'What will that avail?' sneered Langford. 'Will it save my thousand
pounds? Will it save Charles from transportation? It is a pity that
there is no more hanging for robbery, or Wellon's mound would be handy,
and the old gibbet beam in my barn would serve once more.'
The words were cruel. Honor's teeth clenched and her hands closed
convulsively.
Then Oliver Luxmore withdrew his hands from his face, dragged himself
towards Langford, and threw himself on the ground at his feet.
'Have pity on him, on me, on us all. The shame will kill us, brand us.
It will kill me, it will stain my name, my children, for ever.'
'Get up,' said Langford, roughly. 'I'm not to be moved by men's tears.'
But Oliver was deaf; his great absorbing agony momentarily gave dignity
to his feeble pitiful character, to him even crouching on the slate
floor.
'Spare us the dishonour,' he pleaded. 'I cannot bear it; this one thing
I cannot. Luxmore--thief--convict!' He passed his hand over his brow
and raised his eyes; they were blank. 'Luxmore, of Coombe
Park--Luxmore! Take care!' his voice became shrill. 'Dishonour I cannot
bear. Take care lest you drive me desperate. Rather let us all die, I,
Honor, Kate, and the little ones, and end the name, than that it should
live on stained.' He tried to rise, but his knees shook and gave way
under him.
'You may sell all I have. Take the van, everything. We cannot find you
a thousand pounds. We will all work as slaves--only--spare us the
dishonour! spare us this!'
Kate came up and cast herself at her father's side and raised her
streaming eyes.
'Well,' said Taverner, turning to Honor, 'do you alone not join? Are
you too proud?'
'Mr. Langford,' she answered, with emotion, 'you are too hard. I pray
to God, who is merciful.'
'You are proud! You are proud!' he said, scowling. 'You, Oliver
Luxmore! you, Kate! do not kneel to me. Go, turn to her. The fate of
Charles, the honour of your name, your happiness, that of your children,
rest with her--with her!'
He looked at her.
She did not speak; she understood his meaning. A pang as of a sword
went through her soul. She raised her clenched hands and put them to
her mouth, and pressed the knuckles against her teeth. In the agony of
that moment she was near screaming.
'There!' said Langford, pointing to her. 'Look how haughty she is. But
she must bend. Entreat her, or command her, as you will. With her the
issue lies. I will wait till to-morrow at ten, and take no steps for
the capture of Charles. If before that hour I have yes, it is well. I
pay a thousand pounds for that yes. I shall be content. If not,
then--' he did not finish the sentence; he went out at the door.
Then only did Honor give way. She saw as it were a cloud of blue smoke
rising round her. She held out her hands, grasping, but catching
nothing, and fell on the floor insensible.
*CHAPTER XXX.*
*YES!*
Honor could not rest in her bed that night. Oliver Luxmore in the
adjoining room groaned and sighed, he was sleepless. Kate, who shared
her bed, was awake and tossed from side to side. Poor Kate knew that
the disgrace would separate her from Sam. She was too generous to urge
her sister to make the costly sacrifice. Oliver felt that words would be
unavailing, the matter must be left to Honor; his best advocate was in
her own conscience. The resolution one way or the other must be come to
by Honor unresisted, unswayed. She lay still in her bed, but Kate knew
she did not sleep. She lay with her hands clasped as in prayer on her
heaving bosom. Her eyes were on the little latticed window, and on a
moth dancing dreamily up and down the panes, a large black moth that
made the little diamonds of glass click at the stroke of its wings. Her
hair over her brow was curled with the heat of her brain, the light
short hair that would not be brushed back and lie with the copper-gold
strands. Great drops rolled off her forehead upon the pillow.
Afterwards, Kate felt that the cover was wet, and thought it was with
Honor's tears, but she was not crying. Her eyes were dry and burning,
but the moisture poured off her brow. Her feet were like ice. She might
have been dead, she lay so still. Kate hardly heard her breathe. She
held her breath and listened once, as she feared Honor was in a swoon.
She did not speak to her sister. An indefinable consciousness that
Honor must not be disturbed, must be left alone, restrained her. Once
she stole her hand under the bedclothes round her sister, and laid it on
her heart. Then she knew for certain what a raging storm was awake in
that still, hardly breathing form.
That touch, unattended by word, was more than Honor could bear. She
said nothing, but stole from bed, and put on some of her clothes. Kate
watched her through her half-closed lids, and dared not speak or
otherwise interfere. Honor went softly, barefooted down the stairs, that
creaked beneath her tread. Her father heard the step. He knew whose it
was. He also would not interfere. It was best for all--for Kate, for
Charles, for himself, for Joe, and Pattie, and Willie, and Martha, and
Charity, and little Temperance--that Honor should be wholly undisturbed.
The girl unfastened the back door, took up the little bench, cast a
potato-sack over her head, and went forth, shutting the door gently
behind her.
She carried the seat under the hedge in the paddock, where she had
watched with Larry, and placed herself on it, then rested her elbow on
her knee, and her head in her hand. Her feet were bare, dipped in the
dewy grass; a seeded dandelion, stirred by them, shed its ripe down over
them. She thrust the sack from her head. She could not endure the
weight and the heat, and laid it across her shoulders; from them it
slipped unheeded. Her arms were bare from the elbow. The cold night
wind stroked the arm that stayed up her scorched brain. She had prayed
that God would guide her, and the guidance had led into a way of
sorrows. 'It is expedient that one man should die for the people,'
those words of the High Priest recurred to Honor, and she thought how
that He to whom they referred had accepted the decision. She would have
died--died! O how willingly, how eagerly!--for the dear ones under the
thatched roof; she would have leaped into fire, not for all, but for any
one of them, for little Temperance, for dear Charity, for Martha, for
Willie, for darling Pattie, for good, true Joe, for Kate, for her father
of course--yes, even for Charles--but this that was demanded of her was
worse than a brief spasm of pain in fire; it was a lifelong martyrdom, a
sacrifice infinitely more dreadful than of life. The thrushes were
singing. There was no night in the midst of June, and the birds did
without sleep, or slept in the glare of midday. The only night was
within the girl's soul. There was no singing or piping there, but the
groaning of a crushed spirit.
She started. She was touched. She put out her hand and sighed. The
horse that Langford had let them have was in the paddock; it had become
much attached to Honor, and the beast had come over to her, unperceived,
and was resting his head on her shoulder and rubbing it against her ear
and cheek. She stroked the nose of the beast with her left hand without
altering her position, mechanically, and without much diversion of her
thoughts. When poor Diamond was dying in the gravel pit, Honor had sat
by him and caressed him; now Diamond's successor had come to comfort
Honor, as best he could, when her girlhood was dying in anguish, passing
into a womanhood of sorrow.
Chink! chink! chink! a finch was perched on the topmost twig of an alder
that swayed under its light weight in the wind, repeating its monotonous
cry, chink! chink! chink!
The cold about Honor's feet became stronger, the dew looked whiter, as
if it were passing into frost, the breath of the horse was as steam.
High, far aloft, in the dusky sky some large bird was winging its way
from sea to sea, from the Atlantic boisterous barren coast about Bude,
to the summer, luxuriant bays of the Channel. What bird it was Honor
could not tell. She would not have seen it but that the winking of its
wings as they caught the light from the north attracted her attention.
Strange as it may seem, though engrossed in her own sorrows, she watched
the flap of the wings till they passed beyond range of vision.
Not a cloud was in the sky. The stars were but dimly seen in the
silvery haze of summer twilight. One glowworm in the hedge opposite her
shone brighter than any star, for it shone out of darkness deeper than
the depths of heaven.
One long leaf near Honor was as if it had been varnished, wet with dew,
and as the dew gathered on it, it stooped and the moisture ran to the
lanceate end, bowing it further, and forming a clear drop; then the drop
fell, and the leaf with a dancing rebound recovered its first position.
Honor's eye rested on the leaf; as the dew formed on it, and bent it
down, so were tears forming on her soul and bowing it. The leaf shook
off the drop; would her spirit ever recover?
What wondrous sounds are heard at night! How mysterious, how
undiscoverable in origin! It seemed to Honor less still in the meadow,
under the thorn hedge, than in the cottage. Insect life was stirring all
about; the spiders were spinning, moths flitting, leaves rustling, birds
piping, the wind playing among the thorns; the field mice were running,
and the night birds watching for them on wing.
All was cool, all but Honor's head. Whatever sounds were heard were
pleasant, whatever movement was soothing. Through all the intricate
life that stirred there ran a breath of peace--only not over the heaving
soul of Honor.
Poor Larry! Honor's thoughts were less of herself than of others. She
was sure to the ground of her heart that he loved her. She knew,
without riddling out the why and how, that she could have made him happy
and good at once. There was sterling gold in him; the fire would purge
away the dross. As in the cocoon there is an outer shell of worthless
web which must be torn away before the golden thread is discovered, so
was it with him; the outer husk of vanity and idleness and
inconsiderateness was coming away, and now all that was needed was a
tender hand to find and take hold of the end of the thread and spin off
the precious fibre. Another hand, rough and heedless, might break and
confuse and ruin it.
But, though she knew she could have made Larry's life right and orderly,
yet she would not undertake to do so unless she saw the other lives
committed to her trust cared for and safe.
Above all, high as the highest star, in her pure soul shone the duty
imposed on her by her mother. If she could not combine her duty to the
dear ones under the brown thatch with the charge of Larry's destiny, she
would not undertake the latter.
And now, most horrible gall to her womanly mind, came the knowledge that
she--she whom Larry loved and looked up to--she, she who loved the
careless lad, even she must step in between him and his uncle's
property, that she was chosen by old Langford as the weapon of his
revenge on the Nanspians.
The Langford estate must descend to Larry should his uncle die
childless, and she----
Her breath came in a gasp. She tore up the cold dockleaves and pressed
them to her brow to cool the burning there, to take the sting out of her
nettled brain.
There was no rest for Honor anywhere, in the meadow or in her bed--no
rest for her evermore.
She rose and went back to the house, but when she reached the door, true
to her regular habits, remembered that she had left the sack and the
bench in the field, and went back, fetched them, and put each in its
proper place. Nothing was ever left littering about by Honor. If she
had been dying and had seen a chip on the floor, she would have striven
to rise and remove it.
In the morning the carrier and his two eldest daughters looked haggard
and pale.
The children seemed aware of trouble. Joe was attentive and helped to
quiet and amuse the youngest, and watched his father, but especially
Honor, to read what was menaced in their faces. He had not been at home
when Langford came, and his sister Pattie could give him but the vaguest
idea of what had occurred. All she knew was that it was a trouble
connected with Charles, who had run away. The carrier had to be ready
early to start for Tavistock market. Honor and Kate prepared breakfast
for him and the children, without a word passing between them on what
was uppermost in their minds. As they were eating, the Ashbury postboy
passed down the lane and called at the steps.
The carrier went out.
'A letter for you.'
Oliver took and paid for it, then brought it in and opened it slowly
with shaking fingers. He, Honor, Kate knew that it must have reference
to their trouble. It was in the handwriting of Charles; it bore the
Plymouth postmark. The carrier spread it on his plate; he did not read
it aloud because Joe and the other children were present; but Honor and
Kate stood behind him and read over his shoulder without uttering a
word.