THE LOAN
Dartmoor has been chosen by Nature for a theatre of worship and of
work--a hypæthral temple, wherein she ministers before the throne of
the sun, nurtures life, ripens her harvest, and buries her uncounted
dead. Each year springtime breaks the bud joyfully and lifts the
little lark into the blue; each year the summer builds and the autumn
gleans; each year, when the sun's lamp is lowered, when the curtain
of cloud is drawn, sleep and death pass by together along the winter
silences. Thus the punctual rite and round are accomplished century
after century, and, at each year's end, arise immemorial threnodies
of many waters and fierce winds. Rivers roar a requiem; and their
inevitable dirge is neither joyful nor mournful, but only glorious.
The singers also are mortal; the wind and the wave are creatures,
even as the perishing heath, crumbling stone, and falling foliage;
they too rise and set, triumph and expire; they too are a part of the
only miracle of the universe: the miracle of matter made manifest in
pomp and wonder, in beauty and mystery, where Nature rolls her
endless frieze along the entablature of Time.
Beneath December sunlight Dartmoor stretched in sleep--a sleep that
lay hidden under death. Rack and ruin of many fair things were
scattered upon the bosom of the wilderness, and all pursued their
appointed way to dissolution. The conventional idea of man's mind
was reversed, as usual, by this wide natural process; for death lay
exposed league upon league under the operation of air and light,
frost, and water; while life was buried and invisibly received back
its proper payment for the year's work accomplished. But mortality
so exhibited revealed nothing unseemly or sad, for much beauty
belonged to it. The land rose stark to its tors, and the shattered
summits of the range rolling south-west from Great Links, towered
dark against the low slant of the winter sun. Some fleeting mist,
like a vapour of silver, swept around the highest turrets and shone
very dazzling by contrast with the gloomy northern faces of the
hills; while far below, huddled, as it were, beneath the reach of the
horizontal light, there hung a leaden and visible heaviness of air.
On the shoulders of the Moor drowsed pallid sunshine, but little
warmth was yielded thereby. Dartmoor soaked up this illumination
like a sponge, and did not waken at its tepid touch. The wilderness
slept at noon; and in its sleep it frowned. Over all spread the
mighty, mottled patchwork of the hour--the immeasurable, ancient,
outworn habit flung down by Nature when she disrobed for sleep. The
summer green had vanished, the autumn fire was cold; where heath had
wakened into amethyst, swart patches and tracts of darkness now
scattered upon the livid pelt of dead grass, like the ebony pattern
on the coat of a leopard. But while the ling was sad-coloured and
sombre, the heather had taken a cheerful green. Under humid sunshine
this huge design was apparent; then the west darkened and the pale
gold of the sky became blurred by veils of rain. They swept up
slowly and cast gloom over the light. The Moor colours all changed
beneath their shadow and ran together. Only within stone's-throw
from a man's eyes might detail and distinction still be marked.
There persisted the shades and half shades of the dead, grey
bloom-bells of the ling; there shone manifold minute, bright
vegetation on scattered boulders; and there the wet brake-fern, that
scattered these slopes with fallen filigree of deepest auburn,
uttered its last expression of beauty.
Caught in the heavy rain, a man who walked upon the side of Great
Links ran for the summit, and dived into a familiar cavern, where
rocks fell together and made shelter. To his surprise the first
wayfarer found a second already taking refuge against this sudden
storm; and thus met Jarratt Weekes and Daniel Brendon on a day near
Christmas.
This accident inspired the elder man. He had long contemplated
certain propositions with regard to Daniel, and now opportunity was
thrust upon him and he prepared to take advantage of it.
They tendered friendly welcomes, asked each for the other's good
news, and together deplored the weather. There had been a wet, cold
summer that denied the prophecy of spring, and many a moorman faced
the approaching season with fear.
"Rain--rain--rain--curse the rain!" said Weekes. "Rain driving deep
enough to drown the dead in their graves."
"There's not much to be said for this autumn's work, truly. We must
hope for a good year coming. We shan't have such another for
certain. Not that it matters so much to us, since we depend on
beasts."
"'Twill mean buying a lot of hay, surely?"
"Not for us. We had a bit of luck. I saved a fortnight before my
neighbours, and catched a spell of dry weather. They laughed to see
me cutting so early. 'Let 'em laugh,' said Prout. 'They laugh best
who laugh last.' And so it fell out."
"Most of the Lydford hay was ruined."
"And the corn on top. 'Twas beaten down, just too late for it to get
up again. There'll be trouble this winter, I'm much afeared."
"There is trouble--everywhere already. And for my part I haven't got
to look further than my own roof to find it."
"Very sorry to hear you say so, I'm sure. What was the end of that
mine business? Somebody said they was going to try again; but that's
to fling good money after bad, I should judge."
"Damn the mine: I've done with it anyhow. My wife had a hundred
pound from her father when she came to me; and now 'tis gone in that
swindle, along with another hundred of my own."
[Illustration: BENEATH GREAT LINKS.]
"They'm tricky things to put money in. I wonder you risked it."
"There wasn't no risk on paper. Their figures would have convinced
any man. But they lied, and did it under the law, so that they be
safe. I'm in a very tight place indeed, to be frank with you. I've
got a few stiff bills to meet this quarter, and there's only two ways
of doing it now. One is to sell out of a little investment or two
that is paying well; and that's a cruel thing to do for a man with a
wife and an expensive family. And t'other is to find a friend
that'll prove a real friend, and raise a bit of money to tide over
till spring."
"You ought to be able to do it."
"I can, no doubt; but I'm proud. 'Tisn't everybody I'd go to--even
for a trifle like a hundred pound. I've got to show security, and
nobody likes opening out their private affairs to other men. I'd
thought about it, however, for it must be done. And it may astonish
you to hear I'd nearly settled who I was going to."
Brendon nodded.
"You'll have no difficulty," he repeated.
"That's for you to say; for 'tis you I intended to ask."
"Me!"
"Why not? We all know you're a snug man nowadays. You ban't
bringing Ruddyford into the front rank of Dartymoor farms for
nothing. You're not doing all those big things down there, and
taking in land, and doubling your sheep, and buying pedigree cattle
and all the rest of it, for nothing. You're putting hundreds into
Woodrow's pocket; and, as a sane man, I suppose you look to it that a
bit sticks in your own."
"That's right enough, though it's the future rather than the present
I think for."
"So we all do. It's the future that's troubling me. I've got a
policy of life insurance to be paid next week, and it's got to be
paid. The only question is how. There's that and fifty pounds for
other things, besides ten I owe my mother. So the long and short is
I want a hundred, and I shall be a good bit obliged to you if you'll
lend it to me for six months."
Brendon did not answer immediately. Then he spoke.
"If ten or even fifteen--I've done a little this year, to tell you
privately. I've helped my married sister to Plymouth, whose husband
is very much under the weather, and I've gived Joe Tapson a trifle
too. He's left us. I had to make a change. Then there's the
monument to Mr. Friend. Altogether you've asked at a very awkward
moment."
Jarratt sneered.
"It's always an awkward moment when a man asks a fellow-man to do him
a kindness. And them as talk about the decent things they do--you'll
find they don't do many as a rule. Ban't a habit, else they'd not
think 'em worth naming."
Daniel's face hardened.
"Why d'you say that? Can't you see I had to give you a reason for
refusing? And don't you know me well enough to know that I'd give
the true reason or none? 'Twas out of consideration for your
feelings I said so much. Ban't pleasant to beg, and ban't pleasant
to refuse."
"I'm not begging. And you should not use the word. I'm wanting to
raise a loan at proper interest--four per cent., if you like. That's
not begging. That's offering anybody with any sense a good
investment for money."
"I shouldn't want no interest at all. I'm in your debt to the extent
of losing my temper and striking you years ago, and I've not forgot
it; and I'd be glad to do you a service. I've always looked out for
the chance."
"You needn't mention that. I remember very well. There's a white
mark across the bridge of my nose, Brendon, that reminds me of what
you did every time I look in the glass, and always will."
"You'll forget it before I do. But I can't lend you a hundred, nor
yet fifty. I'll lend you--twenty the day after to-morrow. That's
the very best I can offer."
"Useless. I want a hundred."
"Then I'm sorry, but I can't find it."
Weekes reflected. He was in a position considerably more straitened
than he had confessed to Brendon. He had overreached himself from
cupidity, and now stood in debt to several people, including his
lawyer. In this last quarter Jarratt's relations were strained, and
the man of business refused to wait longer. A natural darkness of
disposition had increased as a result of these troubles. He had
quarrelled with his mother, with his wife, and with his wife's
father. He had lost his self-respect somewhat, and as that lessened
he grew the riper for mischief. Now he became a little hot, and
permitted himself to remember the secret past. At Brendon's refusal,
events long gone by rose up in the other's mind, and he spoke.
"Better think twice. You never know who you are helping. This
hundred, even if it pinched you a thought for the moment, might be a
very good investment, though you don't get interest for it."
Brendon stared at him.
"Come out," he said. "The rain's done. Perhaps I shall understand a
speech like that better in the open. And yet--how? To my ear that
sounds a bit curious. Perhaps you'll explain it."
"No, I shan't--though I might, I dare say. 'Tis for you to decide.
I want to be friends."
"Why not, I should like to know?"
"No reason at all--if you'll lend me the money."
"And I tell you I can't."
"You mean that you won't."
"Take it as you please, if you're such a fool."
"No fool me--not by long chalks. Perhaps the boot's on the other
leg. Not that I threaten anything."
"'Threaten'! Good God A'mighty--who be you to threaten? Best be
off--or I'll threaten--and do more than threaten!"
"Strange, such a trumpet of the Lord as you are, that you never can
keep your temper five minutes together with me. And yet I'm civil
enough. Your education's to blame, I suppose. Well, I only ask you
if you'll lend me a hundred pounds, and I only say you won't regret
it if you do; but may possibly regret it if you don't. That's all."
"If I could, I wouldn't--not now. You have said that I shall regret
it if I don't. And I say 'Explain that, if you want to remain my
friend.'"
"I certainly shan't explain that. Only remember that those who think
they stand, had sometimes better be careful lest they fall. And, as
to friendship, I'm quite indifferent. If you refuse this loan you're
not my friend, of course. Friendship is as friendship does. This is
my way. I'll wish you good-bye and a good investment for your
savings."
"Better talk this out," said Brendon; but Jarratt Weekes was already
on his way. He did not answer, and did not look back. Instead, he
twirled his stick, whistled, and assumed a cheerful and careless air
as he departed.
Brendon stood still a long time, in some concern at this unexpected
incident. He puzzled himself to know what it might mean, retraced
the course of his relations with Weekes during the last few years,
and could see no light. It struck him that Sarah Jane might be able
to find some explanation. Animosity clearly lurked in the man's
temper; but on what foundation it rested Daniel could not imagine.
The threat he dismissed without thought, as a futile utterance of
disappointment.