'Dear Father,--I take my pen in hand, hopping this finds you has it
leafs me, with a bad running at the noaz, and a shockin corf, gripes
orful in my innerds, and hakes all over me. I dersay you've eard what I
gone and done, don't judge me harshly, I couldn't do otherwise, and I'm
not so bad to blame as you may suppose. I didn't intend delibberat to
do 't, but I did it off-hand so to speke. Wot's dun can't be undun.
It's no use crying over spilt milk. Wot can't be kured must be undured.
That's wot Mrs. Veale would say, and her's a bad un. I ketched a cold
with getting wet running away, but I shall be all rite soon, please God
when I'm away on the i seez. I'm goin to Ameri'kay which is the place
to which the flour of the British aristokracy go when its ockerd or
embarassing at ome. As it is ockerd and embarassing to me, I'm orf, and
I hope with the Almighty's aid to do well in the new whirld, wheer I
intend to found a new Coom Park, to which I shall invite you all to
come, when I can drive you about in a carridge and pare. I want to know
how it is with Larry, whether he be alive or dead. I came away in such
aste I couldn't stay to know, but I'm very desiring to know. Don't rite
to me by my proper name, there may be disagreeables in my wereabout
being knone, so direct to Mr. Charles, poast resteny, Plymouth.--From
your loving sun,
'CHARLES LUXMORE.'
of Coom Park, Esquire.
P.S.--Doan't say nothink to nobody of were I be, wotever you do, and
kiss the kids for me. Poast anser at Tavistock or Lanson.
Oliver Luxmore refolded the letter, and put it away in his pocket
without a word. Neither Honor nor Kate spoke or looked at each other.
It was too clear to all that Charles was guilty. The last doubt of his
guilt disappeared.
Oliver went about the horse and van. Honor did not fail to observe the
change effected in him by one night. He seemed older by ten years--to
have tumbled down the decline of life, and been shaken by the fall. His
clothes did not appear to fit him, his walk was unsteady, his hand
shook, his eye wandered, his hair had a greyer tinge, and was lank and
moist. Joe ran to help in the harnessing of the horse. His father was
trying to force on the collar without turning it. He put on the saddle
wrong, and fastened the wrong buckles. The boy corrected his father's
errors. Then the man brought the van into the lane, and stood with his
hand to his forehead.
'I've forgotten 'em all,' he said. 'Whatever were the commissions I
don't know.' The whip was shaking in his hand as a withy by a
waterbrook. 'I shouldn't wonder if I never came back,' he said, then
looked up the steps at Honor. It was the first time he had met her eye
since Taverner Langford had left the house. 'I shan't know what is to
be till I come home,' he muttered. 'The cuckoo-clock has just called
seven, and it is three hours to ten. I think my heart will die within
me at Tavistock. I shan't be home till night. However I shall bear it
and remember my commissions I do not know. Joe shall come with me. I
can't think. I can't drive. I can do nothing.'
Then Honor came down the steps with her scarlet cloak about her
shoulders, and her red stockings on her feet, slowly, looking deadly
pale, and with dark rings about her eyes.
'Where are you going?' asked the carrier, 'not coming with me to
Tavistock?'
She shook her head.
'Are you--are you going to--to Langford?' he asked. 'To say what?'--he
held his breath.
'Yes!'
*CHAPTER XXXI.*
*THE NEW MISTRESS.*
'Halloo! where be you off to, Red Spider?' asked Farmer Nanspian, who
was on Broadbury, when he saw Honor Luxmore in her scarlet cloak coming
over the down. 'Stay, stay!' he said, and put his hand to her chin to
raise her face. 'You never come Chimsworthy road--leastways, you
haven't yet.--Where be you going to now?'
'To Langford, sir.'
'To Langford, eh?' his face clouded. 'I didn't think you was on good
terms with Mr. Langford. Take care--take care! I won't have he sloke
away this Red Spider from Chimsworthy.' Then he nodded, smiled, and
went on. He little knew, he had no suspicion, that what he hinted at
was really menaced.
Honor went on to the old, lonely house, and asked to speak to Mr.
Langford. She was shown into his parlour. Taverner was about the farm.
She had some minutes to wait, and nerve herself for the interview,
before he arrived.
'Well,' said he when he came in, 'you are in good time. You have
brought me the answer.'
'Yes,' she replied, looking down.
'Do I take that Yes as a reply to this question or to that I made
yesterday?'
'To both.'
'There's not another woman in all England to whom I'd have behaved as I
have to you.'
'I hope not, sir!'
'I mean,' said Langford, knitting his brows, and reddening, 'I mean, I
would not have foregone a thousand pounds for any other. I would not
have spared the man who had robbed me for any other woman's sake.'
'I have come here,' she said, 'myself, instead of sending a message,
because I wished to speak with you in private.'
'There is no one here to overhear you. I have stopped up the keyhole;
Mrs. Veale listened, she can catch nothing now.'
'Mr. Langford, I was told by my father that you had promised to do
something for my brother and sisters.'
'Oh, do not be afraid--I will do something for them.'
'I want you to grant me one request, the only one I will ever make of
you. Promise me some small yearly sum assured to my father, I do not
ask for much. When I am in the house, I can manage, but it is hard work
for me to do so. When I am gone, Kate will find it hard, and she may
not remain long there; she is a pretty girl, and has her admirers, she
is sure to marry soon--then what will become of my father and the little
ones? I do not ask you to take them in here. That would not be
reasonable--except so far as they can work for you, and be of use to
you--Joe will be a valuable servant, and Pattie is growing up to be neat
and active and thoughtful.'
'How many more?' asked Langford.
'That is all,' replied Honor quietly. 'If I ask you to do anything for
these two it is only because they will be worth more than you will pay
them. But I ask for my father. It will be a loss to him, my leaving
the house. He will not be happy. Kate is very good, but she does not
understand thrift, and she is light-hearted. Promise me a small sum
every year for my father and the little ones to relieve them from the
pinch of poverty, and to give them ease and happiness.'
'How many have you?'
'There are Joe, and Pattie, Willie, Martha, Charity, and Temperance. If
I might bring Temperance with me I should be very thankful; she is but
three, and will miss me.'
'In the Proverbs of Solomon we are told that the horseleech hath three
daughters, which cry Give, give, give! Here are more, some seven, all
wanting to suck blood. If I marry you, I don't marry the family.'
Honor was silent, for a moment, recovering herself; his rudeness hurt
her, angered her.
'I make a request. I will ask nothing more.'
She looked up at him, and rested her eyes on his face. He had been
observing her; how pale she was--how worn; and it annoyed him: it seemed
to him that it had cost her much to resolve to take him; and this was
not flattering to his pride.
'I cannot grant it,' he said. 'It is not reasonable. I am not going to
be eaten out of house and home by a parcel of ravenous schoolchildren.
I want you, I do not want all your tail of brothers and sisters, and,
worst of all, your helpless father. I know very well what will happen.
I shall be thrown to them like an old horse to Squire Impey's pack--to
have my flesh torn off, and my bones even crunched up. I cut this away
in the beginning; I will not have it.'
'I ask only for a small sum of money for my father. The van barely
sustains him. The family is so large. I will not bring any of the
children here, except little Temperance, who is very, very dear to my
heart.'
'No, I will have none of them.'
'I may not have Temperance?'
'No, I said, none of them. Give an inch, and an ell is taken. Put in
the little finger and the fist follows.'
'Then you will grant me an allowance for my father?'
He laughed. 'A thousand pounds is what you have cost me. When that
thousand pounds is made up, or repaid, then we will talk about an
allowance. Not till then--no, no! I may pay too dear for my bargain.
A thousand pounds is ample.'
'That is your last word?'
'My last.'
Then Honor, looking steadily at him, said: 'Mr. Langford, it is true
that you lose money by me; but I lose what is infinitely more precious
by you. I lose my whole life's happiness. When my mother was dying, I
promised her to be a mother to her darlings. Now I am put in this
terrible position, that, to save them from a great disgrace and an
indelible stain, I must leave them. I have spent the whole night
thinking out what was right for me to do. If I remain with them, it is
with a shame over our whole family. If I go, I save them from that, but
they lose my care. One way or other there is something gone. It cannot
be other. I have made my choice. I will come to you; but I have
strings from my heart to little Temperance, and Charity, and Martha, and
Willie, and Pattie, and Joe, and Kate, and father. If they are unhappy,
uncomfortable, I shall suffer in my soul. If ill comes to them, I shall
be in pain. If the little ones grow up neglected, untidy, untruthful,
my heart and my head will ache night and day. If my father is uncared
for, the distress of knowing it will be on me ever. I shall be drawn by
a hundred nerves to my own dear ones, and not be able to do anything for
them. You cannot understand me. You must believe me when I say that
the loss to me is ten thousand times greater than the loss of a thousand
pounds to you. My happiness is in the well-being and well-bringing up of
my brothers and sisters. You take all that away from me. Did you ever
hear the tale of the widower who married again, and his new wife
neglected the children by the dead wife?--One night the father came to
the nursery door, and saw the dead woman rocking and soothing the babes.
She had come from her grave. The crying had drawn her. She could not
sleep because they called her. I do not know that I can bear it, to be
separated from my brothers and sisters--I cannot say--if they suffered
or were neglected--I fancy nothing could withhold me from going to
them.'
Taverner remained silent: her eyes seemed to burn their way into him.
She shifted her position from one foot to the other; and went on, in an
earnest tone, with a vibration in it from the strength of her emotion:
'I am bound to tell you all. If you are to be my husband, you must know
everything. I cannot love you. What love I have that is not taken up by
Temperance, and Charity, and Martha, and Willie, and Pattie, and Joe,
and Kate, and father, and----' still looking frankly, earnestly at him,
'yes, and by Charles, I have given elsewhere. I cannot help it. It has
been taken from me in a whirlwind of fire, as Elijah was caught up into
heaven; it is gone from me; I cannot call it down again. If you insist
on knowing to whom I gave it, I will tell you, but not now, not
yet--afterwards. To show you, Mr. Langford, how I love my home, I had
made up my mind to give him up, to throw away all that beautiful
happiness, to forget it as one forgets a dream, because I would not be
parted from my dear ones. I was resolved to give him up whom I love for
them, and now I am required to give them up for you whom I love not.'
She breathed heavily, her labouring heart beat. She drew the red cloak
about her, lest the heaving bosom and bounding heart should be noticed.
Langford saw the long drops run down her brow, but there were no tears
in her eyes.
'You will never love me?' he asked.
'I cannot say; it depends how you treat my dear ones.'
She took a long breath.
'There is one reason why my consent costs me more when given to you than
to another; but I cannot tell you that now. I will tell you later.'
She meant that by marrying him she was widening the breach between the
uncle and nephew--that she was marrying the former for the express
purpose of depriving the latter of his inheritance. She could not tell
Langford this now.
'I will do my duty by you to the best of my lights. But I shall have
one duty tying me here, and seven drawing me to the little cottage in
the lane, and I feel--I feel that I shall be torn to pieces.'
Taverner Langford stood up and paced the room with his arms folded
behind his back. His head was bowed and his cheeks pale. The girl said
no more. She again shifted her feet, and rested both hands, under her
cloak, on the table. Langford looked round at her; her head was bent,
her yellow-brown hair was tied in a knot behind. As her head was
stooping, the back of her neck showed above the red cloak. It was as
though she bent before the executioner's axe. He turned away.
'Sit down,' he said. 'Why have you been standing? You look ill. What
has ailed you?'
'In body nothing,' she answered.
'Who is it?' he asked surlily, looking out of the window, and passing
his own fingers over his face.
She slightly raised her head and eyes questioningly.
'I mean,' he said, without turning to see her, but understanding by her
silence that she asked an explanation--'I allude to what you were saying
just now. Who is it whom you fancy?'
'If you insist, I will tell. If you have any pity you will spare me.
In time--before the day, you shall know.'
He passed his hand over his face again.
'This is a pleasant prospect,' he said, but did not explain whether he
alluded to the landscape or to his marriage. He said no more to force
further confidence from her.
'Come,' said he, roughly, and he turned suddenly round, 'you shall see
the house. You shall be shown what I have in it, all the rooms and the
furniture, also the cowsheds, and the dairy--everything. You shall see
what will be yours. You would get no other man with so much as I have.'
'Not to-day, Mr Langford. Let me go home. I should see nothing to-day.
My eyes are full, and my heart fuller.'
'Then go,' he said, and reseated himself at the table.
She moved towards the door. He had his chin on his hand, and was
looking at the grate. She hesitated, holding the handle.
'Hah!' exclaimed Langford, starting up. 'Did you hear that? a-fluttering
down the passage? That was Mrs. Veale, trying to listen, but could hear
nothing; trying to peep, but could see nothing, because I have covered
every chink. Come here! come here, Mrs. Veale!'
As she did not respond, he rang the bell violently, and the pale woman
came.
'Come here, Mrs. Veale! show the future mistress out of the house! Not
by the kitchen, woman! Unbar the great door. Show her out, and curtsey
to her, and at the same time take your own discharge.'
'"When one comes in the other goes out," as the man said of the woman in
the weather-house,' remarked Mrs. Veale with a sneer. She curtsied
profoundly. 'There's been calm heretofore. Now comes storm.'
*CHAPTER XXXII.*
*THE CHINA DOG.*
No sooner was the scarlet cloak gone than Mrs. Veale leaned back against
the wall in the passage and laughed. Langford had never heard her laugh
before, and the noise she made now was unpleasant. Her face was grey,
her pale eyes glimmered in the dark passage.
'Will you be quiet?' said Taverner angrily. 'Get along with you into the
kitchen and don't stand gulping here like water out of a narrow-necked
bottle.'
'So!--that be the wife you've chosen, master! It is ill screwing a big
foot into a small shoe; best suit your shoe to the size of your foot.'
'You have received notice to leave. A month from to-day.'
'This is breaking the looking-glass because you don't like your face,'
said the housekeeper. '"Come help me on with the plough," said the ox to
the gadfly. "With the greatest of pleasure," answered the fly, and
stung the ox.'
'Gadfly!' shouted Taverner. 'Sheathe your sting, please, or don't
practise on me.'
'You marry!' scoffed Mrs. Veale '"I'm partial to honey," said the fox,
and upset the hive. "You must learn how to take it," answered the
swarm, and surrounded him.'
'I'll turn you out at once,' said Langford, angrily.
'No, you will not,' answered the housekeeper; 'or you will have to pay
my wage and get nothing for it. I've served you faithfully all these
years, and this is my reward. I am turned away. What has been my pay
whilst here? What! compared with my services? And now I am to make
room for the sister of a thief. What will become of your earnings when
she comes? If her brother picked a stranger, he will skin a relative.
And the rest of them! "I am tilling for you," said the farmer to the
rabbits; "come into my field and nibble the turnips." Love in an old
man is like a spark in a stackyard. It burns up everything, even common
sense.'
He thrust her down the passage. She kept her white face towards him,
and went along sliding her hands against the wall, against which she
leaned her back.
'I did suppose you had more sense than this. I knew you were bit, but
not that you were poisoned. I thought that you would be too wise to go
on with your courting when you found that you had been robbed by
Charles. Who that is not a fool will give the run of his house to the
man who has plundered him? Can you keep him out when you have married
his sister? What of the young ones? They will grow up like their
brother. Roguery is like measles, it runs through a house. Have not I
been faithful? Have I taken a thread out of your clothes, or a nail
from your shoe? Have I relations to pester you for help? Mine might
have begged, but would not have stolen; yours will have their hands in
all your pockets. Now you are everything in the house, and we are all
your slaves. All is yours, your voice rules, your will governs. Will
it be so when you bring a mistress home--and that Honor Luxmore?
Everyone knows her; she governs the house.' Mrs. Veale laughed again.
'That will be a fine sight to see Master Taverner Langford under the
slipper. "I'm seen in the half but lost in the full," said the man in
the moon.'
Langford thrust her through the kitchen door and shut it, then returned
to his parlour, where he bolted himself in, and paced the room with his
arms folded behind his back.
There was enough of truth in what Mrs. Veale had said to make him feel
uncomfortable. It was true that now he was absolute in his house; but
would he reign as independently when married? Was not the ox inviting
the gadfly to help to draw the plough? In going after the honey, like
the fox, was he not inviting stings?
Langford had suffered great loss from rabbits. They came out of
Chimsworthy plantation and fell on his turnips, nibbled pieces out of
hundreds, spoiling whole rows, which when touched rotted with the first
frost. Therefore Mrs. Veale's allusion to them went home. Yes!--there
were a swarm of human rabbits threatening, the children from the
cottage. They would all prey on him. He was inviting them to do so.
'I till for you,' said the farmer. Confound Mrs. Veale! Why was she so
full of saws and likenesses that cut like knives? And Charles!--of
course he would return when he knew that he would not be prosecuted.
How could he be prosecuted when the brother-in-law of the man he had
robbed? When he returned, how could he be kept away, how prevented from
farther rascality? A thousand pounds gone! and he was not to punish the
man who had taken the money. This was inviting him to come and rob him
again. He did not think much of what Honor had said of an attachment to
some unknown person. Taverner had never loved, and knew nothing of love
as a passion. He regarded it as an ephemeral fancy. Every girl thought
herself in love, got over it, and bore no scars. It would be so with
Honor. Presently he rang for his breakfast. Mrs. Veale came in. She
saw he was disconcerted, but she said nothing, till the tray was on the
table, and she was leaving; then, holding the handle of the door, she
said, 'It is a pity.'
'What is a pity?'
'The hare hunt.'
'What of that?' he asked angrily.
'That it was not put off a month, then changed to a stag hunt,' she
replied, and went through the door quickly, lest he should knock her
down.
Mrs. Veale went to her kitchen, and seated herself by the fire. She was
paler than usual, and her eyelids blinked nervously. There was work to
be done that morning, but she neglected it.
Her scheme had failed. She had endeavoured to force Charles Luxmore on
to steal of his master, thinking that this must inevitably break the
connection with the Luxmores. Taverner, she thought, could not possibly
pursue his intentions when he knew he had been robbed by Charles. She
was disappointed. What next to attempt she knew not. She was determined
to prevent the marriage if she could. She had not originally intended
to steal the cash-box, nor, indeed, to rob it of any of its contents,
but she had been forced to take it, as Charles would not. Now she was
given her dismissal, and if she left, she would take the money with her.
But she had no desire to leave without further punishment of her
ungrateful master. She had spent fifteen years in his service. She had
plotted and worked and had not gained any of her ends. She had at first
resolved on making him marry her. When she found it impossible to
achieve this, she determined to make herself so useful to him, so
indispensable, that he would in his old age fall under her power, and
then, he would leave her by his will well off. She was now to be driven
out into the cold, after all her labour, disappointments, to make room
for a young girl. This should not be. If she must go, she would mar the
sport behind her back. If Taverner Langford would not take her, he
should take none other. If she was not to be mistress in the house, no
young chit of a girl should be.
She stood up and took down from the chimney-piece a china dog blotched
red, and turning it over, removed from the inside a packet of yellow
paper.
She was so engrossed in her thoughts that she did not see that someone
had entered the kitchen by the open backdoor.
'I declare! They'd make a pair!'
Mrs. Veale started, a shiver ran through her from head to foot. She
turned, still quivering, and looked at the speaker. Kate Luxmore had
entered, and stood near the table.
'Well, now,' said Kate, 'this is curious. We've got a dog just like
that, with long curly ears, and turns his dear old head to the left, and
you've one with the same ears, and same colour, turns his head to the
right. We'd a pair once, but Joe broke the fellow. I reckon you'd a
pair once, but your fellow is broke. 'Tis a pity they two dogs should be
widowers and lonely.'
Mrs. Veale stared at her; Kate had never been there before. What had
brought her there now? Were all the Luxmores coming to make that their
home, even before the marriage?
'And what have you got there?' pursued Kate, full of liveliness. 'Why,
that is one of the yellow paper rat-poison packets the man sold at the
fair. I know it. 'Tis a queer thing you keeping the poison in the body
of the dog. But I suppose you are right; no one would think to go there
for it.'
'What do you want here?' asked Mrs. Veale, hastily replacing the packet
and the dog on the mantel-shelf. 'Why have you come? We've had enough
of you Luxmores already. Your brother Charles has played us a pretty
tune, and now your sister's like to lead a dance.'
'I have come for Honor. Is she here?'
'She--no! She's been gone some time. Ain't she home? Perhaps she's
walking over the land, and counting the acres that may be hers, and
prizing the fleeces of the sheep.'
'She is wanted. As for Charles, there's naught proved against him, and
till there is, I won't believe it. I've just had a talk with someone,
and he tells me another tale altogether. So there--not another word
against poor Charles. He wasn't ever sweet on you, I can tell you.
'Tis a pity, too, about those dogs. They're both water-spaniels--what
intelligent eyes they have, and what lovely long curly ears! They ought
to be a pair some day.'
'I tell you,' said Mrs. Veale, 'your sister is not here.'
'Our dog,' went on Kate, unabashed, 'don't belong to father. He is
Honor's own. She had the pair, till Joe knocked one of them over. Her
mother gave it her. 'Tis curious now that her dog should turn his
blessed nose one way, and this dog should turn his nose the other way.
It looks as if they were made for each other, which is more than is the
case with some that want to be pairing. A mantel-shelf don't look as
well with a spaniel in the middle as it do with one at each end. That
is, I suppose, why your master is looking out for a wife. Well! I think
he'd have matched better with you than with someone else whom I won't
name. A house with one in it is like a mantel-shelf with one odd dog on
it. Does this chimney ornament belong to you or to the house?'
'Never mind, go your ways. Don't you think ever to pair them two dogs,
nor your sister and the master. There is a third to be considered. If
one be broken, there is no pairing. Do y' know what the ash said to the
axe?
Whether coupled or counter is wisht (unlucky) for me,
My wood makes the haft for to fell my tree.'
*CHAPTER XXXIII.*
*AMONG THE GORSE.*
'Where be you going to, Larry?' asked his father. 'I've just seen the
Red Spider running Langford way. Take care Uncle Taverner don't sloke
that one away as he tried to sloke t'other.'
Hearing that Honor was gone over the moor to Langford, Hillary took that
direction, and, as he had expected, encountered her as she was returning
to her cottage, before she had left the down.
'You are going to give me a quarter of an hour,' said Larry. 'I dare
say you may be busy, but I can't spare you till we've had it out with
each other. I've but one arm now that I can use, but I'll bar the way
with that, if you attempt to escape me.'
Honor looked at him hesitatingly. She was hardly prepared for the
inevitable trial, then. She would have liked to defer it. But, on
second thoughts, she considered that it was best to have it over.
Sooner or later, an explanation must be made, so perhaps it would be as
well for her that day to pass through all the fires. There on
Broadbury, when the gorse is swaled (burnt), the cattle are driven
through the flames. They plunge and resist, but a ring of men and dogs
encloses them, armed with sharp stakes, and goad them forward, and at
last, with desperation, lowing, kicking, leaping, angry and terrified,
they plunge through the flames. Honor thought of this familiar scene,
and that she was herself being driven on. Sooner or later she must
enter the fire, be scorched, and pass through; she would traverse it
without further resistance at once.
'I am ready, Larry,' she said in a low voice.
'My dear, dear Honor, what ails you? You are looking ill, and deadly
white! What is it, Honor?'
'We all have our troubles, Larry. You have a broken arm, and I have a
breakage somewhere, but never mind where.'
'I do mind,' he said vehemently, 'What is amiss?'
'You told me, Larry, the night your arm was hurt, that--your pride had
sustained a fall and was broken.'
'So it was.'
'So also is mine.'
'But what has hurt you? How is it? Explain to me all, Honor.'
She shook her head. 'It is not my affair only. I have others to
consider beside myself, and you must forgive me if my lips are locked.'
He put his left arm round her, to draw her to him, and kiss her. 'I
will keep the key of those lips,' he said, but she twisted herself from
his grasp.
'You must not do that, Larry.'
'Why not? We understand each other. Though we did not speak, that
night, our hearts told each other everything.'
'Larry, do you remember what I said to you when we were together in the
paddock?'
'I remember every word.'
'I told you that I regarded you--as a brother.'
'I remember every word but that.'
'You have been a friend, a dear friend, ever since we were children.
You were always thoughtful towards us, my sister and me, when you
thought of nothing else. You were always kind, and as Charles was away,
of late, I came to think of you as a brother.'
'But I, Honor, I never have and never will consent to regard you as a
sister. I love you more dearly than brother ever loved sister. I never
had one of nay own, but I am quite sure I could not think of one in the
way I think of you. I love you, Honor, with all my heart, and I respect
you and look up to you as the only person who can make me lead a better
life than I have led heretofore.'
Honor shook her head and sighed. It was her way to answer by nod or
shake rather than by word.
'I have good news to tell you,' he went on; 'my father is delighted at
the prospect, and he is nearly as impatient as I am to have your dear
self in Chimsworthy.'
'I cannot go there,' said Honor in a tone that expressed the desolation
of her heart.
'Why not?'
She hesitated.
'Why not, Honor? When I wish it, when my father is eager to receive
you?'
'Dear Larry,' she said sadly, 'it can never, never be.'
'Come here,' he exclaimed impatiently, and drew her along with him.
'What is the meaning of this? I will understand.' Before them for
nearly a mile lay a sheet of gold, a dense mass of unbroken gorse, in
full blaze of flower, exhaling a nectareous fragrance in the sun, that
filled the air. So dense were the flowers that no green spines could be
seen, only various shades of orange and gold and pale yellow. Through it
a path had been reaped, for rabbit-shooters, and along this Hillary drew
her. The gorse reached to their waists. The fragrance was intoxicating.
'Look here, Honor,' said he, 'look at this furze. It is like my nature.
It is said that there is not a month in the year in which it does not
blossom. Sometimes there is only a golden speck here and there--when
the snow is on the ground, not more than a few flowers, and then one
stalk sets fire to another, as spring comes on, and the whole bush burns
and is not consumed, like that in the desert, when God spoke to Moses
from it. It has been so with me, Honor. I have always loved you.
Sometimes the prickles have been too thick, and then there have been but
few tokens of love; but never, never has the bloom died away altogether.
In my heart, Honor, love has always lived, and now it is all blazing,
and shining, and full of sweetness.'
'Larry,' answered Honor slowly, 'look here;' she put her hand to a gorse
bush and plucked a mass of golden bloom.
'Honor!' he exclaimed, 'what have you done?' She opened her hand, it
was full of blood.
'I have grasped the glorious flower,' she said, 'and am covered with
wounds, and pierced with thorns.'
'No--no, dear Honor,' he said, taking her hand, removing from it the
prickles, and wiping the blood away with the kerchief that bound his
broken arm. 'There shall be no thorns in our life together. The thorns
will all go from me when I have you to prune me. I have been wild and
rough, and I dare say I may have given you pain. I know that I have. I
was angry with you and behaved badly; but I was angry only because I
loved you.' Then his pleasant sweet smile broke over his pale face, and
he said in an altered tone, 'You do not harbour anger, Honor; you
forgive, when the offender is repentant.'
She raised her eyes to him, and looked long and steadily into his.
'I forgive you for any little wrong you may have done me, heartily and
wholly. But, O Larry! I must wrong you in a way in which I can expect
to get no forgiveness from you.'
'That is quite impossible,' he said, smiling.
'Larry, you cannot even dream what my meaning is. When you know--there
will not be a flower on the furze-bush, the last gold bud of love will
fall off.'
'Never, never, Honor!'
'You do not know.'
He was perplexed. What could stand In the way of her ready acceptance
of him, except his own former bad conduct?
'Honor,' he said, 'I have had some sleepless nights--these have not been
altogether caused by my arm--and during the dark hours I have thought
over all my past manner of life, and I have quite resolved to break with
it. I will no longer be idle. I will no more boast. I will no more
let the girls make a fool of me. I will work hard on the farm as any
labourer--indeed, Honor, I will work harder and longer than they. If
you mistrust me, prove me. I deserve this trial. My father would like
you to be his daughter-in-law at once; but I know that I do not deserve
you. In the old story, Jacob served fourteen years for Rachel, and I am
not a Jacob--I will wait, though fourteen years is more than my patience
will bear, still--dear Honor, dear heart!--I will wait. I will wait
your own time, I will not say another word to you till you see that I am
keeping my promise, and am becoming in some little way worthy of you. I
know,' he said in a humble tone, 'that really I can never deserve
you--but I shall be happy to try and gain your approval, and, if you do
not wish me to say more of my love till I show you I am on the mend, so
shall it be. I am content. Put on the kerchief when I am to speak
again.'
He stopped, and looked at her. She was trembling, and her eyes cast
down. Now, at last, the tears had come, and were flowing from her eyes.
One, like a crystal, hung on her red cloak. Knowing that he awaited an
answer, she raised her head with an effort, and looked despairingly
right and left, but saw no help anywhere, only the flare of yellow
blossom flickering through a veil of tears.
O, infinitely sweet, infinitely glorious was this sight and this
outpouring of Larry's heart to her--but infinitely painful as
well--piercing, wounding, drawing forth blood--like the gorse.
'Larry!' she said earnestly, 'No--no--not for one moment do I doubt your
word. I believe everything you say. I could trust you perfectly. I
know that with your promise would come fulfilment, but--it is not that.'
'What is it then?'
She _could_ not tell him. The truth was too repugnant to her to think,
much less to tell--and tell to _him_.
'I cannot tell you; my father, my brothers and sisters.'
'I have thought of that, you dear true soul,' he interrupted. 'I know
that you will not wish to hurt them. But, Honor, there will be no
desertion. I have only to cut a gap through the hedge of your paddock,
and in three minutes, straight as an arrow, you can go from one house to
the other. Round by the road is longer, but when you are at Chimsworthy
we'll have a path between; then you can go to and fro as you like, and
the little ones will be always on the run. You can have them all in
with you when and as long as you like; and my father will be
over-pleased if your father will come and keep him company on the
Look-out stone. Since Uncle Taverner and he have quarrelled father has
been dull, and felt the want of some one to talk to. So you see all
will be just right. Everything comes as though it were fitted to be as
we are going to make it.'
Again he paused, waiting for her answer. Whilst he had been speaking she
had worked herself up to the necessary pitch of resolution to tell him
something--not all, no! all she could not tell.
'Larry! it cannot be. I am going to marry another.'
He stood still, motionless, not even breathing, gazing at her with
stupid wonder. What she said was impossible. Then a puff of north-west
wind came from the far ocean, rolling over the down, gathering the
fragrance of the yellow sea, and condensing it; then poured it as a
breaking wave over the heads of those two standing in the lane cut
through the golden trees. And with the odour came a humming, a low
thrilling music, as the wind passed through the myriad spines beneath
the foam of flower, and set them vibrating as the tongues of AEolian
harps. The sweetness and the harmony were in the air, all around, only
not in the hearts of those two young people, standing breast deep in the
gorse-brake. The wind passed, and all was still once more. They stood
opposite each other, speechless. Her hand, which he had let go, had
fallen, and the blood dropped from it. How long they thus stood neither
knew. He was looking at her; she had bent her head, and the sun on her
hair was more glorious than on the gorse-flowers. He would have pierced
to the depth of her soul and read it if he could, but he was baffled.
There was an impenetrable veil over it, through which he could not see.
'You do not--you have not loved me,' he said with an effort. This was
the meaning of her coldness, her reserve. Then he put out his left hand
and touched her, touched her lightly on the bosom. That light touch was
powerful as the rod of Moses on the rock in Horeb. Her self-control
deserted her. She clasped her hands on her breast, and bowed, and burst
into convulsive weeping, which was made worse by her efforts to arrest
it and to speak.
Hillary said nothing. He was too dazed to ask for any explanation, too
stupefied by the unexpected declaration that cut away for ever the
ground of his happiness.
She waved her hand. 'Leave me alone. Go, Larry, go! I can tell you
nothing more! Let me alone! Oh, leave me alone, Larry!'
He could not refuse to obey, her distress was so great, her entreaty so
urgent. Silent, filled with despair, with his eyes on the ground, he
went along the straight-cut path towards the road, and nearly ran
against Kate.
'Oh! you here!' exclaimed the lively girl, 'then Honor is not far
distant. Where is she? What, yonder! and I have been to Langford to
look for her. What is the matter? Oh, fiddlesticks! you have been
making yourselves and each other miserable. There is no occasion for
that till all is desperate, and it is not so yet. Come along, Larry,
back to Honor. I must see her; I want to tell her something, and you
may as well be by. You are almost one of the family.'
She made him follow her. Honor had recovered her composure when left to
herself, unwatched, and she was able to disguise her emotions from her
sister.
'Oh, Honor!' exclaimed Kate, 'I have something to tell you. I think
you've been a fool, and too precipitate--I do indeed, and so does Sam
Voaden. A little while ago I chanced to go down the lane after some
water, when, curiously enough, Sam was coming along it, and we had a
neighbourly word or two between us. I told Sam all about Charles, and
what Mr. Langford charged him with.'
'Kate--you never--!' gasped Honor in dismay.
'I did. Why not? Where's the hurt? Sam swore to me he'd tell no one.'
'What is this?' asked Hillary.
'Don't you know?' retorted Kate. 'What, has Honor not told you? Faith!
there never was another girl like her for padlocking her tongue. I'm
sure I could not keep from telling. Sam saw I was in trouble and asked
the reason, and my breast was as full as my pitcher, so it overflowed.
Well, Honor, Sam is not such a fool as some suppose. He has more sense
than all we Luxmores put together--leastways, than we had last night.
He says he don't believe a word of it, and that you was to blame for
acting on it till you knew it was true.'
'It is true. I know it is true,' said Honor disconsolately. 'It is no
use denying it.'
'But, as Sam said, why act on it till it is proved? Where is Charles?
All you know is from Taverner Langford, and he is an interested party;
he may be mistaken, or he may put things wrong way on wilfully.'
'No, Kate, no! You should not have spoken.'
'But I have spoken. If a pitcher is full, will it not run over the
brim? I have been over-full, and have overflowed. That is nature, my
nature, and I can't help it. No hurt is done. Sam will not talk about
it to anyone; and what he says shows more sense than is to be found in
all the nine heads that go under our cottage roof, wise as you consider
yourself, Honor. Sam says nothing ought to be promised or done till
Charles has been seen and you have heard what account he can give of
himself.'
'His letter, Kate?'
'Well, what of his letter? He says nothing about stealing in
it--stealing a thousand pounds. What he says may mean no more than his
running away and leaving ninepence a day for nothing.'
'I am sorry you spoke,' said Honor.
'I am glad I spoke,' said Kate sharply. 'I tell you Sam's brain is
bigger than all our nine. He saw the rights of the matter at once,
and--look here!--he promised me that he would go and find Charles if
he's gone no further than Plymouth.'
'You told him where he was!' exclaimed Honor, aghast.
'Of course I did. I wasn't going to send him off searching to Lundy
Isle or Patagonia. Well, Sam says that he'll go and find him on certain
conditions?'
'On what conditions?'
'Never mind, they don't concern you, they are private. And he wants to
have a talk with Larry first; but Sam says he don't believe Charles took
the money. He's too much of a Luxmore to act dishonourable, he said.'
Honor was still unconvinced. 'Larry,' continued Kate, 'will you go at
once to Swaddledown and see Sam?'
'Yes; but I understand nothing of what this is about. You must explain
it to me.'
'No, Larry, go to Sam--he knows all.'
In after years, when the gorse was flowering full, Honor said to Larry,
'The honey scent always brings back to my memory _one_ day.'
'Yes,' he replied; 'the furze is like love, thorns and flowers; but the
flowers grow, and swell, and burst, and blaze, and swallow up the
thorns, that none are seen.'
*CHAPTER XXXIV.*
*THE VISITATION.*
The amazement of Larry was equalled by his indignation when he heard
from Sam Voaden the whole story of the charge against Charles, and of
Honor consenting to save him at the cost of herself. He did not share
Sam's confidence in the groundlessness of the charge; he thought Charles
quite rascal enough to have robbed his master and bolted with the money.
Nevertheless he thought that the best thing that could be done was for
Sam to go after Charles, as he himself could not do so, on account of
his arm and collar-bone; and he urged on Voaden to use his best
endeavours, if he found Charles, which was doubtful, to persuade him to
return the money, through him, to Langford.
'When he finds that he is suspected he may do that, especially if you
threaten to hand him over to the constables should he refuse.'
'I don't believe he ever took it,' said Sam. 'I know Charles better than
you.'
Hillary was coming away from Swaddledown, along the road or lane to
Broadbury, when he met his uncle Taverner, in his Sunday suit, a hat on
his head, walking along lustily, with a stick in his hand.
Larry stood in the way.
'Uncle Taverner,' he said.
'Stand aside,' said Langford roughly.
'One word.'
'Not one! I have nothing to do with you or yours. Stand aside that I
may pass on.'
'I cannot; I will not! You are in my path, not I in yours--that is, in
the path of my life's happiness.'
Langford looked at him interrogatively.
'Uncle Langford, I must speak to you.'
'I am busy, I have to go to the church. It is the rural dean's
visitation. I am churchwarden.'
'I will not detain you long.'
'I will not be detained at all.'
'I must speak to you, uncle. You are too--too cruel! you have come
between me and happiness.'
'Get along. Don't think anything you say will make me leave Langford to
you.'
'It is not that. I have not given that a thought. But, Honor----'
'What of Honor?' asked Taverner sharply, stopping.
'I love her, uncle--I love her with my whole heart. I always have loved
her, more or less, but now I love her as I can love no one else.'
'Oh, that is it!' exclaimed the old man, bending his brows, and
disguising his agitation and annoyance by striking the stones out of the
road with the end of his stick. 'A boy's fancy, light as thistle-seed;
and a boy's head is as full of fancies as a thistle is of seed.'
'Nothing of the sort,' said the young man vehemently. 'There is no one
but Honor can make me what I know I ought to become. I have never had a
mother or a sister to guide me. I have grown up unchecked, unadvised,
and now I want my dear, dear Honor to help me to be what I should be,
and am not. Uncle! you sneer at Chimsworthy because it is full of docks,
and thistles, and rushes, but I am like that--worthy land, and none but
Honor can weed me. Why do you come cruelly in between us, and kill her
happiness as well as mine? Her you cannot make other than noble and
true, but me!--me, without her you will ruin. I must have Honor! I
cannot live without her. Oh, uncle, uncle! what are you doing? It is
unworthy of you to use poor Honor's necessity to wring from her her
consent. You know she only gives it to save her brother. Why, because
she is generous, would you take advantage of her generosity?'
The lad pleaded with earnestness, vehemence, and with tears in his
voice. Taverner looked at him, and thought, 'How like he is to his
mother! This is Blandina's face and Blandina's voice. He is not a
Nanspian, he is a Langford.' But he said roughly, 'Pshaw! let me go by.
The rural dean is waiting. Do not you mistake me for a weathercock to
be turned by every breath. You must get over your fancy--it is a
fancy--or change it to regard for Honor as your aunt. Do not attempt to
move me. What is settled is settled.'
As Hillary still interposed himself between Langford and his course the
old man raised his stick.
'Come! must I strike you?' he said angrily. 'I've spoken to you more
freely than you deserve. Stand aside. I am not to be turned from my
way by you or any other.'
He went forward headlong, striking about him with his stick, and was not
to be further stayed. He went, as he said, to the church to meet the
rural dean, but not only because summoned--he went also to see him as
surrogate, and obtain a marriage licence.
'A Langford cannot be married by banns,' he said. 'And I'm not going to
have everyone in church sniggering when our names are called.'
As he went along the road, head down, muttering, the face of Hillary
haunted him--pale with sickness, refined, spiritualised by suffering,
not the suffering of the body but of the mind. He was strangely like
Blandina in her last sickness, and there were tones in his voice of
entreaty that brought back to Langford memories of his sister and of his
mother.
He arrived at the church before the rector and the rural dean. The
latter was taking refreshment at the parsonage a mile away. Would
Nanspian be there? He did not wish to meet him, but he would not be
away lest it should be said he had feared to meet him. Nanspian was not
there. He had forgotten all about the visitation.
'He wants a deal of reminding,' said the clerk, who had unlocked the
church. 'He forgets most things worse than ever since his stroke.'
Langford disengaged himself from the clerk and entered the church--a
noble building, of unusual beauty. In the nave at his feet was a long
slate stone, and the name TAVERNER LANGFORD. He knew very well that the
stone was there, with its inscription and the date 1635; but as he stood
looking at it an uncomfortable feeling came over him, as if he were
standing at the edge of his own grave. He was alone in the church. The
air was chill and damp, and smelt of decay. The dry-rot was in the pews.
The slates were speckled, showing that the church roof was the haunt of
bats, who flew about in flights when darkness set in. If it were cold
and damp in the church, what must it be in the vault below? He knew what
was there--the dust of many Langfords, one or two old lead coffins
crushed down by their own weight. And he knew that some day he would
lie there, and the 'Taverner Langford' on the stone would apply to him
as well as to his ancestor. How horrible to be there at night, with the
cold eating into him, and the smell of mildew about him, and the bats
fleeting above him! The thought made him uneasy, and he went out of the
church into the sunlight, thinking that he would pay a woman to scour
the stone of the bat-stains which befouled it. He had never dreamed of
doing this before, but when he considered that he must himself lie
there, he took a loathing to the bats, and an indignation at the
vault-covering stone being disfigured by them.
He walked through the coarse grass to where his sister was laid. She
was not buried in the family vault. Nanspian had not wished it.
The clerk came to him.
'Mr. Nanspian had a double-walled grave made,' said the clerk, who was
also sexton. 'Folks laughed, I mind, when he ordered it, and said he was
sure to marry again--a fine lusty man like he. But they were wrong. He
never did. He has bided true to her memory.'
'I would never have forgiven him had he done other,' said Langford.
'I reckon you never forgive him, though he has not,' said the solemn
clerk.
Langford frowned and moved his shoulders uneasily.
'The grave is cared for,' said he in a churlish tone.
'Young Larry Nanspian sees to that,' answered the clerk. 'If there be
no other good in him there is that--he don't forget what is due to his
mother, though she be dead.'
Langford put his stick to the letters on the headstone. 'In loving
memory of Blandina Nanspian, only daughter of Moses Langford, of
Langford, gent.' 'Oh!' muttered Taverner, 'my father could call himself
a gentleman when he had Chimsworthy as well as Langford, but I suppose I
can't call myself anything but yeoman on my poor farm. Blandina should
never have married, and then Chimsworthy would not have gone out of the
family.'
'But to whom would both have gone after your death, Mr. Langford?' asked
the clerk. ''Twould be a pity if an old ancient family like yours came
to an end, and, I reckon, some day both will be joined again, by Mr.
Larry.'
'No, no!--no, no!' growled Taverner, and walked away. He saw the rural
dean and the rector coming through the churchyard gate.
An hour later, Taverner was on his way home. He had paid the fee, made
the necessary application, and would receive the licence on the morrow.
It was too late for him to draw back, even had he been inclined.
Taverner was a proud man, and he was obstinate. He flattered himself
that when he had once resolved on a thing he always went through with
it; no dissuasion, no impediments turned him aside. But he was not easy
in mind as he walked home. Never before had he seen the family likeness
so strong in Larry; he had caught an occasional look of his mother in
the boy's face before, but now that he was ill in mind and body the
likeness was striking. Taverner still laid no great weight on Larry's
expressed attachment for Honor; he did not know that love was not a
fiction, and was unable to conceive of it as anything more than a
passing fancy. What really troubled the old man was the prospect of
disarrangement of his accustomed mode of life. When he was married his
wife would claim entrance into his parlour, and would meddle with what
he had there, would use his desk, would come in and out when he was
busy, would talk when he wanted quiet. A housekeeper could be kept in
order by threat of dismissal, but a wife was tied for life. Then--how
about Larry? He might forbid him the house, but would he keep away?
Would not he insist on seeing his old friend and companion and love,
Honor? That would be dangerous to his own peace of mind, might threaten
his happiness. He remembered some words of Mrs. Veale, and his blood
rushed through his head like a scalding wave.
When he came to his door Mrs. Veale was there. She seemed to know by
instinct his purpose in going to Bratton.
'Have you got it, master?' she asked with husky voice and fluttering
eyelids.
'Got what?'
'What you went to get--the licence.'
'It is coming by post to-morrow. Are you satisfied?' he asked,
sneering, and with a glance of dislike.
'A corpse-light came up the lane and danced on the doorstep last night,'
said Mrs. Veale. 'And you are thinking of marrying! "I'd better have
left things as they were," said the man who scalded his dog to clear it
of fleas. The spider spread for a midget and caught a hornet. "Marry
come up," said the mote (tree-stump), "I will wed the flame;" so she
took him, embraced him, and----' Mrs. Veale stooped to the hearth, took
up a handful of light wood-ash, and blew it in her master's face from
her palm, then said, 'Ashes, remain.'
The ensuing night the house was disturbed. Taverner Langford was ill,
complaining of violent sickness, cramps, and burning in the throat. He
must have a doctor sent for from Okehampton.
'Get a doctor's foot on your floor and he leaves his shoes,' said Mrs.
Veale. 'No, wait till morning. If you're no better then we will send.'
'Go out of my room,' shouted Taverner to the farm men and maids who had
crowded in. His calls and hammerings with the stick had roused everyone
in the house. 'Do you think I am going to die because I'm took with
spasms? Mrs. Veale is enough. Let her remain.'
'I reckon I caught a chill standing in the damp church with the smell of
the vaults in my nose,' said Taverner, sitting in his chair and
groaning. 'I felt the cold rise.'
'It is waiting,' remarked Mrs. Veale,
'What is waiting?' he asked irritably.
'The corpse-candle; I see it on the doorstep. And you that should be
considering to have the bell tolled ordering a wedding peal! Those who
slide on ice must expect falls, and elephants mustn't dance on
tight-ropes. Rabbits that burrow in bogs won't have dry quarters. The
fox said, "Instead of eating I shall be eaten," when, seeking a
hen-roost, he walked into a kennel.'
*CHAPTER XXXV.*
*A WARNING.*
The day was wet; a warm south-westerly wind was breathing, not blowing,
and its breath was steam, a steam that condensed into minute
water-drops. The thatch was dripping. The window panes were blind with
shiny films of moisture. There had been dry weather for the haysel,
glorious weather, and now, just when wanted, the earth was bathed in a
cloud. It would be inaccurate to say that it rained. It rained only
under the eaves and beneath the trees; the earth was taking a vapour
bath.
Honor and Kate were in the cottage, basket-weaving. The children were at
school. No wet dismays the Devonian, but east wind throws him on his
back, and he shrivels with frost. Kate had recovered her spirits
marvellously since her interview with Sam Voaden. She had a buoyant
heart; it was like a cork in water, that might be pressed under, but
came up with a leap again. She felt keenly for the time, but wounds
speedily healed with her. It was other with Honor; she remained
depressed, pale, thin looking, and silent. She said nothing to her
sister about Hillary. Kate had some glimmering idea that Honor liked
the young man, but did not suppose that there was more in her heart than
a liking. But Kate, though she dearly loved her sister, was somewhat in
awe of her. She never ventured to peer into her soul, and she
understood nothing of what went on there. Honor was scrupulous,
precise, close; and Kate, though a good-hearted, true girl, was not
close, but open, not precise, but careless, and ready to stretch a point
of conscience to suit her pleasure. Kate, in the presence of Honor, was
much like an unmathematical boy set over a problem in Euclid. She was
sure that all was very true in Honor's mind, but also that the process
by which it arrived at its conclusions was beyond her understanding.
Honor possessed, what is the prerogative of few women, a just mind.
Forced by her position into dividing between the children who looked up
to her, obliged to consider their complaints against each other in petty
quarrels from opposite sides, and of deciding equably, she had acquired
breadth and fairness and self-restraint, against action upon impulse.
Kate was eager to take sides, and was partial; Honor never. She was
always disposed to consider that there was something to be said on the
side opposed to that first presented to her, and was cautious not to
pronounce an opinion till she had heard both sides. This Kate could not
understand, and she regarded her sister as wanting in warmth and
enthusiasm.
'No news yet from Sam,' said Kate. 'That is odd. I thought we should
have known at once about Charles.'
'How could that be? Plymouth is a large place, and Sam Voaden will not
know where to look. It is even possible that Charles may have sailed.'
'If he has sailed you need not be tied to old Langford--that is, not
unless you like.'
'I have passed my word. I cannot withdraw.'
'Fiddlesticks-ends! You only promised on condition that Mr. Langford
would not proceed against Charles.'
'He has not proceeded.'
'He can't--if Charles is out of England.'
'But he might have done so the day he discovered his loss, before
Charles got away. I gave my word to prevent his taking immediate action,
and so Charles had time to make his escape from the country.'
'Taverner Langford had no right to ask it of you.'
'He did ask it, and I gave my word. I cannot withdraw now. That would
not be fair and right.'