Then Honor laughed. 'Really, Charles, this is childish.'

'It is not kind of you to laugh,' said he, sulkily; 'you do not know

what it is to have your head turned, and to feel yourself pulled about

and drawn along against your will. It is like "oranges and lemons," as

we played at school, when you are on the weakest side.'

'Whither can Mrs. Veale draw you? Not to the altar rails, surely.'

'Oh no! not to the altar-rails. Mrs. Veale is a bad un.'

His manner puzzled Honor. She was convinced he was not telling her

everything.

'What is it, Charles?' she said; 'you may give me your confidence. Tell

me all that troubles you. What is behind? I know you are keeping back

something from me. If I can advise and help you, I will do so. I am

your nearest sister.' Then she put her arms round his neck and kissed

him.

'Don't do that' said he, roughly. 'I hate scenes, sisterly affection

and motherly counsel, and all that sort of batter-pudding without egg

and sugar. I reckon I am outgrown that long ago. I have been a soldier

and know the world. If you think to pin me to your apron, as you have

pinned father, you are mightily mistaken. No; I will tell you no more,

only this--don't be surprised if I leave Langford. Ninepence a day is

not enough to hold me.'

'Oh, Charles, I entreat you to stay. You have regular work there and

regular pay. As for Mrs. Veale----'

'Curse Mrs. Veale!' interrupted Charles, and with a stamp of his

iron-shod heel he broke the corners of the slate slab. Then he stood

up.

'Look here, Honor. I mustn't forget a message. Old Langford wants to

see my father mighty particular, and he is to come up to the house to

have a talk with him. He told me so himself, and indeed sent me here.

Father is to come up this evening, as he is not at home now. You will

remember to send him, Honor?'

'Yes,' she answered, bending her face over her work, 'yes, I shall not

forget, Charles.'

Her brother had not the faintest suspicion that his master was a suitor

for Honor's hand. Mrs. Veale knew it, but she did not tell him. She had

reasons for not doing so.

'Ninepence per diem!' muttered the young man, standing in the doorway.

'That makes fourpence for ale, and fourpence for baccy, and a penny for

clothing. T'aint reasonable. I won't stand it. I reckon I'll be off.'

Then, after a moment of irresolution, he came back into the middle of

the room, and, taking Honor's head between his hands, said in an altered

tone, as he kissed her, 'After all, you are a good girl. Don't be angry

if I spoke sharp. I'm that ruffled I don't know what I say, or what I

do. You mayn't be a proper Luxmore in spirit--that is, not like father

and me--but you are hard-working, and so I forgive you in a Christian

spirit. As Mrs. Veale says, even the Chosen People must have Gibeonites

to hew wood and draw water for them. After I am gone, look under the

china dog on the mantel-shelf.'

Then he went hastily away.

Honor shuddered. His breath smelt of brandy.

Half an hour later, Oliver Luxmore came in. Then Honor told him that

Charles had been to the house with a message for him from Mr. Langford.

Oliver rubbed his head and looked forlorn. He knew as well as his

daughter what this meant.

'I suppose,' said he, in a timid, questioning tone. 'I suppose, Honor,

you have not thought better of what we was discussing together? No doubt

Mr. Langford is impatient for his answer.'

'No doubt,' answered the girl.

'You haven't reconsidered your difficulty in the matter? It seems to

me--but then I am nobody, though your father--it seems to me that if

there be no prior attachment, as folks call it--and you assure me there

is none--there can't be great hardship in taking him. Riches and lands

are not bad things; and, Honor, it is worth considering that in this

world we never can have everything we desire. Providence always mixes

the portions we are given to sup.'

'Yes, father, that is true. I am content with that put to my lips. It

is sweet, for I have your love, and the love of all my brothers and

sisters. Charles has been here, and he kissed me as he never kissed me

before. That makes nine lumps of sugar in my cup. If there be a little

bitterness, what then?'

'Well, Honor, you must decide. We cannot drive you, and you count our

wishes as nought.'

He was seated, rubbing his hands, then his hair, and turning his head

from side to side in a feeble, forlorn, irresolute manner. Honor was

sorry for his disappointment, but not inclined to yield.

'Father dear, consider. If I did take Mr. Langford, he would not

receive you and all the darlings into Lansford house as well--and I will

not be parted from you. Who takes me takes all the hive. I am the

queen-bee.'

'I will ask,' said the carrier, breathing freer. 'I can but ask. He

can but refuse; besides, it will look better, putting the refusal on his

hands. It may be that he will not object. There be a lot o' rooms, for

sure, at Langford he makes no use of; and I dare say he might

accommodate us. There be one, I know, full o' apples, and another of

onions, and I dare say he keeps wool in a third.'

Honor, who was standing by the fire, started, and said hastily, with

shaking voice, 'You misunderstand me, father. On no account will I take

him. No--on no conditions whatever.' Her hand was on the mantelshelf,

and as it shook with her emotion she touched and knocked over a china

dog spotted red, a rude chimney ornament. A piece of folded paper fell

at her feet. She stooped and picked it up. It was a five-pound note.

She looked at it at first without perceiving what it was, as her mind

was occupied. But presently she saw what it was that she held, and then

she looked at it with perplexity, and after a moment with uneasiness,

and changed colour.

'Father!' she said, 'here is a five-pound note of the Exeter and

Plymouth Bank, left by Charles. What does it mean? How can he have got

it? Before he parted from me, he said something about looking under the

china dog, but I gave no heed to his words; his breath smelt of spirits,

and I thought he spoke away from his meaning. His manner was odd.

Father! wherever can Charles have got the money? Oh, father! I hope

all is right.'

She put her hand to her heart; a qualm of fear came over her.

'Right! Of course it is right,' said the carrier. 'Five pounds! Why

that will come in handy. It will go towards the cost of the horse if

you persist. As for these lambs, he ought to pay me for them, but I

don't like to press it, as I hear he won't allow it was his dog killed

them, and he swears Hillary shot Rover out of spite, and lays the

lamb-killing on the dog unjustly. Well, Honor, I suppose you must have

your own way; but it is hard on Charles and me, who work as slaves--we

who by rights should be squires.'

*CHAPTER XXI.*

*REFUSED!*

The carrier walked slowly and reluctantly to Langford. He was

uncomfortable with the answer he had to take to Taverner Langford.

Oliver was a kindly man, ready to oblige any one, shrinking from nothing

so sensitively as from a rough word and an angry mood. 'It would have

saved a lot of trouble,' said he to himself, 'if Honor had given way. I

shouldn't have been so out of countenance now--and it does seem an

ungrateful thing after the loan of the horse.'

He found Langford in his parlour at his desk. The old man spun round on

his seat.

'Ah, ha!' said he, 'come at my call, father-in-law. Well--when is the

wedding to be?'

The carrier stood stupidly looking at him, rubbing his hands together

and shifting from foot to foot. 'The wedding!'

'Yes, man, the wedding; when is it to be?'

'The wedding!' repeated Oliver, looking through the window for help.

'I'm sure I don't know.'

'You must find that out. I'm impatient to be married. Ha, ha! what

faces the Nanspians will pull, father and son, when they see me lead

from church a blooming, blushing bride.'

'Well, now,' said the carrier, wiping the perspiration from his brow,

'I'm sorry to have to say it, but Honor don't see it in the proper

light.'

'What--refuses me?'

'Not exactly refuses, but begs off.'

'Begs off!' repeated Taverner, incredulously. He could hardly have been

more disconcerted if he had heard that all his cattle were dying and his

stacks blazing. 'Begs off!' he again exclaimed; 'then how about my

horse?'

The carrier scratched his head and sighed.

'Do you suppose that I gave you the horse?' said Taverner. 'You can

hardly have been such a fool as that. I am not one to give a cow here,

and a sheep there, and a horse to a third, just because there are so

many needy persons wanting them. You must return me the horse and pay

me ten shillings a week for the hire during the time you have had him,

unless Honor becomes my wife.'

'I will pay you for the horse,' said Luxmore, faintly.

'Whence will you get the money? Do you think I am a fool?' asked

Langford, angrily. His pride was hurt. His eyes flashed and his skin

became of a livid complexion. He, the wealthiest man in Bratton

Clovelly; he, the representative of the most respectable family

there--one as old as the parish itself; he, the parson's churchwarden,

and the elder of the Methodist chapel--he had been refused by a

poverty-stricken carrier's daughter. The insult was unendurable. He

stood up to leave the room, but when he had his hand on the latch he

turned and came back. In the first access of wrath he had resolved to

crush the carrier. He could do it. He had but to take back his horse,

and the Vivid was reduced to a stationary condition. Luxmore might

offer to buy the horse, but he could not do it. He knew how poor he

was. Moreover, he could cut his business away from him at any moment by

setting up the cripple as carrier.

But he thought better of it. Of what avail to him if Luxmore were

ruined? He desired to revenge himself on the Nanspians. The carrier

was too small game to be hunted down, he was set on the humiliation of

much bigger men than he. His envy and hatred of the Nanspians had by no

means abated, and the killing of his dog Rover by young Hillary had

excited it to frenzy. That his dog was a sheep-killer would not excuse

Larry's act. He did not allow that Rover was the culprit. His nephew

had shot the dog out of malice, and had feigned as an excuse that he had

caught the dog pursuing lambs.

The wealthy yeoman might certainly, without difficulty, have found

another girl less hard to please than Honor. All girls would not have

thought with her. His money would have weighed with them. He could not

understand his refusal. 'What is the matter with the girl?' he said

surlily. 'I thought her too wise to be in love. She has not set her

heart on any boyish jackanapes, has she?'

'Honor? Oh no! Honor has no sweetheart,' said the father. 'It

certainly is not that, Mr. Langford.'

'Then what is it? What possible objection can she make? I'm not a

beardless boy and a rosy-faced beauty, that is true.'

'No, Mr. Langford, I am sure she has not a word against your age and

personal appearance. Indeed, a young girl generally prefers as a

husband one to whom she can look up, who is her superior in every way.'

'I am that. What is it, then?'

'Well, Mr. Langford,' said the carrier, drawing the back of his hand

across his lips, 'I think it is about this. She don't like to desert me

and the children. She promised her mother to stand by us, and Honor is

so conscientious that what she has promised she will stick to.'

'Oh,' said Taverner, somewhat mollified to find that neither his age nor

lack of beauty was objected to, 'that is it, is it?'

'Yes, sir,' answered the carrier, sheepishly; 'you see there are six

little uns; then comes Kate, and then Charles, and then I. That makes

nine of us Honor has to care for. And,' he said more eagerly, heaving a

sigh of relief, 'you see, she didn't think it quite a fair thing to

saddle you with us all, with Pattie and Joe, Willie, Martha, Charity,

Temperance, Kate, Charles, and myself. It does make a lot when you come

to consider.'

It did certainly, as Taverner admitted. He had no intention whatever of

incumbering himself with Honor's relations, if he did marry her. He

took a turn up and down the room, with his heavy dark brows knit and his

thin lips screwed together. Oliver watched his face, and thought that

it was a very ugly and ill-tempered face.

'It does Honor some credit having such delicacy of feeling,' suggested

he. 'I very much doubt how you could accommodate us all in this house.'

'I do not see how I could possibly do it,' said Taverner, sharply.

'And Honor couldn't think to tear herself away from us. I suppose you

wouldn't consider the possibility of coming to us?'

'No, I would not.'

Taverner Langford was perplexed. He entirely accepted Oliver's

explanation. It was quite reasonable that Honor should refuse him out

of a high sense of duty; it was not conceivable that she should decline

alliance with him on any other grounds. Now, although Taverner had not

hitherto found time or courage to marry, he was by no means insensible

to female beauty. He had long observed the stately, upright daughter of

the carrier, with her beautiful abundant auburn hair and clear brown

eyes. He had observed her more than she supposed, and he had seen how

hard-working, self-devoted she was, how economical, how clean in her own

person and in her house. Such a woman as that would be more agreeable

in the house than Mrs. Veale. He would have to pay her no wage for one

thing, her pleasant face and voice would be a relief after the sour

visage and grating tones of the housekeeper. He knew perfectly that

Mrs. Veale had had designs on him from the moment she had entered his

house. She had flattered, slaved; she had assumed an amount of authority

in the house hardly consistent with her position. Langford had not

resisted her encroachments; he allowed her to cherish hopes of securing

him in the end, as a means of ensuring her fidelity to his interests. He

chuckled to himself at the thought of the rage and disappointment that

would consume her when he announced that he was about to be married.

He was a suspicious man, and he mistrusted every woman, but he

mistrusted Honor less than any woman or man he knew. He had observed no

other with half the attention he had devoted to her, and he had never

seen in her the smallest tokens of frivolity and indifference to duty.

If she was so scrupulous in the discharge of her obligations to father

and sisters, how dependable she would be in her own house, when working

and saving for husband and children of her own.

She was no idler, she was no talker, and Taverner hated idleness and

gossip. Of what other girl in Bratton Clovelly could as much be said?

No, he would trust his house and happiness to no other than Honor

Luxmore.

Taverner dearly loved money, but he loved mastery better. A wife with a

fortune of her own would have felt some independence, but a wife who

brought him nothing would not be disposed to assert herself. She would

look up to him as the exclusive author of her happiness, and never

venture to contradict him, never have a will of her own.

'If that be her only objection, it may be circumvented,' said Langford,

'if not got over. I thought, perhaps, she declined my hand from some

other cause.'

'What other cause could there be?' asked Oliver.

'To be sure there is no other that should govern a rational creature;

but few women are rational. I have done something for you already, for

you have my horse. I have done a good deal for Charles also; I pay him

ninepence a day and give him his food. It is quite possible that I may

do a vast deal for the rest of you. But of course that depends. I'm

not likely to take you up and make much of you unless you are connected

with me by marriage. You can judge for yourself. Should I be likely to

leave you all unprovided for if Honor were Mrs. Langford? Of course I

would not allow it to be said that my wife's relations were in need.'

These words of Taverner Langford made Oliver's pulse beat fast.

'And then,' continued the yeoman, 'who can say but that I might give you

a hand to help you into Coombe Park.'

Luxmore's eye kindled, and his cheeks became dappled with fiery spots.

Here was a prospect! but it was like the prospect of the Promised Land

to Moses on Pisgah if Honor proved unyielding.

'You are the girl's father,' said Langford. 'Hoity-toity! I have no

patience with a man who allows his daughter to give herself airs. He

knows what is best for her, and must decide. Make her give way.'

Oliver would have laughed aloud at the idea of his forcing his

daughter's will into compliance with his own, had not the case been so

serious.

'Look here, Mr. Langford,' he said. 'I'll do what I can. I'll tell

Honor the liberal offer you have made; and I trust she'll see it aright

and be thankful.' He stood up. 'Before I go,' he said, producing the

five-pound note, 'I'd just like to reduce my debt to you for the horse,

if you please.'

'How much?' asked Taverner.

'Five pounds,' answered the carrier. 'If I kept it by me I should spend

it, so I thought best to bring it straight to you. You'll give me a

slip o' paper as a receipt.'

Langford took out his pocket-book, folded the note, and put it in the

pocket of the book; then made a pencil entry. I always,' said he,

'enter every note I receive with its number. Comes useful at times for

reference. To be sure, you shall have a receipt.'

*CHAPTER XXII.*

*THE HAYSEL.*

Hillary became impatient. He made no way with Honor; if any change in

his position had taken place, he had gone back. In spite of her

entreaty, he went to the cottage down the lane hooting like an owl, but

she did not answer the call. Then he plucked up courage and went in on

the chance of getting a word with her alone, but he went in vain.

Oliver Luxmore was glad to see him, chatted with him, and offered him a

place at their supper-board, or a drink of cider. He defended himself

against the sallies of Kate. He spoke now and then to Honor, and was

answered in friendly tone; but that was all. If by chance he met her

during the day in the lane or on the down, and she could not escape him,

she would not stay to talk, she pleaded work. Hillary was disappointed,

and, what was more, offended. His vanity was hurt, and vanity in a

young man is his most sensitive fibre. No other girl in the parish

would treat his advances as did Honor. The other girls laid themselves

out to catch him, Honor shrank from him. He knew that she liked him, he

was angry because she did not love him.

Hillary's nature, though sound, was marred by his bringing up. He had

been spoiled by flattery and indulgence. His father's boasting, the

great expectations held out to him, the consciousness of vigour, health,

and good looks, combined to make Larry consider himself the very finest

young fellow, not in Bratton only, but in all England. Self-conceit is

like mercury, when it touches gold it renders it dull, and a strong fire

is needed to expel the alloy and restore the gold to its proper

brilliancy.

Mortified in his self-consequence, stung by Honor's indifference, after

a few attempts and failures Hillary changed his tactics. He resolved to

show Honor, if she did not meet him, he could turn elsewhere.

Unfortunately, Kate was at hand to serve his purpose. Kate did not

particularly care for Larry. She had a fancy for Samuel Voaden, the

farmer's son at Swaddledown; but of this Honor neither knew nor

suspected anything. Kate was pleased to see Hillary whenever he came,

as she was glad to have a butt for her jokes, and with feminine

ingenuity used him to throw dust in the eyes of her father, sister, and

companions to obscure their perception of her attachment for Sam Voaden.

At first Hillary was in a bad temper, disinclined for conversation, and

unable to retaliate upon Kate; but by degrees his old cheerfulness

returned, and he received and replied to her banter with what readiness

he possessed.

One day he came into the cottage with a hay-fork over his shoulder.

'You maidens,' he said, 'come along to the hay-field. We want help

badly. Bring the little ones and let them romp and eat cake. Whilst

the sun shines we must make hay.'

Honor, without a word, rose and folded her work.

'If you can toss hay as you can toss chaff,' said the young man

addressing Kate, 'you will be useful indeed.'

'Larry, it is reported that your uncle Langford will not save hay till

it has been rained on well. "If it be too good," he argues, "the cows

will eat too much of it." Your wit is ricked like Langford's hay; it is

weak and washed out. A little goes a long way with those who taste it.'

A happy and merry party in the hay field, women and girls tossing the

hay into cocks, and the men with the waggon collecting it and carrying

it home. The air was fragrant with the scent. In a corner under a

hedge were a barrel of cider, and blue and white musts, and a basketful

of saffron-cake. Whoever was thirsty went to the cider cask, whoever

was hungry helped himself to the plum loaf. The field rang with

laughter, and occasional screams, as a man twisted a cord of hay, cast

the loop round a girl's neck, drew her head towards him and kissed her

face. That is called 'the making of sweet hay.'

Honor worked steadily. No one ventured to make 'sweet hay' with her,

and Kate was too much on the alert, though one or two young men slyly

crept towards her with twisted bands. The little ones were building

themselves nests of hay, and burying one another, and jumping over

haycocks, and chasing each other with bands, to catch and kiss, in

imitation of their elders. Hillary turned in his work and looked at

Honor and Kate, hoping that the former would commend his diligence, and

that the latter would give him occasion for a joke. But Honor was too

much engrossed in her raking, and had too little idea of necessary work

being lauded as a virtue; and the latter was looking at Samuel Voaden,

who had come over from Swaddledown to help his neighbour--the haysel at

home being over.

When the half-laden waggon drew up near where Honor was raking, Hillary

said to her in a low tone, 'I have been working ever since the dew was

off the grass.'

'I suppose so, Larry,'

'I have been working very hard.'

'Of course you have, Larry.'

'And I am very hot.'

'I do not doubt it.'

'How cool you are, Honor!'

'I--cool!' she looked at him with surprise. 'On the contrary, I am very

warm.' She had no perception that he pleaded for praise.

'Larry,' said Kate, 'you were right to press us into service. It will

rain to-morrow.'

'How do you know that?'

'Because you are working to-day.'

Quick as thought, he threw some hay strands round her head, and kissed

both her rosy cheeks.

Kate drew herself away, angry at his impudence, especially angry at his

kissing her before Samuel Voaden. She threw down her pitchfork

('heable' in the local dialect), and folding her arms, said with a frown

and a pout, 'Do the rest yourself. I will work for you no more.'

'Oh, Kate, do not take offence. I went naturally where was the sweetest

hay.'

In her anger she looked prettier than when in good humour. She glanced

round out of the corners of her eyes, and saw to her satisfaction that

Samuel was on the further side of the waggon, unconscious of what had

taken place. Hillary was humble, he made ample apology, and offered

lavish flattery. Kate maintained, or affected to maintain, her anger

for some time, and forced Larry to redouble his efforts to regain her

favour. Her fair hair, fine as silk just wound from a cocoon, was

ruffled over her brow, and her brow was pearled with heat-drops. She was

a slender girl, with a long neck and the prettiest shoulders in the

world. She wore a light gown, frilled about the throat and bosom and

sleeves, tucked up at the side, showing a blue petticoat and white

stockings. She picked up the 'heable' with a sigh, and then stood

leaning on it, with the sleeves fallen back, exposing her delicate arms

as far as the rosy elbows.

It was not possible for Kate to remain long angry with Larry, he was so

good-natured, so full of fuss, so coaxing; he paid such pretty

compliments, his eyes were so roguish, his face so handsome--besides,

Samuel was on the other side of the waggon, seeing, hearing nothing.

The dimples formed in her cheeks, the contraction of lips and brows gave

way, the angry sparkle disappeared from her blue eyes, and then her

clear laugh announced that she was pacified. Hillary, knowing he had

conquered, audacious in his pride of conquest, put his arm round her

waist, stooped, and kissed the bare arm nearest him that rested on the

pitchfork, then he sprang aside as she attempted to box his ears.

Honor was hard by and had seen both kisses, and had heard every word

that had passed. She continued her work as though unconscious. For a

moment, a pang of jealousy contracted her bosom, but she hastily

mastered it. She knew that she could not, must not regard Hillary in

any other light than as a brother, and yet she was unable to see her

sister supplanting her in his affections without some natural qualms.

But Honor was unselfish, and she hid her suffering. Kate as little

suspected the state of her sister's heart as Honor suspected Kate's

liking for Sam Voaden. And now, all at once, an idea shot through

Honor's mind which crimsoned her face. How she had misread Hillary's

manner when they were together watching for the lamb-killer! She had

fancied then that his heart was drawing towards her, and the thought had

filled her with unutterable happiness. Now she saw his demeanour in

another aspect. He really loved Kate, and his affection for her was

only a reflection of his love for the younger sister. He had sought to

gain her esteem, to forward his suit with Kate. When this thought

occurred to Honor, she hid her face, humbled and distressed at having

been deluded by self-conceit. She made it clear to herself now that

Hillary had thought only of Kate. Her sister had said nothing to her

about Hillary--but was that wonderful, as he had not declared himself?

A transient gleam had lightened her soul. It was over. Work was Honor's

lot in life, perhaps sorrow, not love.

'The last load is carried, and in good order. Where is the dance to be?'

asked Samuel Voaden, coming into sight as the waggon moved on.

'In the barn,' answered Hillary.

'Kate,' said Hillary, 'give me the first dance.'

'And me the second,' pleaded Samuel.

When Combe wrote and Rowlandson illustrated the 'Tour of Doctor Syntax,'

a dance was the necessary complement of a harvest whether of corn or

hay--especially of the latter, as then the barn was empty. The Reverend

Doctor Syntax thought it not derogatory to his office to play the fiddle

on such occasions. Moreover, half a century ago, the village fiddler was

invited into any cottage, when, at the sound of his instrument, lads and

maidens would assemble, dance for a couple of hours and disperse before

darkness settled in. The denunciation of dancing as a deadly sin by the

Methodists has caused it to fall into desuetude. Morality has not been

bettered thereby. The young people who formerly met by daylight on the

cottage floor, now meet, after chapel, in the dark, in hedge corners.

Hillary and Samuel had engaged Kate. Neither had thought of Honor,

though she stood by, raking the fragrant hay.

'Up, up!' shouted both young men. 'Kate, you must ride on the last

load.'

The waggon moved away, with Kate mounted on the sweet contents, and with

the young men running at the side. Honor remained alone, looking after

them, resting on her rake, and, in spite of her efforts, the tears

filled her eyes.

But she did not give way to her emotion.

Honor called the children, when the last load left the field, and led

them home. She was hot and tired, and her heart ached, but she was

content with herself. She had conquered the rising movement of

jealousy, and was ready to accept Hillary as her sister's acknowledged

lover.

Kate followed her. An hour later the dance in the barn would begin.

The lads and maidens went home to smarten up, and wash off the dust and

stain of labour, and the barn had to be decorated with green branches,

and the candles lit.

Kate went upstairs at once to dress. Honor remained below to hear the

children's prayers, and get the youngest ready for bed. Then she went

up to the room she shared with Kate, carrying little Temperance in her

arms.

'Oh, Honor, bundle them all in. What a time you have been! We shall be

late; and I have promised to open the dance with Larry.'

'I am not going, Kate.'

'Not going! Of course you are going.'

'No, I am not. Father is not home, and will want his supper. Besides,

I cannot leave the house with all the little ones in it unprotected.'

'There are no ogres hereabouts that eat children,' said Kate, hastily.

'We can manage. This is nonsense; you must come.'

'I do not care to, Kate. Sit down in that chair, and I will dress your

hair. It is tossed like a haycock.'

Kate seated herself, and Honor combed and brushed her sister's hair,

then put a blue riband through it; and took the kerchief from her box,

and drew it over Kate's shoulders, and pinned it in place.

'Oh, Honor! What a lovely silk kerchief! Where did you get this? How

long have you had it? Why have you not shown it me before?'

'It is for you, dearest Kate; I am glad you like it.'

Kate stood up, looked at herself in the glass, and then threw her arms

round her sister and kissed her.

'You are a darling,' exclaimed Kate. 'Always thinking of others, never

giving yourself anything. Let me remain at home--do you go instead of

me.'

Honor shook her head. She was pleased to see Kate's delight, but there

was an undercurrent of sadness in her soul. She was adorning her sister

for Hillary.

Kate did not press Honor to go instead of her, though she was

sufficiently good-hearted to have taken her sister's place without

becoming ill-tempered, had Honor accepted the offer.

'Do I look very nice?' asked Kate, with the irresistible dimples coming

into her cheeks. 'I wonder what Larry will say when he sees me with this

blue ribbon, and this pretty kerchief.'

'And I--' said Honor slowly, not without effort, 'I also wonder.'

*CHAPTER XXIII.*

*A BRAWL.*

When Kate came to the barn, she found it decorated with green boughs.

There were no windows, only the great barn door, consequently the sides

were dark; but here four lanterns had been hung, diffusing a dull yellow

light. The threshing-floor was in the middle, planked; on either side

the barn was slated, so that the dancing was to be in the middle. Forms

were placed on the slate flooring for those who rested or looked on. On

a table sat the fiddler with a jug of cider near him.

The season of the year was that of Barnaby bright, when, as the old saw

says, there is all day and no night. The sun did not set till past

eight, and then left the north-west full of silver light. The

hedgerows, as Kate passed between them, streamed forth the fragrance

from the honeysuckle which was wreathed about them in masses of flower,

apricot-yellow, and pink. Where the incense of the eglantine ceased to

fill the air it was burdened with the sweetness of white clover that

flowered thickly over the broad green patches of grass by the road-side.

Hillary was awaiting Kate to open the dance with her. He had gone to

the gate to meet her; he recognised his kerchief at once; he was

surprised and hurt. Why was Honor not there? Kate came with her little

brother Joe holding her hand, Joe had begged permission to attend the

dance. Why had Honor made over Larry's present to her sister? It was a

slight, an intentional slight. Larry bit his lips and frowned; his

heart beat fast with angry emotion. He approached Kate with an

ungracious air, and led her to the dance without a pleasant word.

Kate was unquestionably the prettiest girl present. She held her fair

head erect, in consciousness of superiority. Her hair was abundant,

full of natural wave and curl, and the sky-blue ribbon in it seemed to

hold it together, and to be the only restraining power that prevented it

breaking loose and enveloping her from head to foot in the most

beautiful gloss silk. Her complexion was that of the wild rose,

heightened by her rapid walk and by excitement; her eyes were blue as

the forget-me-not.

The evening sun shone in at the barn door, as yellow, but purer and

brighter than the lantern light. Had there been a painter present he

would have seized the occasion to paint the pretty scene--the old barn

with oaken timbers, its great double doors open, from under a penthouse

roof leaning forward to cover the laden wains as they were being

unpacked of their corn-sheaves; the depths of the barn dark as night,

illumined feebly by the pendent lanterns; and the midst, the threshing

floor, crowded with dancers, who flickered in the saffron glow of the

setting sun.

Kate noticed that Hillary, whilst he danced with her, observed the

kerchief intently.

'Is it not pretty?' she asked innocently. 'Honor gave it me. She had

kept it for me in her box ever since the Revel, and not told me that she

had it; nor did I see her buy it then. Honor is so good, so kind.'

Hillary said nothing in reply, but his humour was not improved. His

mind wandered from his partner.

'When is Honor coming?' he asked abruptly.

'She is not coming at all.'

'Why not?'

'Father is not home, and will want his supper when he does return.'

'Honor must do all the drudging whilst others dance,' he said peevishly.

'I offered to stay and let her come, but she would not hear of it.'

Hillary danced badly; he lost step. He excused himself; but Kate was

dissatisfied with her partner, he was dull, and she was displeased to

see that Sam Voaden was dancing and laughing and enjoying himself with

some one else.

'You are a clumsy partner,' she said, 'and dance like old Diamond when

backing against a load going down hill.'

'Honor gave you that kerchief? What did she say when she gave it you?'

'Nothing.'

He said no more, and led her to a bench in the side of the barn.

'What! tired already, Larry? I am not.'

'I am,' he answered sulkily.

Directly, Sam Voaden came to her, and was received with smiles.

'Larry Nanspian came left leg foremost out of bed this morning,' she

said. 'He is as out of tune as Piper's fiddle.'

Kate was in great request that evening. The lads pressed about her,

proud to circle round the floor with the graceful pretty girl; but she

gave the preference to Samuel Voaden. Hillary asked her to dance with

him in 'The Triumph,' but she told him sharply she would reserve her

hand for him in the Dumps, and he did not ask her again.

The girls present looked at Kate with envy. They were unable to dispute

her beauty; but her charm of manner and lively wit made her even more

acceptable to the lads than her good looks. She was perfectly conscious

of the envy and admiration she excited, and as much gratified with one

as with the other.

Samuel Voaden was infatuated. He pressed his attentions, and Kate

received them with pleasure. As she danced past Larry she cast him

glances of contemptuous pity.

Hillary was angry with Honor, angry with Kate, angry with himself. The

spoiled prince was cast aside by two girls--a common carrier's

daughters. He was as irritated against Kate now as he was previously

against Honor. When he heard Kate laugh, he winced, suspecting that she

was joking about him. His eyes followed the kerchief, and his heart grew

bitter within him. He made no attempt to be amusing. He had nothing to

say to any one. He let the dances go on without seeking partners. He

stood lounging against the barn door, with a sprig of honeysuckle in his

mouth, and his hands behind his back.

The sun was set, a cool grey light suffused the meadow, the stackyard,

the barn, the groups who stood about, and the dancers within.

A dog ventured in at the door, and he kicked it out.

The dog snarled and barked, and he nearly quarrelled with young Voaden

because the latter objected to his dog being kicked.

Then, all at once, his mood changed. It occurred to him that very

probably Honor stayed away just for the purpose of showing him she did

not care for him. If that were so, he would let her know that he was

not to be put out of heart by her slights. He would not afford her the

gratification of hearing through her sister that he was dispirited and

unhappy. Then he dashed into the midst of the girls, snatched a partner,

and thenceforth danced and laughed and was uproariously merry.

At ten o'clock the dancing was over. Country folk kept early hours then;

the cider barrel was run out, the basket of cakes emptied, and the

tallow lights in the lanterns burnt down to a flicker in a flood of

melted grease.

The young men prepared to escort their partners home.

Hillary saw that Samuel was going with Kate. He was exasperated to the

last degree. He did not care particularly for Kate, but he did care

that it should not be talked of in the village that Sam Voaden had

plucked her away from under his very nose. Gossip gave her to him as a

sweetheart, and gossip would make merry over his discomfiture. Besides,

he wanted an excuse for going to the cottage and having an explanation

with Honor about the kerchief.

As Voaden's dog passed in front of him at a call from his master, Larry

kicked it.

'Leave my dog alone, will you!' shouted Samuel. 'That is the second

time you have kicked Punch. The dog don't hurt you, why should you hurt

him?'

'I shall kick the brute if I choose,' said Hillary. 'It has no right

here in the barn.'

'What harm has Punch done? And now, what is against his leaving?'

'You had no right to bring the dog here. It has been in the plantation

after young game.'

'Punch is wrong whether in the barn or out of it. The guinea you got

for shooting Rover has given you a set against dogs seemingly,' said

young Voaden.

'The dog took your lambs at Swaddledown, and you were too much a

lie-a-bed to stop it,' sneered Hillary.

'Some folk,' answered Samuel, 'have everything in such first-rate order

at home they can spare time to help their neighbours.'

'No more!' exclaimed Kate; 'you shall not quarrel.'

Hillary looked round. Near him were two women who had been in the van

when he returned from Tavistock with the kerchief. They, no doubt,

recognised it over Kate's shoulders. They made sure it was his

love-token to her, and, wearing it, she was about to affront him in

their eyes. His wounded vanity made him blind to what he said or did.

'Here, Kate,' he said, thrusting himself forward, 'I am going to take

you home. You cannot go with Samuel. His cursed Punch is an

ill-conditioned brute, and will kill your chickens.'

'Nonsense,' laughed Kate, 'our chickens are all under cover.'

'I'll fight you,' said Hillary, turning to Samuel. 'Kate was engaged to

me for the Tank,[1] and you carried her off without asking leave. I

will not be insulted by you on my father's land, and under my own roof.

If you are a man you will fight me.'

[1] An old country dance.

'Nonsense, Larry,' answered Samuel, good-humouredly, 'I'll not quarrel

with you. It takes two to make a quarrel, as it takes two to kiss.'

'You are afraid, that is why.'

'I am not afraid of you, Larry,' said Samuel. 'You are as touchy this

evening as if whipped with nettles.'

'Come with me, Kate,' exclaimed Hillary. 'You have known me longer than

Voaden. If he chooses to take you, he must fight me first.'

'I will not fight you, Larry,' answered the young Swaddledown farmer;

'but I don't object to a fling with you, if you will wrestle.'

'Very well; throw off your coat.'

The young men removed their jackets, waistcoats, and the handkerchiefs

from their throats. They were both fine fellows--well-built and strong.

Those who had been dancing surrounded them in a ring, men and maids.

'Cornish fashion, not Devon,' said Samuel.

'Ay, ay!' shouted the bystanders, 'Cornish wrestle now.'

'Right--Cornish,' answered Hillary.

The difference between Devon and Cornish wrestling consists in this,

that in a Devon wrestle kicking is admissible; but then, as a protection

to their shins, the antagonists have their legs wreathed with haybands

(_vulgo_ skillibegs). As the legs were on this occasion unprotected,

Devon wrestling was inadmissible. Both fashions were in vogue near the

Tamar, and every young man would wrestle one way or the other as decided

beforehand.

The opponents fixed each other with their eyes, and stood breathless,

and every voice was hushed. Instantaneously, as moved by one impulse,

they sprang at each other, and were writhing, tossing, coiling in each

other's embrace. Neither could make the other budge from his ground, or

throw him, exerting his utmost strength and skill. The haymakers stood

silent, looking on appreciatively--the girls a little frightened, the

men relishingly, relishing it more than the dance. Not one of the lads

at that moment had a thought to cast at his partner. Their hands

twitched, their feet moved, they bent, threw themselves back, swung

aside, responsive to the movements of the wrestlers.

The antagonists gasped, snorted, as with set teeth and closed lips they

drew long inspirations through their nostrils. Their sweat poured in

streams from their brows.

Simultaneously, moved by one impulse, they let go their hold, and stood

quivering and wiping their brows, with labouring breasts; then, with a

shout, closed again.

'Ho!' a general exclamation. In the first grapple Hillary had slipped,

and gone down on one knee. Immediately Samuel let go.

'There!' said he, holding out his hand. 'We have had enough. Strike

palms, old boy.'

'No,' gasped Hillary, blazing with anger and shame. 'I was not flung.

I slipped on the dockleaf there. I will not allow myself beaten. Come

on again.'

'I will not do so,' answered Samuel. 'If you have not had enough, I

have.'

'You shall go on. You are a coward to sneak out now when an accident

gave you advantage.'

'Very well, then,' said Samuel; 'but you have lost your temper, and I'll

have no more than this round with you.'

The young men were very equally matched. They grappled once more,

twisted, doubled, gasped; the ground was torn up under their feet. As

the feet twirled and flew, it was hard to say how many were on the

ground at once, and whose they were.

Samuel suddenly caught his antagonist over the arms, and pushed them to

his side.

'He'll have Larry down! he will, by George!' shouted several. 'Well

done, Samuel! Go it, Samuel Voaden!'

'Ha!' shouted Sam, starting back. 'Who goes against rules? You

kicked.'

'You lie! I did not,'

'You did! you did, Larry,' shouted three or four of the spectators. It

was true; in his excitement Larry had forgotten that he and his opponent

were without skillibegs and wrestling in Cornish fashion, and he had

kicked; but in good faith he had denied doing it, for he was unconscious

of his actions, so blinded and bemuzzed was he with anger,

disappointment, and shame.

'I'll not wrestle any more,' said Samuel, 'if you don't wrestle fair.

No--I won't at all. You are in a white fury. So--if it's unfair in you

to kick, it is unfair in me to take advantage of your temper.'

'It is not done. One or other must go down.'

Then Kate pushed forward. 'Neither of you shall attend me home,' she

said; 'I am going with little Joe only.'

Whether this would have ended the affray is doubtful. Another

interruption was more successful. Suddenly a loud blast of a horn, then

a yelping as of dogs, then another blast--and through the yard before

the barn, breaking the ring, sweeping between the combatants, passed a

strange figure--a man wearing a black bull's hide, with long brown paper

ears on his head; the hide was fastened about his waist, and the tail

trailed behind. He was followed by a dozen boys barking, baying,

yelping, and after them hobbled Tom Crout blowing aorn.

'It's no good,' said the lame fellow, halting in the broken ring; 'I

can't follow the hare, Mr. Larry Nanspian; the hunt is waiting for you.

On wi' a green coat, and mount your piebald, and take my horn. I wish I

could follow; but it's un-possible. Whew! you hare! Heigh! Piper,

stay, will you, and start fair.'

'I'll have nothing to do with it,' said Hillary, still panting.

'That is right, Larry,' said Kate in his ear, 'You oughtn't. Honor said

as much, and that she hoped you would keep out of it.'

'Did she!' said Hillary, angrily; 'then I'll go in for it.'

'Larry, old chap,' exclaimed Voaden, patting him on the shoulder, 'I

wasn't the better man, nor was you. You slipped on the dockleaf, and

that don't reckon as a fall. We'll have another bout some other day, if

you wish it. Now let us have the lark of the Hare Hunt.'

Hillary considered a moment, and wiped his face. He had fallen in the

general estimation. He had been sulky, he had provoked Sam, and the

wrestle had not turned to his credit. Here was a chance offered of

taking the lead once more. If he did not act the huntsman, Sam would.

'All right, Crout,' said he, 'give me the horn; I'll have my horse round

directly, and the green coat on.'

'Do not, do not, Larry,' entreated Kate.

'Tell Honor I'm not pinned to her apron,' answered the young man, and

ran into the house.

*CHAPTER XXIV.*

*THE HAND OF GLORY.*

The reader may have been puzzled by the hints made by Larry to Honor,

and by Charles to Mrs. Veale, of a threatened hare hunt, and he may have

wondered why such a threat should have disturbed Honor and angered the

housekeeper. There are plenty of hares on Broadbury Moor; there have

been hare hunts there as long as men could remember; frequently, all

through the winter. An ordinary hare hunt would not have stirred much

feeling in women's bosoms. The menaced hare hunt was something very

different. A stag and a hare hunt are the rude means employed by a

village community for maintaining either its standard of morals or

expressing its disapprobation of petticoat rule. The stag hunt is by no

means an institution of the past, it flourishes to the present day; and

where the magistrates have interfered, this interference has stimulated

it to larger proportions. The hare hunt, now extinct, was intended to

ridicule the man who submitted to a rough woman's tongue.

The stag hunt takes place either on the wedding-night of a man who has

married a girl of light character, or when a wife is suspected of having

played her husband false. The hare hunt more properly satirised the

relations between Taverner Langford and Mrs. Veale. In not a few cases,

especially with a stag hunt, there is gross injustice done. It cannot

be otherwise: the Vehm-Gericht is self-constituted, sits in the tavern,

and passes its sentence without summons and hearing of the accused.

There is no defence and no appeal from the court. The infliction of the

sentence confers an indelible stain, and generally drives those who have

been thus branded out of the neighbourhood. Petty spite and private

grudges are sometimes so revenged; and a marriage in a well-conducted

family, which has held itself above the rest in a parish, is made an

occasion for one of these outrages, whereby the envy of the unsuccessful

and disreputable finds a vent.

There probably would have been no hare hunt near Langford had not the

quarrel between Langford and Nanspian agitated the whole parish, and

given occasion for a frolic which would not have been adventured had the

brothers-in-law been combined.

'Well, Mr. Charles,' said Mrs. Veale, 'what have you done with the

five-pound note I let you have? Is it all spent?'

'I gave it to my father and sister,' answered Charles. 'I've occasioned

them some expense, and I thought I'd make it up to them whilst I could.'

'That was mighty liberal of you,' sneered Mrs. Veale.

'I am liberal, pretty free-handed with my money. It comes of my blood.'

'Ah!' said the housekeeper, 'and I reckon now you'll be wanting more.'

'I could do with more,' replied young Luxmore, 'but I will not trouble

you.'

'Oh! it's no trouble,' said Mrs. Veale, 'I know very well that lending

to you is safe as putting into the Bank of England. You must have your

own some day, and when you're squire you won't see me want.'

'Rely on me, I will deal most generously with you. I shall not forget

your kindness, Mrs. Veale.'

'But,' said the woman slyly, eyeing him, 'I can't find you as much as

you require. You can't spin more out of me than my own weight, as the

silkworm said. I've put aside my little savings. But as you see, the

master don't pay freely. He gives you only ninepence, and me----' she

shrugged her shoulders.

'If I were in your place,' she went on, after a pause, 'I should be

tempted to borrow a hundred or so, and go to Physick the lawyer with it,

and say, help me to Coombe Park, and when I've that, I'll give you a

hundred more.'

'Who'd lend me the money? You have not so much.'

'No, I have not so much.'

'What other person would trust me?'

'The money might be had.'

'Others don't see my prospects as you do.'

'I'd be inclined to borrow wi'out asking,' said the housekeeper

cautiously. She was as one feeling her way; she kept her eyes on

Charles as she talked. Charles started. He knew her meaning.

'How dare you suggest such a thing!' he said in a low tone, looking at

her uneasily. 'Curse you! Don't wink at me with your white lashes that

way, you make me uneasy.'

'I only suggested it,' said Mrs. Veale, turning her head aside. 'I

reckon no harm would be done. The master don't know how much he has in

his box. We had it out t'other day between us, and counted. There be

over a thousand pounds there. Do y' think he counts it every week? Not

he. Who'd know? The money would be put back, and wi' interest, six,

seven, ten per cent., if you liked, when you'd got Coombe Park.'

'Have done,' said Luxmore with nervous irritation; 'I'm no thief, and

never could become one.'

'Who asked you to be one? Not I. I said as how you might become his

banker for a hundred pounds. The bank gives but three per cent., and

you would give nine. Who'd be the loser? Not master. He'd gain nine

pounds without knowing it--and wouldn't he crow!'

Charles Luxmore caught his hat and stood up.

'Where be you going to?' asked Mrs. Veale.

'I cannot stand this,' he said in an agitated voice. 'You torment me.

You put notions into me that won't let me sleep, that make me miserable.

I shall go.'

'Whither? To the Ring o' Bells. There be no one there to-night, all be

away to Chimsworthy at the Haysel. You sit down again, and I will give

you some cherry cordial.'

He obeyed sulkily.

'You can't go to dance at Chimsworthy, because you be here at Langford,

and there's no dancing and merry-making here. But wait till you're at

Coombe Park, and then you'll have junketings and harvest-homes and

dances when you will. That'll be a rare life.'

He said nothing, but thrust his hands into his pockets, and looked

moodily before him.

'Shall I tell you now who'll find you the money?'

He did not speak.

'Wellon will.'

'What?' he looked up in surprise.

'Ay! old Wellon as was gibbeted, he will.'

Charles laughed contemptuously. 'You are talking folly. I always

thought you mad.'

'Did you ever hear of the Hand of Glory?'

'No, never.'

'I wonder what became of Wellon's hand--the hand that throttled Mary

Rundle, and stuck the knife into the heart of Jane, and brought down

their aunt wi' a blow of the fist. That hand was a mighty hand.'

'Wellon was hung in chains, and fell to dust.'

'But not the hand. Such a hand as that was too precious. Did you never

hear it was cut off, and the body swung for years without it?'

'No, I did not.'

'It was so.'

'What good was it to anyone?'

'It was worth pounds and pounds.'

'As a curiosity?'

'No, as a Hand of Glory. It were washed in mother's milk to a child

base-born, and smoked in the reek of gallows-wood, and then laid with

tamarisk from the sea, and vervain, and rue, and bog-bean.'

'Well, what then?'

'Why, then, sure it's a Hand of Glory.' She paused, then struck her

hand across her forehead, 'and grass off the graves of them as it

killed--I forgot to say that was added.'

'What can such a hand do?'

'Everything. If I had it here and set it up on the mantelshelf, and set

a light to the fingers, all would flame blue, and then every soul in the

house would sleep except us two, and we might ransack the whole place

and none would stir or hinder or see. And if we let the hand flame on,

they would lie asleep till we were far away beyond their reach.'

'If you had this Hand of Glory, I wouldn't help you to use it,' said

Charles, writhing on his seat.

'That is not all,' Mrs. Veale went on, standing by a little tea-table

with her hand on it, the other against her side. 'That hand has

wonderful powers of itself. It is as a thing alive, though dead and dry

as leather. If you say certain words it begins to run about on its

fingers like a rat. Maybe you're sitting over the fire of nights, and

hear something stirring, and see a brown thing scuttling over the floor

and you think it is a rat. It is not. It is the dead man's hand.

Perhaps you hear a scratching on the wall, and look round, and see a

great black spider--a monstrous spider going about, running over and

over the wainscot, and touching and twitching at the bell wires. It is

not a spider, it is the murderer's hand. It hasn't eyes, it goes by the

feel, till it comes to gold, and then, at the touch the dark skin

becomes light and shines as the tail of a glowworm, and it picks and

gathers by its own light. I reckon, if that hand o' Wellon's were in

the oven behind the parlour-grate, it would make such a light that you'd

see what was on every guinea, whether the man and horse or the spade,

and you could read every note as well as if you had the daylight. Then

the ring-finger and the little finger close over what money the hand has

been bidden fetch, and it runs away on the thumb and other two--and

then, if you will, it's spiderlike with a bag behind.'

'I don't believe a word of it,' said Charles, but his words were more

confident than his tone.

'You see,' Mrs. Veale went on, 'there is this about it, you tell the

hand to go and fetch the money, but you don't say whither it is to go,

and you do not know. You get the money and can swear you have robbed no

one. I reckon, mostly the money is found by the hand in old cairns and

ruins. I've been told there's a table of gold in Broadbury Castle that

only comes to the top on Midsummer night for an hour, and then sinks

again. Folks far away see a great light on Broadbury, and say we be

swaling (burning gorse) up here; but it is no such thing; it is the gold

table coming up, and shining like fire, and the clouds above reflecting

its light.'

'Pity the hand don't break off bits of the gold table,' said Charles

sarcastically; but his face was mottled with fear; Mrs. Veale's stories

frightened him.

'Yes, 'tis a pity,' she said. 'Maybe it will some day.'

'Pray what do you say to the hand to make it run your errands?'

'Ah!' she continued, without answering his question. 'There be other

things the Hand of Glory can do. It will go if you send it to some

person--bolts and locks will not keep it out, and it will catch the end

of the bedclothes, and scramble up, and pass itself over the eyes of the

sleeper, and make him sleep like a dead man, and it will dive under the

clothes and lay its fingers on the heart; then there will come aches and

spasms there, or it will creep down the thighs and pinch and pat, and

that brings rheumatic pains. I've heard of one hand thus sent as went

down under the bedclothes to the bottom of the sleeper's foot, and there

it closed up all the fingers but one, and with that it bored and bored,

working itself about like a gimblet, and then gangrene set in, and the

man touched thus was dead in three days.'

'It is a mighty fortunate thing you've not the hand of old Wellon,'

growled Charles.

'I have got it,' answered Mrs. Veale.

Charles looked at her with staring eyes.

'You shall see it,' she said.

'I do not want to. I will not!' he exclaimed, shuddering.

'Wellon's hand will fetch you a hundred pounds, and we will not ask

whence it comes,' said Mrs. Veale.

'I will not have it, I will not touch it!' He spoke in a hoarse,

horrified whisper.

'You shall come with me, and I will show you where I keep it, and

perhaps you will find the hand closed; and when I say, Hand of Glory!

open! Hand of Glory! give up! then you will see the fingers unclose,

and the glittering gold coins will be in the brown palm.'

'I will not touch them.'

'No harm in your looking at them. Come with me.'

She stood before him with her firm mouth set, and her blinking eyes on

him. He tried to resist. He settled himself more comfortably into his

seat. But his efforts to oppose her will were in vain. He uttered a

curse, drew his hands out of his pocket, put his hat on his head.

'Go on,' he said surlily; 'but I tell y' I won't go without the lantern.

Where is it?'

'In Wellon's Cairn.'

'I will not go,' said Charles, drawing back, and all colour leaving his

cheek.

'Then I'll send the hand after you. Come.'

'I'll take the lantern.'

'As you like, but hide the light till we get to the hill. There it

don't matter if folks see a flame dancing about the mound. They will

keep their distance--Come on, after me.'

*CHAPTER XXV.*

*THE HARE HUNT.*

Directly Mrs. Veale, followed by Charles, came outside the house the

former turned and said, with a chuckle, 'You want a lantern, do y', a

summer night such as this?'

The sky was full of twilight, every thorn tree and holly bush was

visible on the hedges, every pebble in the yard.

'I'm not going to Wellon's Cairn without,' said Luxmore, sulkily. 'I

don't want to go at all; and I won't go _there_ without light.'

'Very well. I will wait at the gate for you.'

He went into the stable, where was a horn-sided tin lantern, and took it

down from its crook, then went back into the kitchen and lighted the

candle at the fire.

'I've a mind not to go,' he muttered. 'What does the woman want with me,

pulling me, driving me, this way and that? If I'd been told I was to be

subjected to this sort of persecution, I wouldn't have come here. It's

not to be endured for ninepence. Ninepence! It would be bad at eighteen

pence. I wish I was in Afghanistan. Cawbul, Ghuznee, Candahar don't

astonish her. She ain't open-mouthed at them, but sets my hair on end

with her Hand of Glory, and talks of how money is to be got. I know

what she is after; she wants me to run away with her and the cash box.

I won't do it--not with her, for certain; not with the cash box if I can

help it. I don't believe a word about a Hand of Glory. I'm curious to

know how she'll get out of it, now she's promised to show it me.'

He started, and swore.

'Gorr!' he said; 'it's only a rat behind the wainscot; I thought it was

the hand creeping after me. I suppose I must go. For certain, Mrs.

Veale is a bad un. But; what is that? The shadow of my own hand on the

wall, naught else.'

He threw over him a cloak he wore in wet weather, and hid the lantern

under it.

'For sure,' he said, 'folks would think it queer if they saw me going

out such a summer night as this with a lantern; but I won't go to

Wellon's Cairn without, that is certain.'

'Well,' said Mrs. Veale; 'so you have come at last!'

'Yes, I have come. Where is the master? I've not seen him about.'

'He never said nothing to no one, and went off to Holsworthy to-day.'

'When will he be back?'

'Not to-morrow; there's a fair there; the day after, perhaps.'

A heavy black cloud hung in the sky, stretching apparently above

Broadbury. Below it the silvery light flowed from behind the horizon.

To the east, although it was night, the range of Dartmoor was visible,

bathed in the soft reflection from the north-western sky. The tumulus

upon which Wellon had been executed was not far out on the heath. Mrs.

Veale led the way with firm tread; Charles followed with growing

reluctance. A great white owl whisked by. The glowworms were shining

mysteriously under tufts of grass. As they pushed through the heather

they disturbed large moths. A rabbit dashed past.

'Hush!' whispered Charles. 'I'm sure I heard a horn.'

'Ah!' answered Mrs. Veale, 'Squire Arscott rides the downs at night,

they say, and has this hundred years.'

'I don't care to go any further,' said the young man.

'You shall come on. I am going to show you the Hand of Glory.'

He was powerless to resist. As his father had fallen under the

authority of Honor, so the strong over-mastering will of this woman

domineered Charles, and made him do what she would. He felt his

subjection, his powerlessness. He saw the precipice to which she was

leading him, and knew that he could not escape.

'I wish I had never come to Langford,' he muttered to himself. 'It's

Honor's doing. If I go wrong, she is to blame. She sent me here, and

all for ninepence.' Then, stepping forward beside the housekeeper, 'I

say, Mrs. Veale, how do you manage to stow anything away in a mound?'

'Easy, if the mound be not solid,' she replied. 'There is a sort of

stone coffin in the middle, made of pieces of granite set on end, and

others laid on top. When the treasure-seekers dug into the hill, they

came as far as one of the stones, and they stove it in, but found

nothing, or, if they found aught, they carried it away. Then, I reckon,

they put the stone back, or the earth fell down and covered all up, and

the heather bushes grew over it all. But I looked one day about there

for a place where I could hide things. I thought as the master had his

secret place, I'd have mine too; and I knew no place could be safer than

where old Wellon hung, as folk don't like to come too near it--leastways

in the dark. Well, then, I found a little hole, as might have been made

by a rabbit, and I cleared it out; and there I found the gap and the

stone coffin. I crept in, it were not over big, but wi' a light I could

see about. I thought at first I'd come on Wellon's bones, but no bones

were there, nothing at all but a rabbit nest, and some white snail

shells. After that I made up the entrance again, just as it was, and no

one would know it was there. But I can find it; there is a bunch of

heath by it, and some rushes, and how rushes came to grow there beats

me.'

'So you keep Wellon's hand in there, do you?'

'Yes, I do.'

'How did you manage to get it?'

'I will not tell you.'

'I do not believe you have it; I don't believe but what you told me a

parcel of lies about the Hand of Glory. I've been to Afghanistan, and

Cabul, and the Bombay Presidency, and never heard of such a thing. It

is not in reason. If a dead hand can move, why has not my finger that

was cut off in battle come back to me?'

'Shall I send the Hand after it?'

The suggestion made Charles uneasy. He looked about him, as afraid to

see the black hand running on the grass, leaping the tufts of furze,

carrying his dead finger, to drop it at his feet.

'What are you muttering?' asked he, sharply.

'I'm only repeating, Hand of Glory! Hand of Light! Fetch, fetch! Run

and bring----'

'I'll strike you down if you go on with your devilry, you hag,' said

Charles, angrily.

'We are at the place.'

They entered the cutting made by the treasure-seekers, the gap in which

Honor had often sat in the sun, unconscious of the stone kistvaen hidden

behind her, indifferent to the terrors of the haunted hill, whilst the

sun blazed on it.

'The night is much darker than it was,' said Charles uneasily, as he

looked about him.

It was as he said. The black mass of cloud had spread and covered the

sky, cutting off the light except from the horizon.

'I don't like the looks of the cloud,' said Charles. 'There will be

rain before long, and there's thunder aloft for certain.'

'What is that to you? Are you afraid of a shower? You have your cloak.

Bring out the lantern. It matters not who sees the light now. If

anyone does see it, he'll say it's a corpse-candle on its travels.'

'What is a corpse-candle?'

'Don't you know?' She gave a short, dry laugh. 'It's a light that

travels by night along a road, and comes to the door of the house out of

which a corpse will be brought in a day or two.'

'Does no one carry the candle?'

'It travels by itself.' Then she said, 'Give me the light.'

'I will not let it out of my hand,' answered Charles, looking about him

timorously. 'I don't think anyone will see the light, down in this

hole.'

'Hold the lantern where I show you--there.'

He did as required. It gave a poor, sickly light, but sufficient to

show where the woman wanted to work. She began to scratch away the

earth with her hands, and Charles, watching her, thought she worked as a

rabbit or hare might with its front paws. Presently she said:

'There is the hole, look in.'

He saw a dark opening, but had no desire to peer into it. Indeed, he

drew back.

'How can I see, if you take away the lantern?' asked Mrs. Veale. 'Put

your arm in and you will find the hand.'

He drew still further away. 'I will not. I have seen enough. I know of

this hiding-place. That suffices. I will go home.'

The horror came over him lest she should force him to put his hand into

the stone coffin, and that there, in the blackness and mystery of the

Interior, the dead hand of the murderer would make a leap and clasp his.

'I have had enough of this,' he said, and a shiver ran through him, 'I

will go home. Curse me! I'm not going to be mixed up with all this

devilry and witchery if I can help it.'

'Perhaps the hand is gone,' said Mrs. Veale.

'Oh! I hope so.'

'I sent it after your finger.'

'Indeed, may it be long on its travels.' He was reassured. It was not

pleasant to think of so close proximity to the murderer's embalmed,

still active hand. He suspected that Mrs. Veale was attempting to

wriggle out of her undertaking. 'Indeed--I thought I was to see the

hand, and now the hand is not here.'

'I cannot say. Anyhow, the money is here.'

'What money?'

'That for which you asked.'

'I asked for none.'

'You desired a hundred pounds for the purpose of getting back Coombe

Park. Put in your hand and take it.'

'I will not.'

His courage was returning, as he thought he saw evasion of her promise

in the woman.

'For the matter of that, if this Hand of Glory can fetch money, it might

as well fetch more than that.'

'How much?'

'A hundred is not over much. Two hundred--a thousand.'

'Say a thousand.'

'So I do.'

'Put in your hand. It is there.'

'Hark!'

'Put in your hand.'

'I will not.'

'Then you fool! you coward! I must take it for you!' she hissed in her

husky voice. She stooped, and thrust both her hands and arms deep into

the kistvaen.

'Hush!' whispered Charles, as he laid his hand on her shoulder, and

covered the light with a flap of his mantle. She remained still for a

minute with her arms buried in the crave. There was certainly a sound, a

tramp of many feet, and the fall of horses' hoofs, heard, then not

heard, as they went over road or turf.

'There,' whispered Mrs. Veale, and drew a box from the hole and placed

it on Charles's lap. As she did so, the mantleflap fell from the

lantern, and the light shone over the box. Charles at once recognised

Taverner Langford's cash box, with the letter padlock.

'Ebal,' whispered Mrs. Veale. 'A thousand pounds are yours.'

At that instant, loud and startling, close to the cairn sounded the

blast of a horn, instantly responded to by the baying and yelping of

dogs, by shouts, and screams, and cheers, and a tramp of rushing feet,

and a crack of whips.

The suddenness of the uproar, its unexpectedness, its weirdness, coming

on Charles's overwrought nerves, at the same moment that he saw himself

unwillingly involved in a robbery, completely overcame him; he uttered a

cry of horror, sprang to his feet, upset the money box, and leaped out

of the cutting, swinging the lantern, with his wide mantle flapping

about him. His foot tripped and he fell; he picked himself up and

bounded into the road against a horse with rider, who was in the act of

blowing a horn.

Charles was too frightened and bewildered to remember anything about the

hare hunt. He did not know where he was, what he was doing, against whom

he had flung himself. The horse plunged, bounded aside, and cast his

rider from his back. Charles stood with one hand to his head looking

vacantly at the road and the prostrate figure in it. In another moment

Mrs. Veale was at his elbow. 'What have you done?' she gasped, 'You

fool! what have you done?'

Charles had sufficiently recovered himself to understand what had taken

place.

'It is the hare hunt,' he said. 'Do you hear them? The dogs! This

is--my God! it is Larry Nanspian. He is dead. I said I would break his

neck, and I have done it. But I did not mean it. I did not intend to

frighten the horse. I--I'--and he burst into tears.

'You are a fool,' said Mrs. Veale angrily. 'What do you mean staying

here?' She took the horn from the prostrate Larry and blew it. 'Don't

let them turn and find you here by his dead body. If you will not go, I

must, though I had no hand in killing him.' She snatched the lantern

from his hand and extinguished it. 'That ever I had to do with such an

one as you! Be off, as you value your neck; do not stay. Be off! If

you threatened Larry and have fulfilled your threat, who will believe

that this was accident?'

Charles, who had been overcome by weakness for a moment, was nerved

again by fear.

'Take his head,' said Mrs. Veale, 'lay him on the turf, among the dark

gorse, where he mayn't be seen all at once, and that will give you more

time to get off.'

'I cannot take his head,' said Charles, trembling.

'Then take his heels. Do as I bid,' ordered the housekeeper. She bent

and raised Larry.

'Sure enough,' she said, 'his neck is broken. He'll never speak another

word.'

Charles let go his hold of the feet. 'I will not touch him,' he said.

'I will not stay. I wish I'd never come to Langford. It was all

Honor's fault forcing me. I must go.'

'Yes, go,' said Mrs. Veale, 'and go along Broadbury, where you will meet

no man, and no footmarks will be left by which you may be traced.' Mrs.

Veale, unassisted, dragged the senseless body out of the rough road over

the turf.

'Is he dead? is he really dead?' asked Charles.

'Go!' said Mrs. Veale, 'or I shall have the chance of your hand to make

into a better Hand of Glory than that of Wellon.'

*CHAPTER XXVI.*

*BITTER MEDICINE.*

The hare and hounds ran some distance before they perceived that they

were not pursued by the huntsman and that the horn had ceased to cheer

them on. Then little Piper, the cattle-jobber, clothed in the black

ox-hide, stopped panting, turned, and said, 'Where be the hunter to? I

don't hear his horse nor his horn.' The dogs halted. They were boys

and young men with blackened faces. Piper's face was also covered with

soot. His appearance was diabolical, with the long ears on his head,

his white eyes peering about from under them, a bladder under his chin,

and the black hide enveloping him. According to the traditional usage

on such occasions, the hunt ends with the stag or hare, one or the

other, being fagged out, and thrown at the door of the house whose

inmates' conduct has occasioned the stag or hare hunt. Then the hunter

stands astride over the animal, if a stag, and with a knife slits the

bladder that is distended with bullock's blood, and which is thus poured

out before the offender's door. If, however, the hunt be that of a hare

the pretence is--or was--made of knocking it on the head. It may seem

incredible to our readers that such savage proceedings should still

survive in our midst, yet it is so, and they will not be readily

abolished.[1]

[1] The author once tore down with his own hands the following bill

affixed to a wall at four cross roads:--

'NOTICE!--ON THURSDAY NIGHT THE RED HUNTER'S PACK OF STAG HOUNDS WILL

MEET AT ... INN, AND WILL RUN TO GROUND A FAMOUS STAG. GENTLEMEN ARE

REQUESTED TO ATTEND.'

The police were communicated with, but were unable to interfere as no

breach of the peace was committed.

Not suspecting anything, the hare and the pack turned and ran back along

the road they had traversed, yelping, shouting, hooting, blowing through

their half-closed hands, leaping, some lads riding on the backs of

others, one in a white female ragged gown running about and before the

hare, flapping the arms and hooting like an owl.

Would Taverner Langford come forth, worked to fury by the insult?

Several were armed with sticks in the event of an affray with him and

his men. Would he hide behind a hedge and fire at them out of his

trumpet-mouthed blunderbuss that hung over the kitchen mantel-piece in

Langford? If he did that, they had legs and could run beyond range.

They did not know that he was away at Holsworthy.

The road to that town lay over the back of Broadbury and passed not

another house in the parish.

The wild chase swept over the moor, past Wellon's Cairn, past Langford,

then turned and went back again.

'I'll tell you what it be,' said Piper, halting and confronting his

pursuers. 'Larry Nanspian have thought better of it, and gone home.

T'es his uncle, you know, we'm making same of, and p'raps he's 'shamed

to go on in it.'

'He should have thought of that before,' said one of the dogs. 'Us

ain't a going to have our hunt spoiled for the lack of a hunter.'

'Why didn't he say so in proper time?' argued a second.

'Heigh! there's his horse!' shouted a third, and ran over the moor

towards the piebald, which, having recovered from its alarm, was quietly

browsing on the sweet, fine moor grass.

'Sure eneaf it be,' said Piper; 'then Larry can't be far off.'

Another shout.

'He's been thrown. He is lying here by the roadside.'

Then there was a rush of the pack to the spot indicated, and in a moment

the insensible lad was in the arms of Piper, surrounded by an eager

throng.

'Get along, you fellows,' shouted the hare. 'you'll give him no

breathing room.'

'Ah! and where'll he think himself, I wonder, when he opens his eyes and

sees he is in the hands of one with black face and long ears, and tail

and hairy body? I reckon he won't suppose he's in Abraham's bosom.'

'What'll he take you for either, in your black faces?' retorted Piper.

'Not angels of light, sure-ly.' Then old Crout hobbled up. He had

followed far in the rear, as best he could with his lame leg and stick.

'What be the matter, now?' he asked. 'What, Larry Nanspian throwed?

Some o' you lads run for a gate. Us mun' carry 'n home on that. There

may be bones abroke, mussy knows.'

'I reckon we can't take 'n into Langford,' suggested Sam Voaden.

'Likely, eh?' sneered Piper. 'You Sam, get a gate for the lad. He must

be carried home at once, and send for a doctor.'

He was obeyed; and in a few minutes a procession was formed, conveying

Larry from the moor.

'He groaned as we lifted 'n,' said Sam Voaden.

'So he's got life in him yet.'

'His hand ain't cold, what I may call dead cold,' said another.

'You go for'ard, Piper,' said Tom Crout. 'that he mayn't see you and be

frightened if he do open his eyes.'

Then the cattle-jobber walked first, holding the long cow's tail over

his arm, lest those who followed should tread on it and be tripped up.

Sam Voaden and three other young men raised the gate on their shoulders,

and walked easily under it. Behind came the hounds, careful not to

present their blackened faces to the opening eyes of their unconscious

friend; and, lastly, Tom Crout mounted on the piebald. One of the boys

had found the horn, and unable to resist the temptation to try his

breath on it, blew a faint blast.

'Shut up, will you?' shouted Piper, turning. 'Who is that braying?

You'll be making Larry fancy he hears the last trump, and he'll jump off

the gate and hurt himself again.'

Larry Nanspian had not broken his neck nor fractured his skull. He was

much bruised, strained, and his right arm and collar-bone were broken.

His insensibility proceeded from concussion of the brain; but even this

was not serious, for he gradually recovered his consciousness as he was

being carried homewards. Too dazed at first to know where he was, what

had happened, and how he came to be out and lying on a gate, he did not

speak or stir. Indeed, he felt unwilling to make an effort, a sense of

exhaustion overmastered him, and every movement caused him pain. He lay

with his face to the night sky, watching the dark cloud, listening to

the voices of his bearers, and picking with the fingers of his left hand

at a mossy gate bar under him. At first he did not hear what words were

passing about him, he was aware only of voices speaking: the first

connected sentence he was able to follow was this:--

''Twould be a bad job if Larry were killed.'

'Bad job for him, yes,' was the reply.

'What do y' mean by that?' asked Sam Voaden. He recognised Sam's voice

at once, and he felt the movement of Sam's shoulder tilting the fore end

of the gate as he turned his head to ask the question.

'O, I mean naught but what everyone says. A bad job for any chap to die;

but I don't reckon the loss would be great to Chimsworthy. Some chance,

then, of the farm going to proper hands. Larry ain't much, and never

will be, but for larks and big talk. I say that Chimsworthy is a

disgrace to the parish; and what is more there is sure to be a smash

there unless there comes an alteration. Alteration there would never be

under Larry.'

'I've heard tell that the old man has borrowed a sight of money from

Taverner Langford, and now he's bound to pay it off, and can't do it.'

'Not like to, the way he's gone on; sowing brag brings brambles.'

'You see,' said Voaden, 'they always reckoned on getting Langford, some

day, when the old fellow died.'

'And what a mighty big fool Larry is to aggravate his uncle. Instead of

keeping good terms with the old gentleman he goes out o' his road to

offend him.'

'I say it's regular un-decent his being out to-night hunting the hare

before his own uncle's door.'

'I say so, too. It weren't my place to say naught, but I thought it,

and so did every proper chap.'

'It is an ill bird that fouls its own nest.'

'Does his father know what's he's been after?'

'No, of course not; old Nanspian would ha' taken a stick to his back, if

he'd heard he was in for such things.'

'I know that however bad an uncle might use me, I'd never have nothing

to do with a hare hunt that concerned him--no, nor an aunt neither.'

'Larry was always a sort of a giddy chap.'

'He's a bit o' a fool, or he wouldn't have come into this.'

'Maybe this will shake what little sense he has out of his head.'

'I'll tell y' what. If Larry had been in the army--he'd have turned out

as great a blackguard as Charles Luxmore.'

'The girls have spoiled Larry, they make so much of him.'

'Make much of him! They like to make sport of him, but there's not one

of them cares a farthing for him, not if they've any sense. They know

fast enough what Chimsworthy and idleness are coming too. Why, there

was Kate Luxmore. Everyone thought she and Larry were keeping company

and would make a pair; but this evening, you saw, directly she had a

chance of Sam, she shook him off, and quite right too.'

'Never mind me and Kate,' said Sam, turning his head again.

'But us do mind, and us think as Kate be a sensible maiden, and us

thought her a fool before to take up wi' Larry Nanspian.'

This conversation was not pleasant for the young man laid on the gate to

hear, and it took from him the desire to speak and allow his bearers to

know he was awake, and had heard their criticism on his character and

conduct. The judgment passed on him was not altogether just, but there

was sufficient justice in it to humble him. Yes, he had acted most

improperly in allowing himself to be drawn into taking part in the hare

hunt. No--he was not, he could never have become such a blackguard as

Charles Luxmore.

'Halt!' commanded Piper, and the convoy stood still.

'We can't go like this to Chimsworthy,' said the little cattle-jobber;

'it'll give the old man another stroke. Let us stop at the Luxmores'

cottage, and wash our faces, and put off these things, and send on word

that we're coming; the old fellow mustn't be dropt down on wi' bad news

too sudden.'

'Right! Honor shall be sent on to break the news.'

Honor! Larry felt the blood mount to his brow. She had herself

dissuaded him from having anything to do with this wretched affair which

had ended so disastrously to himself, and when Kate advised him to keep

away from it because Honor disapproved, he had sent her an insolent

defiance. Now he was to be laid before her door, bruised and broken,

because he had disobeyed her warning. He tried to lift himself to

protest--but sank back. No--he thought--it serves me right.

The party descended the rough lane from Broadbury, and had to move more

slowly and with greater precaution. The bearers had to look to their

steps and talk less. Larry's thoughts turned to Honor. Now he had

found out how true were her words. What she had said to him gently, was

said now roughly, woundingly. She had but spoken to him the wholesome

truth which was patent to everyone but himself, but she had spoken it so

as to inflict no pain. She had tried to humble him, but with so pitiful

a hand, that he could have kissed the hand, and asked it to continue its

work. But he had not taken her advice, he had not learned her lesson,

and he was now called to suffer the consequences. Those nights spent

beside Honor under the clear night sky--how happy they had been! How

her influence had fallen over him like dew, and he had felt that it was

well with him to his heart's core. How utterly different she was from

the other girls of Bratton. They flattered him. She rebuked him. They

pressed their attentions on him. She shrank from his notice. He could

recall all she had said. Her words stood out in his recollection like

the stars in the night heavens--but he had not directed his course by

them.

Now, as the young men carried him down the lane, he knew every tree he

passed, and that he was nearing Honor, step by step. He desired to see

her, yet feared her reproachful eye.

*CHAPTER XXVII.*

*AFTER SWEETNESS.*

Oliver Luxmire had returned home before Kate came from the dance, and

had eaten his supper, and gone to bed. Her father had been a cause of

distress to Honor of late. He said, indeed, no more about Taverner's

suit, but he could not forget it, and he was continually grumbling over

the difficulties of his position, his poverty, the hardships of his

having to be a carrier, when he ought to be a gentleman, and might be a

squire if certain persons would put out a little finger to help him to

his rights.

His careless good humour had given place to peevish discontent. By

nature he was kind and considerate, but his disappointment had, at least

temporarily, embittered his mood. He threw out oblique reproaches which

hurt Honor, for she felt that they were aimed at her. He complained

that times were altered, children were without filial affection, they

begrudged their parents the repose that was their due in the evening of

their days. He was getting on in years, and was forced to slave for the

support of a family, when his family--at least the elder of them--ought

to be maintaining him. He wished that the Thrustle were as deep as the

Tamar, and he would throw himself in and so end his sorrows. His

children--his ungrateful children--must not be surprised if some day he

did not return. There was no saying, on occasions, when a waterspout

broke, the Thrustle was so full of water that a man might drown himself

in it.

In vain did Honor attempt to turn his thoughts into pleasanter channels.

He found a morbid pleasure in being absorbed in the contemplation of his

sores. He became churlish towards Honor and refused to be cheered. She

had fine speeches on her tongue, but he was a man who preferred deeds to

words. A girl of words and not of deeds was like a garden full of

weeds. When the weeds began to grow, like the heavens thick with snow,

when the snow began to fall--and so on--and so on--he had forgotten the

rest of the jingle.

Now for the first time, dimly, was Honor conscious of a moral

resemblance between her father and Charles. What Charles had become,

her father might become. The elements of character were in germ in him

that had developed in the son. As likenesses in a family come out at

unexpected moments, that had never before been noticed, so was it with

the psychical features of these two. Honor saw Charles in her father,

and the sight distressed her.

Oliver Luxmore did not venture to say out openly what he desired, but

his hints, his insinuations, his grumblings, were significant; they

pierced as barbed steel, they bruised as blows. Till recently, Oliver

had recognised his daughter's moral superiority, and had submitted. Now

his eye was jaundiced. He thought her steadfastness of purpose to be

doggedness, her resistance to his wishes to be the result of self-will,

and his respect for her faded.

Although Honor made no complaint, no defence, she suffered acutely. She

had surrendered Larry because her duty tied her to the home that needed

her. Was it necessary for her to make a farther sacrifice--a supreme

sacrifice for the sake of her father? She had no faith in the verbal

promises of Taverner Langford, to stand by and assist her brothers and

sisters, but it was in her power to exact from him a written undertaking

which he would be unable to shake off. Suppose she were to marry

Langford--what then? Then--the dark cloud would lift and roll away.

There would be no more struggle to make both ends meet, no more patching

and darning of old clothes, no more limiting of the amount of bread

dealt out to each child. Her father's temper would mend. He would

recover his kindly humour, and play with the little ones, and joke with

the neighbours, and be affectionate towards her. There would be no more

need for him to travel with a waggon in all weathers to market, but he

would spend his last years in comfort, cared for by his children,

instead of exhausting himself for them.

However bright such a prospect might appear, Honor could not reconcile

herself to it. Her feminine instincts revolted against the price she

must pay to obtain it.

That evening Oliver Luxmore ate his supper in sulky silence, and went to

bed without wishing Honor a good night. When Kate arrived, she found

her sister in tears.

'Honor!' exclaimed the eager, lively girl, 'what is the matter? You

have been crying--because you could not go to the dance.'

'No, dear Kate, not at all.'

'Honor! what is the meaning of this? Marianne Spry tells me she saw the

silk kerchief you gave me before to-day.'

'Well, why not?'

'But, Honor, I do not understand. Mrs. Spry says that Larry bought

it--bought it at Tavistock after he had killed the dog that worried our

lambs--after he had got the guinea, and she believes he bought it with

that money.'

'Well, Kate!' Honor stooped over her needlework.

'Well, Honor!'--Kate paused and looked hard at her. 'How is it that

Larry bought it, and you had it in your chest? That is what I want to

know.'

'Larry gave it me.'

'Oh--ho! He gave it you!'

'Yes, I sat up with him when he was watching for the lamb-killer; he is

grateful for that trifling trouble I took.'

'But, Honor! Marianne Spry said that she and others chaffed Larry in

the van about the kerchief he had bought for me--and it was _not_ for

me.'

Honor said nothing; she worked very diligently with her fingers by the

poor light of the tallow candle on the table. Kate stooped to get sight

of her face, and saw that her cheek was red.

'Honor, dear! The kerchief was not for me. Why did you make me wear

it?'

'Because, Kate--because you are the right person to wear his present.'

'I--why I?' asked Kate impetuously.

Honor looked up, looked steadfastly into her sister's eyes.

'Because Larry loves you, and you love him.'

'I can answer for myself that I do not,' Kate vehemently. 'And I don't

fancy he is much in love with me. No, Honor, he was in a queer mood

this evening, and what made him queer was that you were not in the barn,

and had decked me out in the kerchief he gave you to wear. I could not

make it out at the time, but now I see it all.' Then Kate laughed

gaily. 'I don't suppose you care very much for him, he's a Merry Andrew

and a scatterbrain, but I do believe he has a liking for you, Honor, and

I believe there is no one in the world could make a fine good man of

Larry but you.' Then the impulsive girl threw her arms round her

sister. 'There!' she exclaimed, 'I'm glad you don't care for Larry,

because he is not worthy of you--no, there's not a lad that is--except,

maybe Samuel Voaden, and him I won't spare even to you.'

'Oh, Kate!'

So the sisters sat on, and the generous, warm-hearted Kate told all her

secret to her sister.

When girls talk of the affairs of the heart, time flies with them.

Their father and brothers and sisters were asleep, and they sat on late.

Kate was happy to confide in her sister.

All at once Kate started, and held her finger to her ear.

'I hear something. Honor, what is it? I hope these hare-hunters be not

coming this way.'

She had not told Honor Larry's message.

'I hear feet,' answered the elder. 'Do not go to the door, Kate. It is

very late.'

The tramp of feet ceased, the two girls with beating hearts heard steps

ascend to their door, then a rap at it. Honor went at once to open.

Kate hung back. She suspected the hare-hunters, but was afraid of the

black faces, and she could not understand the halt and summons.

'Don't y' be frightened, Honor,' said a voice through the door, 'us want

y' out here a bit, if you don't mind.' Honor unbolted, and the

blackfaced, white-eyed, long-eared, skin-clothed Piper stood before her,

holding the black cow tail in his hand.

'Don't y' be scared. I'm only the hare. I won't touch a hair of your

head.'

'What do you want, Mr. Piper?' asked Honor without trepidation.

'Well, it is this. There's been an accident, and Master Larry Nanspian

hev fallen on his head off his horse and hurted himself bad.'

Honor began to tremble, and caught the door with one hand and the

door-post with the other.

'Now do y' take it easy. He ain't dead, only hurt. Us don't want to go

right on end carrying him into Chimsworthy, all of us dressed as we are.

First place, it might frighten Master Nanspian, second place, he

mightn't like the larks Larry has been on. So us thought if you would

let us clean our faces, and take off our skins and other things, and cut

the green coat off the back of Larry, here; and then, you'd be so good

as run on to Chimsworthy and prepare the old gentleman, you'd be--well,

you'd be yourself--I couldn't put it better.'

Honor had recovered her composure.

'I will do what you wish,' she said, and her voice was firm, though low.

'You see,' Piper went on. 'It's a bit ockerd like; I reckon the old man

wouldn't be satisfied that Larry were mixed up in a hare-hunt that made

game of Taverner Langford, his own wife's brother; and I don't say that

Larry acted right in being in it. Howsomever, he has been, and is now

the worse for it. Will you please to bring the candle and let us see

how bad he be.'

Honor took the tin candlestick with the tallow dip, and descended the

steps, holding it.

The four bearers set the gate upon the ground, and Honor held the candle

aloft that the light might fall on Larry. But a soft wind was blowing,

and it drove the flame on one side, making the long wick glow and then

carrying it away in sparks.

'Mr. Piper, go into the cottage and ask my sister Kate to give you my

scissors. I will remove the coat. Go all of you, either to the well a

few steps down the lane, or into our kitchen, and wait. Kate will give

you towel and soap. Leave me with Larry. I must deal very gently with

him, and I had rather you were none of you by.'

'You're right,' said Piper. 'Us had better have white faces and get

clear of horses and other gear before he sees us.'

'We must be quick,' said Sam Voaden. 'Larry must be got home as fast as

may be.'

Then they ran, some to the well in the bank, some--Sam, of course--into

the cottage, and left Honor for a moment or two beside the prostrate

man, kneeling, holding the guttering candle with one hand, and screening

the flame from the wind with the other.

Then Larry opened his eyes, and looked long and earnestly into her face.

He said nothing. He did not stir a finger; but his eyes spoke.

'Larry!' she breathed. Her heart spoke in her voice, 'Larry, are you

much hurt?'

He slightly moved his head.

'Much, Larry? where?'

'In my pride, Honor,' he answered.

She looked at him with surprise: at first hardly comprehending his

meaning.

Then Kate came down the steps with the scissors.

'O Honor! How dreadful! I told him not to go! I told him you

disapproved! And now he is punished. O Honor! is he badly injured? He

is not killed?'

'No, Kate, he is not killed. How far hurt I cannot tell. Larry! you

must let me move you. I may hurt you a little----'

'You cannot hurt me,' he said. 'I have hurt myself.'

'O Honor!' exclaimed Kate. 'If he can speak he is not so bad. Shall I

help?'

'No, Kate,' answered Honor, 'go back to the cottage and give the young

men what they want to clean their faces; those at the well also. I can

manage Larry by myself.'

She stooped over him.

'Larry! you must let me raise you a little bit. Tell me truly, are any

bones broken?'

'I do not know, Honor. I feel as if I could not move. I am full of

pain, full in all my limbs, but most full in my heart.'

She began to cut up the seams of the sleeves.

'I cannot move my right arm,' he said. 'I suppose there is some

breakage there.'

'Yes,' she said gravely, 'I can feel a bone is broken.'

'If that be all it does not matter,' he said more cheerfully, 'but I

want to say to you, Honor, something whilst no one is by.'

'What is it?'

'I have done very wrong in many ways. I have been a fool, and I shall

never be anything else unless you----'

'Never mind that now,' she hastily interrupted him. 'We must think only

at present of your aching joints and broken bones.'

Then Oliver Luxmore's voice was heard calling, and asking what was the

matter? Who were in the house? He had been roused from his sleep and

was alarmed. Kate ran up the stairs to pacify him, and when he knew the

circumstances he hastily dressed.

An altercation broke out at the well. There was not room for all to get

at the water. One came running up with streaming face to Honor, 'Am I

clean?' he asked. 'How is Larry? Not so bad hurt after all, is he?'

Then he went up the steps into the cottage to consult his fellows as to

the condition of his face, and to wipe it.

Honor removed the coat in pieces.

'Thank you,' said Larry. 'The candle is out?'

'Yes, the wind has made it out (extinguished it).'

'My left hand is sound. Come on that side.'

She did as he asked.

'And this,' he said, 'is the side where my heart is. Honor, I'm very

sorry I did not follow your advice. I am sorry now for many things. I

want you to forgive me.'

'I have nothing to forgive.'

'Lean over me. I want to whisper. I don't want the fellows to hear.'

She stooped with her face near his. Then he raised his uninjured arm,

put it round her neck, and drew her cheek to his lips, and kissed her.

'Honor! dear Honor! I love no one! no one in the world but you! And I

love you more than words can say.'

Did she kiss him? She did not know herself. A light, then a darkness,

were before her eyes. What time passed then? A second or a century?

She did not know. A sudden widening of the world to infinity, a loss of

all limitations--time, space--an unconsciousness of distinction, joy,

pain, day, night, a loss of identity--was it she herself, or another?

Then a wakening as from a trance, with tingling veins, and dazed eyes,

and whirling brain, and fluttering heart, and voice uncontrolled, as

from the cottage door, down the steps, and from the well, up the lane

came simultaneously the rabble of boys and men.

'Well, how is he?' 'Have you got the coat off?' 'Can he speak?' 'Any

bones broke?'

Honor could not answer the questions; she heard them, but had no voice

wherewith to speak.

'Raise the gate again,' said Piper. 'Sam, are you ready? Why are you

behind? We must get on.'

'Honor,' said Larry in a low voice, 'walk by the side of me. Hold my

hand.'

'He is better,' said one of the young men; 'he can speak. He knows

Honor.'

'Yes, he is better,' she said, 'but he has his right arm broken, and he

is much shaken and bruised. Let me walk beside him, I can stay the gate

and ease him as you carry him over the ruts and stones.' So she walked

at his side with her hand in his. In a few minutes the party had

arrived at the granite gates of Chimsworthy.

'Stay here,' ordered Piper. 'Now, Honor Luxmore, will you go on up the

avenue and tell the old gentleman? Us'll come after with Master Larry

in ten minutes.'

'I will go,' said Honor, disengaging her hand.

'How are you now?' asked Piper, coming up to the young man.

'Better,' he said, 'better than ever before.'

*CHAPTER XXVIII.*

*A FIRST STEP.*

For the next two days and nights Larry was in great pain. His arm and

collar-bone had been set, but strains are more painful than breakages,

and the young fellow in his fall had managed to bruise and sprain his

muscles as well as fracture his bones. He could not sleep; he could not

move in bed; every turn, even the slightest, caused him agony. The

doctor enjoined perfect rest. Through the two long sleepless nights his

mind was active, and the train of thought that had begun as he was being

carried from Broadbury continued to move in his brain. What different

nights were these to those spent by him on the bench with Honor! He

considered what she had said to him, and he knew that what she had said

was right. How careless of his best interests he had been! How

regardless of his duties! How neglectful of his proper self-respect!

Of course she was right. His father never had properly managed the farm,

and since his stroke he had paid it less attention than before. He, the

son and heir, ought to have devoted himself to the work of the farm, and

made that his main object, not to amuse himself.

His father came up to his room several times a day to enquire how he

was.

'There's Physick coming here,' said the old man, 'and I want you to use

your hand when he comes.'

'I have only my left.'

'Well, the left must do. If you can't sign your name, you can make a

cross and that will suffice.'

'What do you want me to sign, father?'

'The mortgage. Physick will find the money, and then we shall pay off

Taverner Langford, and have done.'

Larry sighed. He remembered what Honor had said. He was helping to

burden, not to relieve, the property.

'Can't it be helped, father? I'd rather not, if the money could be

raised any other way.'

'But that is impossible without a sale.'

'Why did Uncle Taverner lend the money?'

'We were behind in a score of things.'

'Is it all gone, father?'

'Gone! of course it is. Now I'm wanting more, and I must raise double

what Taverner lends me, half to pay him off, and half to meet present

demands.'

'How is this?'

'Bad times. Things will come round some day.'

'How long have they been bad?'

'Ever since your mother died. That was a bad day for us.' The old man

sat rubbing his chin. 'The next bad day was when I quarrelled with

Taverner, or rather, when Taverner quarrelled with me. 'Tis a pity. I

made up his orchard with my new grafts; and a more beautiful lot of

apple-trees are not to be seen--and he for to cut them. Shameful.'

'What was the quarrel about, father?'

'I've told you afore. A red spider. Taverner tried to sloke (draw) her

away, when she was running straight as a line into my pocket. But I

reckon he can't keep you for ever out of Langford. He may live for ten

or twelve years out of wicked spite, but he is not immortal, and

Langford will come to you in the end. Then you can clear off the

mortgages.--I reckon I shall be gone then.'

'Don't say that, father.'

'I know I shall. When Taverner sloked that spider away he carried off

my health, and I were took with the stroke immediately. I've not been

myself since.' He continued rubbing his chin. 'And now comes this

mortgage, and you laid up in bed as you never was before. It all comes

o' sloking away the spider.'

'Father,' said Larry earnestly, but timorously: 'I wish you would let me

bring another here.'

'Another what?'

'Red Spider.'

'What do you mean?'

'Honor Luxmore.'

The old man looked puzzled, then gradually an idea of his son's meaning

crept into his head.

'I thought,' said he slowly, 'I thought it was t'other maid.'

'No, dear father, I love Honor. Let me bring her here, let her be nay

wife, and I'm sure she will bring luck to this house.'

Hillary senior continued rubbing his chin. 'Her mayn't have money,' he

mused, 'but her's good up and down the backbone; as a money-spinner is

all redness and naught else, so is Honor all goodness and not a speck of

black in her.'

'It is so indeed, father.'

'I'm better pleased than if it were Kate.'

'I never really thought of Kate.'

'Well, you was sly about it then. All folks said that Kate had stolen

your fancy. Well now. Honor mayn't be a money-bringer, I reckon she's

got nothing--Oliver be poor as rushy land--but she may spin it. There's

no saying.'

'Say yes, father.'

'Her's a red spider that Taverner won't try to sloke away,' chuckled old

Nanspian. Then he continued musing. He was an altered man of late, not

ready with his thoughts, quick of motion, lively of tongue as before.

He took time to come to a decision, and drifted in his ideas from one

matter to another. 'Things haven't gone quite right since Blandina

died, they haven't--though I don't allow that to others. I've had five

years of wool heamed (laid) up. I said I'd not sell with wool so low,

and it has been sorry down ever since, and now it's risen a penny and I

tried to sell--the worm is in it and the staple is spoiled, and it won't

fetch any price. Then there be the maidens. They've let the thunder

get into the milk and turn it sour, and wasted the Lord knows how much

butter, because they were lazy and wouldn't leave their beds in time at

five o'clock, and make before the sun is hot. If you'd a good wife,

her'd mend all that. And Honor! well, no one has other than a good word

for her. I'm main pleased wi' your choice, Larry. Yes, I be.'

'Oh, father! Thank you! thank you!'

'It's not for me to go into the maidens' room and rake them out of bed

at half-past three in the mornings. I put it to you, Larry. Folks would

say it was ondecent. And if I don't, the butter ain't made, the thunder

gets in the pans, and I lose many pounds. I reckon Honor Luxmore would

do that. I've been racking my brains as you rack cider, how to get over

the difficulty, and it was all dark before me, but now I see daylight at

last. Honor will rake the maids out o' their beds, and I needn't

interfere. You'll be quick about it, won't you, Larry, before the

blazing hot summer weather sets in, with thunder in the air, and spoils

the milk.'

He passed his hand through his grey hair. 'I had a bell put up in their

bedroom, and a wire brought along to mine, and a handle nigh my bed,

that I might ring them up in the mornings early. It cost me nigh on

thirty shillings did that bell. The hanger had to come all the way from

Tavistock, and it took him two days to put up, and there were a lot of

cranks to it. Well, it was just so much money thrown away. What do y'

think the maidens contrived? Why, they stuffed an old worsted stocking

into the bell and tied it round the clapper; I might pull the rope as if

I were pealing a triple bob major, and not a sound came out of the bell,

because of the stocking. Well, I wouldn't go into the maidens' room and

see what was the matter, and so I sent to Tavistock for the bell-hanger

out again, and he charged me three shillings for himself, and

half-a-crown for his man, and ten shillings for the hire of a trap, and

all he did was to remove the stocking. Next night the maidens tied up

the clapper with the fellow stocking. If Honor were here she'd put all

that to rights, wouldn't she?'

'I'm sure of it, father.'

'You be sharp and get well,' continued the old man, 'then we'll have it

all over, and save pounds of butter.' He stood up. 'I mustn't shake

hands wi' you, Larry, but I'm main pleased. Honor's good through and

through as a money-spinner is scarlet.'

Larry was fain to smile, in spite of his pain. This was like his

father. The old man went on vehemently, hotly for some new fancy, and

in a few weeks tired of it, and did nothing more about it.

Next day Physick the lawyer came, and brought the mortgage and the

money. The signatures were appended, a cross for Larry, and the money

received.

'Now,' said the old man, 'I'd like you, Mr. Physick, to go over to

Langford and pay the sum I owe to my brother-in-law. I can't go myself.

He's spoken that insolent to me, and that too before the whole of

Coryndon's Charity, that I can never set foot over his drexil

(threshold) again. So I'd wish you to go for me, and bring me my note

of hand back all square.'

'I will go as well,' said Larry, who was up, able to walk about, but

without his jacket, because of his bandaged bones and arm strapped back.

'You!' exclaimed his father. 'Why should you go?'

'I wish it,' answered the lad. 'I'll tell you the reason after.'

'You'd better not go out yet.'

'Why not? Mr. Physick will drive me there and back in his gig. I shall

not be shaken. The gig has springs.'

'I reckon there's a certain cottage the rogue will want to get out at on

the way. Don't let him, Mr. Physick, or he won't be home for hours.'

Although the gig had springs Larry suffered in it, and was glad to

descend with Mr. Physick at Langford.

Taverner Langford had returned home but an hour before; he had been to

the fair at Holsworthy, and thence had gone into Bideford about a

contract for young bullocks. He had just finished his dinner of bread

and cheese, washed down with water, when Mrs. Veale opened the parlour

door, and without a word showed in Mr. Physick and Larry.

Langford greeted the lawyer with a nod. 'Please to take a chair.' He

stared at Hillary with surprise, and said nothing to him.

'We've come to pay you the loan you called in,' said Physick.

'Right,' answered Taverner, 'I was expecting the money, though

why?--grapes of thorns and figs of thistles is against nature as well as

Scripture.' Then he eyed his nephew furtively. He saw that he was

looking pale and worn, that his arm was bandaged, and he was without a

jacket. He saw that the lad moved stiffly when he walked. 'You may sit

down,' he said gruffly. Larry took the back of an armchair with his

left hand and drew it to him, then slowly let himself down into it. All

his movements, and the twitching of the muscles in his face, showed he

was in pain. His uncle watched him and saw this, but he asked no

questions.

When the money had been counted, and the release handed over, and

Physick had indulged in some desultory talk, and disparagement of water,

which he saw that Taverner was drinking, he rose to leave. Langford was

not in a conversationable mood, his dark brows were knit.

Then Larry stood up, and came towards the table, against which he stayed

himself with his hand.

'I beg your pardon, Uncle Taverner,' he said in a voice somewhat

tremulous, whilst colour came into and spotted his brow. 'I came here,

though I thought you would not care to see me.'

'I don't mind when I see your back,' interrupted Langford surlily, 'your

father insulted me grossly.'

'I have come, Uncle Taverner----'

'Ah! I suppose your father has sent you. He wants to patch up the

quarrel; you may go back and tell him it is too late. I won't make it

up. It is of no use. I have nothing to lose by estrangement. You and

he are the losers, and that to a heavy amount, as you shall learn some

day.'

'I have not come with any message from my father.'

'You've come for yourself, have you? You think that Langford would be a

fine farm for the growth of wild oats? You shan't try it.'

'I came here of my own accord,' said the young man. 'My father knows

nothing of my purpose. I have come to tell you that I am very sorry for

what I did,--what I did, I dare say you have not heard, as you have been

away. You shall hear from me.'

'What have you done? Some foolery, I warrant.'

'Yes, uncle, something worse than foolery. The night you were away, and

when we did not know but you were at Langford, there was a hare hunt

before your doors.'

'What!' almost screamed the old man.

Physick was unable to restrain a laugh.

'There was a hare hunt, and I was in it. I took a principal part. I was

thrown from my horse, and picked up unconscious, and the thing came to

an end, it went no further. I have been badly hurt. I might have been

killed.'

'And pray how came that about?' asked the old man quivering with anger.

'A light from heaven--struck you to the ground, like Saul when breathing

out threatenings and slaughters against the Elect? And now you're a

converted character, eh? and so think I'll take you back into favour,

and let you have Langford?'

'No, uncle. I do not know quite what it was threw me down. Don't think

me mad if I say it--but it seemed to me to be old Wellon rising from the

cairn and rushing down on me, to strike me to the earth.'

Langford looked at him with amazement.

'I tell you just what happened. I was riding in the hunt--more shame to

me--and I had the horn to my lips, and was just by the Gibbet Hill, when

my piebald stood bolt still, and shivered with fear, and all at once

there came a yellow light out of the barrow, and a great black figure

with flapping clothes about it and I remember no more.'

Langford was like the rest of his class, full of belief in the

supernatural. Larry spoke with such earnestness of tone, his face so

fully expressed his conviction, that the old man was awed.

'I have broken my right arm and collarbone. I have suffered a great

deal, I have not slept for three nights, and this is the first day I

have been out of my bedroom. Uncle Taverner, I made up my mind the very

first night, that I would come to you directly I was able, and tell you

that I am ashamed of myself. When the fellows were carrying me away on a

gate, and I woke up--then I knew I had done wrong. I was warned

beforehand twice to have nothing to do with the hunt. I heard those who

were carrying me say how bad I behaved in taking part in the game

against my own uncle. There--uncle! I'm very sorry, and I hope I'll

never be such a fool and so wicked again.'

Taverner's lips quivered, whether from suppressed rage, or from a rising

better emotion, neither Physick nor Larry knew, for they left the room,

whilst the old man stared after them with his dark brows contracted over

his keen, twinkling eyes, and he sat motionless, and without speaking.

Larry was some little while getting into the gig. Mrs. Veale stood on

the doorsteps watching him. All at once they heard a cry from the

inside of the house--a cry, whether of terror, or rage, or pain, could

not be told.

'What is it?' asked Physick. 'What's the matter?'

'It's master,' said Mrs. Veale; 'something has disagreed with him, I

reckon.'

*CHAPTER XXIX.*

*A BLOW.*

Honor felt like one who has looked into the lightning. A glimpse of

surpassing light, a vision into a heaven of fire, was succeeded by

darkness and numbness of mind.

She was unable for some while to recover her mental and moral balance.

The joy that had wrapped her soul as in flame had left a pain of fire.

What had she done? What would come of this? Must she go on or could

she step back? The moment when Larry's lips had met her cheek, and his

words of love had rushed in at her ear and boiled through her veins, had

been one in which her self-control had deserted her.

She thought over and over what had taken place. She felt his grasp of

her hand, his arm about her neck, the pressure of his lips. What must

follow on this? She had not withdrawn herself from him at his touch.

She could not have done so. The power of resistance had left her. But

now, as her clear mind arranged duties and weighed them against passion,

she was doubtful what to do. It was strange for her to feel need of

advice, to be forced to ask another what to do, yet now she felt that

she could not judge for herself; but she also knew of no one who could

advise her. There was nothing for her but to wait. Her simple faith

raised her soul to God, and she prayed for a right judgment. She would

leave the future in His hands: events must decide her course for her.

Of one thing she was clear in her view: her duty to her father and

brothers and sisters--she must not desert them. Whether she must wholly

surrender her happiness for them, or whether she could combine her duty

with her inclination, she could not tell; that Larry and the future must

decide.

She waited in patience. She knew that he would come to her as soon as

he could. She heard daily from Chimsworthy how he was. Little Joe ran

up and inquired.

She saw him drive by with Mr. Physick. Whither was he going? To

Okehampton? It was not the shortest road. As he passed the cottage his

face was turned towards it, and she saw his eyes looking for her, but

the gig was not arrested. She was in the house, and had but a glimpse

of him through the open door. Whether he had seen her or not she could

not tell.

Presently he returned. He must have been to Langford. She stood in the

doorway, and their eyes met. He did not stay the horse; he could not.

He sat beside the lawyer, who was driving, and the broken right arm was

near the reins. Physick was between him and Honor; but Larry turned his

head and looked at her as the trap went by. How pale and thin he

seemed! What marks of suffering were on his face! The tears of pity

came into Honor's eyes.

'He will come and see me soon,' she said to herself. 'May I have my

strength to do what is right.' Then she seated herself at her work.

Kate was in the house, lively as a finch. Honor was always reserved: she

was now more silent than usual. Kate's humour was unusually lively.

Her tongue moved as nimbly as her feet and fingers, her conversation

sparkled, and her tones danced like her eyes. When she was not talking

she was singing. She made her jokes and laughed over them herself, as

Honor was in no laughing mood.

Oddly enough, Sam Voaden was daily in the lane. He came round by the

cottage from Swaddledown to ask at Chimsworthy after Larry; he made two

miles out of a journey that need not have been three-quarters across the

fields. When Sam went by he whistled very loud, and then Kate found

that the pitcher was empty and needed replenishing at the well; on such

occasions, moreover, the pitcher took a long time filling. Kate made no

secret of her heart's affairs to her sister. It was in her nature to

talk, and a girl in love likes nothing better, when not with her lover,

than to talk about him.

Honor put away her needlework and got the supper-table ready, and whilst

she was putting the cold pasty on the table her father walked in. He

was going next day to Tavistock, and had been round for commissions.

He was out of spirits, did not say much, wiped his face with his sleeve,

and complained of the weather--it was sultry, he was tired. Some of his

customers had been exacting and had worried him. 'The pasty is heavy;

it goes against me,' he grumbled. 'All well for young appetites.'

'Shall I do you a bit of bacon, father?' asked Honor.

'Rich that,' he said discontentedly. 'I'm fanciful in my eating. I

can't help it; I'm too poor to have what would suit me. It is in my

constitution. Those who have the constitutions of gentlefolk want the

food of gentlefolk.' He took a little piece of pasty, but pushed it

away. 'It makes my throat rise; look at that great hunch of suet in it,

like a horse-tooth (quartz spar) in granite. I can't eat anything; you

may clear away.'

Actually Oliver Luxmore had eaten supper at one of the farms; that was

why he had now no appetite; but he made occasion of his having no relish

for his food to grumble and make Honor uncomfortable.

'The fog was a hunting this morning, so we've had a fine day for going

nowhere, and it's gone a fishing this evening, to let me understand it

will rain to-morrow when I go into Tavistock. It is always so. Bain on

market days to spoil my custom and run away with profits.'

In explanation of his words, it is necessary to say that, when the white

fog mounts the hills it is said to go hunting, when it lies along the

rivers it is said to be fishing, and these conditions of fog are weather

indications.

'I don't know what you call that,' said Oliver, pointing with his fork

to a piece of meat in the pasty. 'It looks to me as if it were a goat

caterpillar got in. I suppose you found it crawling across the lane

from one of the willow trees, and, because we're poor and can't afford

meat, stuck it in.'

'Father, it is wholesome; it is nothing but a bit of pig-crackling. You

know we were given a piece of young pork by Mrs. Voaden, the other day.'

Then Oliver sprang to his feet, and Honor started back in surprise.

Without a word of salutation, with white face, and glaring eyes, with

hand extended and shaking, Taverner Langford came in at the door.

'There! there!' he said, in a voice raised almost to a scream. 'This is

what comes of doing a favour. Now I am punished.'

'What is the matter, Mr. Langford?' asked the carrier deferentially.

'What is the matter? Everything is the matter,' he cried. He turned to

Honor: 'It is your doing, yours, yours.'

'What have I done?' she asked, with composure.

'You asked me to take him in; the scoundrel, the rogue.'

'You cannot mean my brother Charles,' said Honor, with dignity; 'or you

would not speak thus under our roof to his father and sisters.'

'Oh no, of course not, you don't like to hear it; but that is what he

is.'

'What has Charles done?' asked Oliver in alarm.

'Robbed me!' shrieked Taverner, with his whole body quivering, and with

vehement action of his hands. 'Robbed me, and run away with my money.'

He gasped for breath, his eyes glared, the sweat ran off his brow. He

was without his hat, he had run bareheaded from Langford, and his

grizzled hair was disordered.

'He has robbed me of nigh on a thousand pounds, and he has gone away

with the money. He took occasion of my being from home; he has taken

all--all--all I had laid by. I thought no one knew where was my bank.

He must have watched me; he found out; he has taken the box and all its

contents.'

'Charles could not, would not, do such a thing,' said Honor, with

heaving bosom; she was more angry at the charge than alarmed.

'Could not! would not! Where is he now?'

'I do not know. We have not seen him for several days.'

'He has not been seen at Langford either. As soon as I was off to

Holsworthy he bolted. He knew he would have three days clear, perhaps

more, for getting away with the money.'

'It is impossible,' said Honor. 'Charles may be idle, but he is not

wicked.'

'He has robbed me,' repeated Taverner vehemently. 'Do you want proof?

The five pound note.'

Honor shuddered; she had forgotten that.

'Do you remember, Luxmore, you paid me a note of the Exeter and Plymouth

Bank? Do you remember that I took the number?'

Oliver looked helplessly about the room, from Langford to Honor and

Kate.

'I ask you, whence you got that note? Come, answer me that? You,

Luxmore, who gave you that note?'

'Charles,' moaned the carrier, and covered his face with his hands, as

he threw himself into a chair.

'I thought as much. Let me tell you that that note had been abstracted

from my box. I had the list of all the notes in it, but I did not go

over them till I found that I had been robbed. Here is the note. I did

not restore it to the box. I kept it in iny pocket-book. I can swear--I

have my entries to prove it--that it had been stolen from me. When I

found Charles was gone, I thought it must have been he who had robbed

me. When I saw the number of the note agreed with one I had put into

the box a month ago, then I knew it must be he. You brought me the

note, and he is your son.'

Kate burst into tears and wrung her hands.

Honor saw the faces of the children frightened, inclined for tears; she

sent them all upstairs to their bedrooms.

Oliver sat at the table with his forehead in his hands, and his fingers

in his hair.

None spoke. Langford looked at the carrier, then at Honor. Kate threw

herself into the chair by the window and wept aloud. Honor stood in the

middle of the room, with her head bent; she was deadly pale, she dared

not raise her eyes.

'What will you do?' she asked in a low tone.

'Do!' exclaimed Taverner; 'Oh, that is soon answered. I send at once to

Tavistock, Launceston, and Okehampton, and communicate with the proper

authorities and have him arrested. There are magistrates, and

constables, and laws, and prisons in England, for the detention and

chastisement of thieves and burglars.'