm mighty sorry for many reasons. Still, 'twill be the

best thing."

An expression of real pain crossed the face of Hilary Woodrow.

"How can you say this, Daniel? Don't you care more than that for me?

I thought--why, good God--I hold you dearer than almost anybody in

the world! You're far, far more to me than a servant. You--a

friend--to say this! You, my right hand, to ask to be cut off!"

"I know you set store by me. I know how good you've been--yet--we

can't say all we know. You mustn't think 'tis a small thing; you

mustn't think I'm not grateful, master. I owe you far more than 'tis

in my power to pay. I pray for you. 'Tis all I can do--all the poor

can do for the rich--to pray for 'em. My work's nought. That's the

everyday business between man and man. For that you pay, and pay

well. But prayer's beyond. I tell you this because, afore I go, I

want you to know I'm more than just a strong man working for wages."

"You shall not go! This is a matter far beyond the farm, or the

welfare of the farm. You are a great deal to me. You are an example

to me and to all of us. While you have prayed for me, I--I haven't

prayed, since I know of nothing to pray to that has ears to hear--but

I've done what I could--according to my lights."

"I know that. You've been good and generous to me. There's

nothing--nothing I can say against you."

"I can't part with you, Dan. I won't believe the reason is beyond

explanation. Be honest with me--absolutely. Tell me why this idea

has come to you. You're at a point far more vital in your career

than you think for. Don't leave any shadow or uncertainty. Be dead

straight about it, Dan."

Brendon did not answer, but he struggled fiercely with himself. He

was a great-hearted man, and now, within sound of his master's voice,

in sight of his earnest eyes, his reason dwindled somewhat.

Suddenly he blurted out the truth.

"Jarratt Weekes told me a while ago that you saw too much of Sarah

Jane. I believe that he said it without malice. He thought so--like

as not others do."

A great expiration left the lungs of Woodrow.

"Too much of her! No, Dan--not too much of her--not enough; but too

much of this dirty little village and the mean-minded vermin that

live in it! Nobody could see too much of Sarah Jane--any more than

they could see too much of the sun in the sky, or hear too much of

the song of the birds. I don't see enough of her--or of you. How

glad I am you had the pluck to speak!"

"One thing I must ask of you--to take no step against Weekes. I've

punished him. I nearly broke his neck when he said it. I knew 'twas

a lie; but, of course, I can't live where 'tis possible to tell such

lies."

"You'll never get beyond the reach of falsehood in this world, Dan.

Lying is woven into the fabric of all human life--part of the regular

pattern. We should be like the beasts that perish if we did not lie.

Civilized existence rests on a bedrock of lying. 'Tis the cement

that keeps every state together; the first necessity of conscious

existence. Only Nature can work without falsehood. The lie is as

old as human language. If men said what they thought, the world's

work would stand still. Try it--yet I wouldn't ask you to do that.

Why should I wish my best friend to have nought but enemies?"

"I won't live where 'tis possible to tell this lie," repeated Brendon.

"If you believed the lie--then I should be the first to ask you to be

gone. Happily you don't. I've not got much heart, Brendon; but the

little I have would break if I thought you did not care for me. If

there is a thing that I've hoped and planned and rejoiced to plan in

this fading life of mine, it is your future."

"My future! That's God's work to plan--not yours."

"I know it is. But in one of these conversations I held with your

wife, which have shocked this low-minded rascal, she said a fine

thing to me, Dan. She said, 'All good things come from my man's God.

You can't have no good without His hand be in it. And men and women

are His messengers to carry the goodness of God up and down in the

world and show it.'"

"That's true enough. Nothing new, surely?"

"It was new to me. If there's a God, Daniel, He is a good God. I'll

grant you so much. And if good comes to any man, 'tis his God that

sends it. I suppose you believe that?"

"Where else can good come from? Man's heart don't imagine it. Man's

heart don't breed it."

"Then you're answered, for into my heart has long since come the wish

to do you good. I desire it, and I am thankful that I can perform

it. I wish you to have power, because you understand how to use

power wisely; and content, because you are the only man I ever met

who understood that content is higher than happiness."

"You've done all you could, and I have thanked you."

"And thanked your God, I warrant?"

"Yes--Him first."

"It's good to thank Him, I suppose?"

"It's right--it's natural--'tis all we can give Him--our thanks and

worship."

"Then take my hand, Daniel, and say I've cleared this cloud. Don't

make my sad life sadder by going out of it. Don't say I may not

sometimes see and speak with Mrs. Brendon. If you had a beautiful

and rare flower in your garden, you would not deny other people the

sight of it. 'Tis a parallel case every way. She is a remarkable

woman, full of high qualities. I ask you to be my close friend

henceforth, Brendon. It would seem a strange thing for a master to

ask of his man. Yet I do it. Prout is my friend and I want you too,

because you are much more to me than good old John, or any other man

on earth."

He stopped and coughed, then rose, took a wisp of paper from a china

jar, and re-lighted his pipe.

Brendon did not speak. Woodrow's words troubled him at one moment,

gratified him at the next; now the farmer said a thing that made him

start, and, before he had grasped it, the quick, nervous voice passed

on and uttered some word that could not fail to soften his heart.

"Say you'll stop, Dan," continued Hilary Woodrow. "Say you'll stop,

before I come to my affair. 'Twill spoil all if you cleave to this

determination. 'Twill make the thing I have plotted all dust and

ashes. Yet I won't influence you with it. I won't influence you

save to say this: I'm not going to be in the land of the living more

than a few years at best; but you'll cloud those years for me,

Daniel, if you go; and as sure as your God's watching you to-day,

you'll be sorry afterwards, if you stick to this determination."

He turned to the window, and smoked and looked out into the little

street.

For a minute or two neither spoke. Then Brendon bent for his hat,

picked it up, and rose.

"Since you put it that way, and say so solemnly that 'tis in my power

to better your life by stopping, then I'll stop, master. Don't think

I wanted to go, but for what I told you. 'Twas the only thing in the

world that would have took me. But since 'tis false, I'll spurn it.

My God's Self's a jealous God, but--there 'tis--I'll fight to be

large-minded--I'll stop----"

Woodrow did not speak, but his eyes were damp when he turned from the

window and came back to the table. A strange conflict of emotions

filled his spirit, choked his throat, seethed upward to his brain,

and sunk downward to his heart. His admiration and even affection

for Daniel were genuine enough at that moment; and he rejoiced at the

thing that he was about to do. But not for an instant did he mourn

the thing that he had done.

He could not speak immediately.

He took the other's hand and shook it very warmly. Then he picked up

the packet on the table, dragged the tape off, and gave it to Brendon.

"Read," he said.

The giant, amazed at such emotion, stared dumbly out of his dark,

dog-like eyes, opened the packet and knit his brows to peruse the

calligraphy.

Woodrow walked about the room while Daniel read his will. It was

short, and took but three minutes. Then Brendon put the paper on the

table again.

"Tell me one thing," he said. "Be you sure that to do this is not to

wrong some other--somebody of your own kin who have a right to it

all? Can you swear that?"

"None has a right. I'm alone in the world. My kin are remote and

nothing to me. They are well-to-do, and have no anxiety. You must

keep John Prout easy and comfortable until he dies, and also his

sister--that's the only condition."

"I can't bring it home to my mind. 'Tis too much to happen to a man.

I don't know what to say."

"Say you're my friend, that's all I want you to say."

"'Your friend'! This is not friendship. This is a thing greater

than friendship. I know how to thank my God; I don't know what to

say to you, master."

"Not master. Thank me by calling me 'master' no more. Thank me by

seeing me oftener--both of you. Talk to me. Tell me all you

believe, and why you believe it. Help me, if you can. Perhaps your

God will look to it that you pay me so well that my gift shall be

dross to your gold. Stranger things have happened. I'd dearly like

to believe in a world beyond this, Daniel, before I go to find out

for myself. Now be off for a while. Good-bye--friend Daniel."

"Good-bye. I be dumb still--in a maze. I'm surely dreaming this."

"Tell nobody--not a soul except your wife. But ask her not to

mention it."

Brendon went away entranced, and was nearly run over at the corner of

the street by a waggon laden with straw. The carter laughed at him.

"Ban't often us catches you mooning about in the middle of the road!"

he said.

Daniel climbed White Hill presently and looked down at Ruddyford.

Then his eyes atoned for his lack of imagination, and helped him to

understand and realize the prodigious thing that had happened.

This place would be his own. He would be master presently, and his

child would follow him. It rushed upon him in a wave--drowned him

almost, so that he panted for air. His mind turned to Woodrow, and,

with heart and soul, he hoped that the farmer might enjoy length of

days. He determined with himself that evermore he would add to his

prayer for Woodrow that it might please God to let him see Truth

before he died. He thought of himself being allowed to make Woodrow

a Christian.

For a while he gazed, then considered Sarah Jane's joy. Suddenly his

mind turned back to Hilary, and next he turned his body back also.

He began to understand at last; he yearned to go before the giver

again and say a little of what he felt. As for God, Dan believed

that he was in His presence all the time. An under-current of

thanksgiving rose from his soul, like smoke of incense.

Words from his favourite, Isaiah, ran through his head as he swept

with great strides back to Lydford:

"That He may do His work, His strange work; and bring to pass His

act, His strange act," the man kept repeating.

But the strange act went far deeper than Daniel conceived. Of the

strange act, strange thoughts were bred in one man's spirit; and when

he was alone, Woodrow pondered long of the amazing complexity of his

own motives during the past few days, and of the impress stamped upon

present thought and future resolution by this actual conversation

with the husband of Sarah Jane. He was moved to find how little he

had pretended, how much he had felt; how largely grain of truth

mingled with the seed of falsehood sown by him upon Brendon's heart

in that hour.