'Like Charles at the circus?'
Kate coloured. 'That was another matter altogether. Mr. Langford had
no right to put such a price on his forbearance. Besides, I don't
believe in Charles's guilt. Sam does not, and, thick as some folks think
Sam, he has as much brains as are wanted to fill a large skull, and
these of first quality. Sam can see into a millstone.'
'Yes, Kate, but what is in a millstone?--the same as outside.'
'Sam says that he knows Charles is innocent.'
'What reasons does he give?'
'Oh, none at all. I did not ask for any. _He_ thinks it, that is
enough for me.'
'He _thinks_ it, now; he knows it, a minute ago.'
'I am quite sure that Charles never took the money.'
'Why?'
'There you are again with your "whys." Because Sam says it.'
'Yes, dear Kate, Sam is a good-hearted fellow, who will not think badly
of anyone, and he supposes others are as straightforward as himself.'
'You have a dozen splendid reasons for thinking Charles a thief, and not
one of them convinces me. I don't know why, except that Sam is so
positive; but I will scratch all the silver off my looking-glass if I am
wrong. Charles did not take the money.'
Honor said no more. It was useless arguing with Kate, and nothing was
gained if she did convince her. The girls worked on for a few minutes
in silence; then Kate burst out with, 'After all, I do not see anything
so dreadful in becoming Mrs. Langford. One cannot have everything.
Taverner has not the youth and looks of--say Sam Voaden, but Sam Voaden
has no money of his own, and Mr. Langford can roll in money when his
back itches. Langford is a very fine property still, and the house is
first-rate. If I take Sam at any time--I don't say I shall--I shall
have to put up with poverty. If you take Taverner Langford you must put
up with ugliness. You can't catch herring and hake at one fishing.'
Then she burst into a ringing laugh.
'It will be worth while marrying him only for the fun of making Larry
Nanspian call you aunt.' Honor winced, but Kate was too tickled by the
idea to observe her sister's face.
'When is it to be, Honor? It is mean of you to be so secret about the
day. I am your sister, and I ought to know.'
'I only do not tell you because you cannot keep a secret, and I wish no
one to know till all is over. Some morning when nothing is expected,
it----' She shivered and turned her face to the wall.
'I will not blab. I will not, indeed, dear.'
'Some day this week. Well, if you must know, Thursday. Pray be secret;
you will only add to my pain, my shame, if it be known, and a crowd of
the curious be assembled to see. _He_ also wished it to be kept from
getting wind. Indeed, he insisted.'
'I don't like a marriage without smart and bridesmaids. Who is to be
best man? I don't believe old Taverner has a friend anywhere.
Why--Honor, he'll be my brother-in-law. That is a strange prospect.
We'll come up to Langford and see you every day, that you may not be
dull. What are you going to do with Mrs. Veale? You are surely not
going to keep her! Do you know, Honor, in the kitchen is a darling
china spaniel, just like ours yonder on the mantel-piece, and he turns
his head the opposite way to ours. I'm really glad you are going to
marry Mr. Langford, because then the dogs will make a pair. They look
so desolate, one here and the other there; they are ordained to keep
company.' Honor said nothing; she let her sister rattle on without
paying heed to her tattle.
'Honor,' said Kate, 'do you know whence Charles got the notion of
putting the five-pound note under the dog? Guess.'
'I cannot guess. It does not matter.'
'Yes, it does matter. Charles got the notion from sweet Mrs. Veale.
When I was at Langford looking for you, I saw that she used the dog as a
place for putting things away that must not lie about. If you turn one
of these china dogs on end, you will see that they are hollow. Well,
Mrs. Veale had stuffed a packet of rat poison into the dog. You remember
the man at the Revel who sold hones and packets of poison for mice and
rats? Do you not recollect the board above his table with the picture on
it of the vermin tumbling about as if drunk, and some lying on their
backs dead? All his packets were in yellow paper with a picture on them
in small like that on the board. It does not seem right to let poison
lie about. I should lock it up if I had it; but Mrs. Veale is unlike
everyone else in her appearance and in her talk, and, I suppose, in her
actions. She keeps the yellow paper of rat-poison in the body of the
china spaniel. I saw her take it thence, and stow it in there again.
The place is not amiss. No one would dream of looking there for it. Who
knows? Perhaps Mrs. Veale keeps her money in the same place. Charles
may have seen that, and when he came here, and wanted to give us five
pounds and escape thanks, he put it under the dog. That is reasonable,
is it not, Honor?' Honor did not answer.
'I declare!' exclaimed Kate impatiently. 'You have not been attending to
what I said.'
'Yes, I have, Kate.'
'What was I saying? Tell me if you can.'
'You said that Mrs. Veale kept her money in a china dog on the
chimneypiece.'
'No, I did not. I said she kept rat-poison there in a yellow paper.'
'Yes, Kate, so you did. She hides the poison there lest careless hands
should get hold of it.'
'I am glad you have had the civility to listen. You seemed to me to be
in a dream. I don't think, after all, Honor, but for Sam, that I should
mind being in your place. It must be an experience as charming as new
to have money at command. After all, an old man in love is led by the
nose, and you, Honor, he must love, so you can take him about, and make
him do exactly what you want. I almost envy you. Where is father?'
'Gone to see Frize, the shoemaker. I had a pair of shoes ordered from
him two months ago, and father has gone to see if they are done. I
shall want them on Thursday.'
'Father is quite pleased at the idea of your marriage. I know he is.
He makes sure of getting Coombe Park. He says that Mr. Langford will
lend the money; and he expects grand days when we get our own again.
Father don't believe any more in Charles being guilty, after I told him
Sam's reasons.'
'What reasons?'
'Well, I mean assertions. Does father know the day on which you are to
be married?'
'No, Kate. Mr. Langford wished him not to be told. Father is so
obliging, so good-natured, that if anyone were to press him to tell, he
could not keep the secret, so we thought it best not to let him know
till just at the last.'
'Won't father be proud when you are at Langford! Why, the van will not
contain all his self-importance. To have his eldest daughter married
into one of the best and oldest families of the neighbourhood, to be
planted in the best house--after Squire Impey's--in the parish! My dear
Honor! an idea strikes me. Shall I throw myself at Squire Impey's head?
Father would go stark mad with pride if that were so--that is, if I
succeeded. And if he got Coombe back, we three would rule the parish.
We might all three become feoffees of Coryndon's Charity, and pass the
land round among us. That would be grand! Honor! what is to be done
with Mrs. Veale? I cannot abide the woman. It was a queer idea, was it
not, putting the rat-poison in the china dog?'
All at once Kate looked up. 'My dear Honor, talk of somebody that shall
be nameless, and he is sure to appear.' She spoke in a whisper, as Mrs.
Veale came from the steps in at the door. She had a dark cloak thrown
over her pale cotton dress. She stood in the doorway blinking
nervously.
Honor stood up, put her light work aside, and, with her usual courtesy
to all, went towards her. 'Do you want me, Mrs. Veale? Will you take a
chair??
'No, I will not sit down. So'--she looked about--'you will go from a
hovel to a mansion! At least, so you expect. Take care! Take care,
lest, in trying to jump into the saddle, you jump over the horse.'
Honor moved a chair towards the woman, Kate looked curiously at her.
The pale, faded creature stood looking about her in an inquisitive
manner. 'I've come with a message,' she said. 'You are very set on
getting into Langford, eh? Oh, Langford is a palace to this cottage.'
Honor did not answer. She drew up her head, and made no further offer
of a seat. 'What is your message?' she asked coldly. But Kate fired up
in her sister's defence, and, tossing her head, said, 'Don't you
suppose, Mrs. Veale, that Honor, or my father, or I, or Joe, or any of
us think that a prize has been drawn in your master. Quite the other
way--he is in luck. He don't deserve what he has got, for Honor is a
treasure.'
'What message have you brought?' asked Honor again.
The vindictiveness against the girl seemed to have disappeared from the
woman--at least, she did not look at Honor with the same malevolent
glance as formerly; and, indeed, she was not now so full of hate against
her as anger against Langford--the deadlier passion had obscured the
weaker.
'What is the message?' she repeated.
'Oh, this: You and your father are to come up to Langford as soon as you
can. Lawyer Physick be there and waiting.' Then, with quivering voice
and eyelids, and trembling hands thrust through her black cloak, 'I--I
be sent wi' this message. He had the face to send me! Him that I've
served true, and followed as a hound these fifteen years, turns against
me now, and drives me from his door! Look here, Miss Honor Luxmore!'
She held up her long white finger before her face. 'I've knowed a man
as had a dog, and that dog wi' ill-treatment went mad, and when the dog
were mad she bit her master, and he died.' She blinked and quivered, and
as she quivered the water-drops flew off her cloak over the slate floor,
almost as if a poodle had shaken himself. 'Take care!' she said again,
'take care! The man that kicks at me won't spare you. Take care, I say
again. Be warned against him. I've given you his message, but don't
take it. Don't go to Langford. Let Lawyer Physick go away. The
licence has come. Let it go to light a fire. Make no use of it. Stay
where you are, and let the master find he's been made a fool of. Best
so! In the hitting of nails you may hammer your knuckles. I've served
him fifteen years as if I were his slave, and now he bids me pack. "I
should have thought of my thatch before I fired my chimney," said the
man who was burnt out of house and home.'
'Go back to Langford, and say that my father and I will be there
shortly.'
'Then take the consequences.' Mrs. Veale's eyes for a moment glittered
like steel, then disappeared under her winking white lashes. She turned
and left the cottage, muttering, 'When the owl hoots look out for
sorrow. When the dog bays he smells death, and I am his dog--and, they
say, his blinking owl.'
*CHAPTER XXXVI.*
*A SETTLEMENT.*
Oliver Luxmore entered shortly after Mrs. Veale had left. 'Frize
promises the shoes by Monday,' he said.
Then Honor told him that he and she were awaited at Langford, and she
went upstairs to get herself ready. In the corner of her room was an
old oak box, in which she kept her clothes and few treasures. She
opened it, and took out the red cloak, her best and brightest pair of
red stockings. Then she touched the paper that contained the kerchief
Larry had given her. Should she wear it? No; that she could not wear,
and yet she felt as if to have it crossed over her bosom would give it
warmth and strength. She opened the paper and looked at the white silk,
with its pretty moss-rose buds and sprigs of forget-me-not. A tear fell
from her eye on it. She folded it up again, and put it away.
Presently she came downstairs, dressed to go with her father. On
Sundays she wore a straw bonnet with cherry-coloured ribbons in it, but
now that the air was full of moisture she could not risk her pretty bows
in the wet. She would draw the hood of her scarlet cloak over her head.
Neither she nor her father spoke much on the way to Langford. He was,
as Kate had said, not ill-pleased at the alliance--indeed, but for the
trouble about Charles, he would have been exultant.
Honor had been brought to accept what was best for her and for all the
family at last. Oliver had easily accepted Kate's assertion that Charles
was innocent, but he would not maintain the innocence of Charles before
Honor, lest it should cause her to draw back from her engagement.
Even on a fine day, with the sun streaming in at the two windows,
Langford's parlour was not cheerful. It was panelled with deal, painted
slate-grey; the mouldings were coarse and heavy. There were no curtains
to the windows, only blinds, no carpet on the floor, and the furniture
was stiff, the chairs and sofa covered with black horsehair. What was
in the room was in sound condition and substantial, but tasteless. Even
the table was bare of cover. Till Honor entered in her scarlet cloak
there was not a speck of pure colour in the room. She removed her
cloak, and stood in a dark gown, somewhat short, showing below it a
strip of red petticoat and her red stockings. Round her neck was a white
handkerchief, of cotton, not of silk.
Mr. Physick and Langford were at the table; they were waiting, and had
been expecting them. Both rose to receive her and her father, the first
with effusion, the latter with some embarrassment.
'What is the matter with you, sir?' asked the carrier of Taverner
Langford. 'You don't look yourself to-day.'
'I've been unwell,' answered the yeoman. 'I had to be down at the church
t'other day to meet the rural dean, as I'm churchwarden, and Nanspian is
too lazy to act; I heated myself with walking, and I had an encounter
with the young Merry Andrew on the way.' He glanced at Honor, but she
neither stirred nor raised her eyes from the table. 'Some words passed.
He was impudent, and I nigh on thrashed him. I would have chastised
him, but that he had a broken arm. My blood was up, and I had to stand
in the damp church, and I reckon I got a chill there. I was taken bad
in the night, and thought I must die--burning pains and cramps, but it
passed off. I'm better now. It was an inflammation, but I'm getting
right again. I have to be careful what I eat, that is all.
Slops--slops. I wouldn't dare touch that,' said he, pointing to a
brandy bottle beside the lawyer. 'It would feed the fire and kill me.'
'My opinion is that the affection is of the heart, not of the stomach,'
laughed Physick, 'and when I look at Miss Honor I'm not surprised at the
burning. Enough to set us all in flames, eh, Langford? Heartburn, man,
heartburn!--nothing worse than that, and now you're going to take the
best medicine to cure that disorder.'
'Not that at all,' said Taverner surlily. 'I caught a chill across me
standing waiting in the church at the visitation; I felt the cold and
damp come up out of the vault to me. I was taken ill the same night.'
'You've a nice house here,' said the lively Physick, 'a little cold such
a day as this, with the drizzle against the windows, but--love will keep
it warm. What do you think, Miss Honor, of the nest, eh? Lined with
wool, eh? well, money is better than wool.'
Honor measured him with a haughty glance, and Physick, somewhat
disconcerted, turned to the carrier and Mr. Langford to discuss
business.
Honor remained standing, cold, composed, and resolute, but with a heart
weaker than her outward appearance betokened. 'Come,' said Physick,
'next to the parson I'm the most necessary workman to hammer the chain.
The parson can do something for the present, I for the future. If you
will listen to the settlement, you won't grumble at my part. Little as
you may think of me, I've had your interests in eye. I've taken care of
you.'
'You have done nothing but what I have bid you,' said Taverner roughly.
'Oliver Luxmore and I talked it over before you, and you have written
what we decided.'
'Oh, of course, of course!' exclaimed Physick, 'but there are two ways
of doing a thing. A slip of the pen, a turn of expression, and all is
spoiled. I've been careful, and I do consider it hard that the parson
who blesses the knot should be allowed to claim a kiss, and the lawyer
who plaits it should not be allowed even to ask for one.' He glanced at
Taverner and Oliver and winked.
'Certainly, certainly,' said the carrier.
'Come,' said Langford, 'to business. I want her'--he pointed with his
elbow at Honor--'to see what I have done. I'm a fair man, and I want
her to see that I have dealt generously by her, and to know if she be
content.'
'I have asked you for one thing, Mr. Langford, and that you have
refused. I must needs be content with whatever you have decided for me,
but I care for nothing else.'
'Listen, listen, Honor, before you speak,' said Oliver Luxmore. 'I have
considered your interests as your father, and I think you will say that
_I_ also have dealt handsomely by you.'
'You, dear father!' She wondered what he could have done, he who had
nothing, who was in debt.
'Read,' said Luxmore, and coughed a self-complacent, important cough.
The settlement was simple. It provided that in the event of Honor
becoming a widow, in accordance with a settlement made in the marriage
of Moses Langford and Blandina Hill, the father and mother of Taverner
Langford, the property should be charged to the amount of seventy-five
pounds to be levied annually, and that, in the event of issue arising
from the contemplated marriage, in accordance with the afore-mentioned
settlement the property was to go to the eldest son, charged with the
seventy-five pounds for his mother, and that every other child was, on
its coming of age, to receive one hundred pounds, to be levied out of
the estate. And it was further agreed between Taverner Langford and
Oliver Luxmore that, in the event of the latter receiving the estates of
the Luxmore family, named Coombe Park, in the parish of Bratton Clovelly
and other, he, the said Oliver Luxmore, should pay to Taverner Langford,
the husband of his daughter, the sum of five hundred pounds to be
invested in the three per cents. for the benefit of the said Honor
Langford, _alias_ Luxmore, during her lifetime, and to her sole use, and
with power of disposal by will. This was the stipulation Oliver had
made; he insisted on this generous offer being accepted and inserted in
the marriage contract. Honor listened attentively to every word. She
was indifferent what provision was made for herself, but she hoped
against conviction that Langford would bind himself to do something for
her father. Instead of that her father had bound himself to pay five
hundred pounds in the improbable event of his getting Coombe Park. Poor
father! poor father!
'You have done nothing of what I asked,' said Honor.
'I have no wish to act ungenerously,' answered Taverner. 'Your request
was reasonable; however, I have acted fairly, I have promised to advance
your father a hundred pounds to assist him in the prosecuting of his
claims.'
'There,' said Oliver Luxmore, 'you see, Honor, that your marriage is
about to help the whole family. We shall come by our lights at last.
We shall recover Coombe Park.'
Then Taverner went to the door and called down the passage, 'Mrs. Veale!
Come here! You are wanted to witness some signatures.'
The housekeeper came, paler, more trembling than usual, with her eyes
fluttering, but with sharp malignant gleams flashing out of them from
under the white throbbing lashes.
'I be that nervous,' she said, 'and my hand shakes so I can hardly
write.'
She stooped, and indeed her hand did tremble. 'I'm cooking the supper,'
she said, 'you must excuse the apron.' As she wrote she turned her head
and looked at her master. He was not observing her, and the lawyer was
indicating the place where she was to write and was holding down the
sheet, but Honor saw the look full of deadly hate, a look that made her
heart stand still, and the thought to spring into her brain, 'That woman
ought not to remain in the house another hour, she is dangerous.'
When Mrs. Veale had done, she rose, put her hands under her apron,
curtsied, and said, 'May I make so bold as to ask if that be the
master's will?'
'No, it is not,' said Langford.
'Thank you, sir,' said Mrs. Veale, curtseying again. 'You'll excuse the
liberty, but if it had been, I'd have said, remember I've served your
honour these fifteen years faithful as a dog, and now in my old age I'm
kicked out, though not past work.'
She curtsied again, and went backward out of the room into the passage.
Langford shut, slammed the door in her face.
'Is the woman a little touched here?' asked the lawyer, pointing to his
forehead.
'Oh no, not a bit, only disappointed. She has spent fifteen years in
laying traps for me, and I have been wise enough to avoid them all.'
Then he opened the door suddenly and saw her there, in the dark passage,
her face distorted with passion and her fist raised.
'Mrs. Veale,' said the yeoman, 'lay the supper and have done with this
nonsense.'
'I beg your pardon,' she said, changing her look and making another
curtsey, 'was it the marriage settlement now? I suppose it was. I wish
you every happiness, and health to enjoy your new condition. Health and
happiness! I'm to leave, and that young chick to take my place. May she
enjoy herself. And, Mr. Langford, may you please, as long as you live,
to remember me.'
'Go along! Lay the table, and bring in supper.'
'What will you please to take, master?' asked the woman in an altered
tone.
'Bring me some broth. I'll take no solids. I'm not right yet. For the
rest, the best you have in the house.'
Mrs. Veale laid the table. The lawyer, Langford, the carrier, and Honor
were seated round the room, very stiffly, silent, watching the
preparations for the meal.
Presently Honor started up. She was unaccustomed to be waited upon,
incapable of remaining idle.
'I will go help to prepare the supper,' she said, and went into the
passage.
This passage led directly from the front door through the house to the
kitchen. It was dark; all the light it got was from the front door, or
through the kitchen when one or other door was left open. Originally
the front door had opened into a hall or reception room with window and
fireplace; but Taverner had battened off the passage, and converted the
old hall into a room where he kept saddles and bridles and other things
connected with the stables. By shutting off the window by the partition
he had darkened the passage, and consequently the kitchen door had
invariably to be left open to light it. In this dark passage stood
Honor, looking down it to the kitchen which was full of light, whilst
she pinned up the skirt of her best gown, so as not to soil it whilst
engaged in serving up the supper. As she stood thus she saw Mrs. Veale
at the fire stirring the broth for her master in an iron saucepan. She
put her hand to the mantelshelf, took down the china dog, and Honor saw
her remove from its inside a packet of yellow paper, empty the contents
into the pan, then burn the paper and pour the broth into a bowl. In a
moment Kate's story of the rat poison in the body of the dog recurred to
Honor, and she stood paralysed, unable to resolve what to do. Then she
recalled the look cast at Taverner by Mrs. Veale as she was signing the
settlement as witness. Honor reopened the parlour door, went into the
room again she had just left, and seated herself, that she might collect
her thoughts and determine what to do. Kate was not a reliable
authority, and it was not judicious to act on information given by her
sister without having proved it. Honor had seen Mrs. Veale thrust the
yellow paper into the flames under the pot. She could not therefore be
sure by examination that it was the rat-poison packet. She remained
half in a dream whilst the supper was laid, and woke with a start when
Taverner said, 'Come to table all, and we will ask a blessing.'
Honor slowly drew towards the table; she looked round. Mrs. Veale was
not there; before Taverner stood the steaming bowl of soup.
Langford murmured grace, then said, 'Fall to. Oliver Luxmore, you do
the honours. I can't eat, I'm forced to take slops. But I'm better,
only I must be careful.' He put his spoon into the basin, and would
have helped himself, had not Honor snatched the bowl away and removed it
to the mantelshelf.
'You must not touch it,' she said. 'I am not sure--I am afraid--I would
not accuse wrongfully--it is poisoned.'
*CHAPTER XXXVII.*
*A BOWL OF BROTH.*
The words were hardly out of Honor's mouth before the party were
surprised by a noise of voices and feet in the kitchen, and a cry as of
dismay or fear. A moment after the tramp was in the passage the parlour
door was flung open, and Sam Voaden, Hillary Nanspian and his father,
Piper, Charles Luxmore, and Mrs. Veale came in, the latter gripped
firmly by Piper and Charles.
'Here I am,' said young Luxmore, with his usual swagger, and with some
elation in his tone, 'here I am, come to know what the deuce you mean,
Mr. Langford, charging me--a gentleman--not to the face but behind the
back, with stealing your money? Look here, Sam, produce the box. There
is your cash--whether right or not I cannot say. I have taken none of
it. I did not remove the case. Tell 'em where you found it, Sam.'
'I found it in Wellon's Mound,' said the young man appealed to. 'I've
been to Plymouth after Charles. I didn't believe he was a thief, but
I'd hard matter to find him. Howsomedever, I did in the end, and here he
be. He came along ready enough. He was out of money--wanted to go to
America, but had not the means of paying his passage, and not inclined
to work it.'
'I've lost a finger,' exclaimed Charles. 'How could I work, maimed as I
am?--a wounded soldier without a pension! That is shameful of an
ungrateful country.'
'He took on badly,' continued Sam, 'when I told him that Mr. Langford
said he had stolen his cashbox with a thousand pounds.'
'I'm a Luxmore of Coombe Park,' said Charles, drawing himself up. 'I'm
not one of your vulgar thieves, not I. Mrs. Veale did her best to tempt
me to take it, but I resisted it manfully. At last I ran away, afraid
lest she should over-persuade me and get me into trouble, when I saw she
had actually got the box. I ran away from Mrs. Veale, and because
ninepence a day wasn't sufficient to detain me. I wasn't over-sure
neither that I hadn't, against my intention, broke the neck of Larry
Nanspian. Now you know my reasons, and they're good in their way. Mrs.
Veale, there, is a reg'lar bad un.'
'As soon as Sam returned with Charles,' said Larry, 'they came on direct
to Chimsworthy, and then Charles told us the whole tale, how Mrs. Veale
had shown him where Mr. Langford kept his money, then how she'd enticed
him out on the moor to Wellon's Cairn, and had let him see that she had
carried off the box and had concealed it there. Charles told us that it
was then that he ran away, and frightened my horse so that I was thrown
and injured.'
'There was nothing ungentlemanly or unsoldierlike in my cutting away,'
exclaimed Charles. 'Adam was beguiled by Eve, and I didn't set myself
up to be a better man than my great forefather. I'd like to know which
of the company would like to be fondled by Mrs. Veale, and made much of,
and coaxed to run away with her? She's a bad un. It wasn't like I
should reciprocate.'
'When we had heard the story,' continued Larry, 'I persuaded my father
and Mr. Piper, who was at our house, to come along with us and see the
whole matter cleared up. We went immediately to Wellon's Cairn, and
found, as Charles Luxmore said we should, a stone box or coffin, hidden
in the hill, with bushes of heather and peat over the hole. That we
cleared away, and were able to put our hands in, and extracted from the
inside this iron case. It is yours, is it not, Mr. Langford?'
He put the cashbox on the table, taking it into his left hand from his
father.
Taverner went to it and examined it. 'Yes,' he said slowly, 'this is the
stolen box.'
'The lock is uninjured, it is fast,' said Charles; 'but I can tell you
how to open it. "Ebal" is the word this year, and "Onam" was last year's
word. Try the letters of the lock and the box will fly open. I know;
Mrs. Veale told me. A reg'lar bad un she be, and how she has worreted
me the time I've been here!--at ninepence, and Mrs. Veale not even
good-looking.'
'How about the five-pound note?' asked Langford, looking hard at Charles
from under his contracted heavy brows. 'You can't deny you had that.'
'What five-pound note?--what five-pound note have I had from you?'
'The note you gave us, Charles,' explained his father.
'Oh, that. Did it come from your box? I did not know it; Mrs. Veale
gave it me. Now, don't you glow'r at me that way!' This was to the
housekeeper, who had turned her white, quivering face towards him. 'Now
don't you try to wriggle or shiver yourself out of my hold, for go you
don't; as you couldn't catch me, I've caught you, and to justice I'll
bring you; a designing, harassing, sweethearting old female, you be!'
He gripped her so hard that she exclaimed with pain. 'And to lay it on
me when I was gone! To make out I--that am innocent as the angels in
heaven--was a thief! And I, a Luxmore of Coombe Park, and a hero of the
Afghan War!--I, that carried off the sandal-wood gates of Somnath! I, a
thief! I, indeed! Mrs. Veale gave me, off and on, money when I was
short--I wasn't very flush on ninepence a day. A man of my position and
bringing up and military tastes can't put up well with ninepence. I
only accepted her money as a loan; and when she let me have a five-pound
note, I gave her a promise to pay for it when I came into my property.
How was I to know that five pound was not hers? I suppose, by the way
you ask, it was not?'
'No,' said Langford, 'it was not; it was taken from my box.'
'That is like her--a bad un down to the soles of her feet. Wanted to
mix me up with it and have evidence against me. I reckon I've turned
the tables on the old woman--considerably.'
'What do you say to this?' asked Taverner, directing his keen eyes on
her face. She was flickering so that it was impossible to catch her
eyes. Her face was as though seen through the hot air over a kiln.
'I've been in your service fifteen years,' she said, in a voice as
vibrating as the muscles of her countenance. 'I've been treated by you
no better than a dog, and I've followed you, and been true to you as a
dog. Whenever did I take anything from you before? I've watched for
you against the mice that eat the corn, watched like an owl!'
'You acknowledge this?'
'What is the good of denying it? Let me go, for my fifteen years'
faithful duty.'
'No, no,' said Taverner with a hard voice. 'Not yet; I've something more
to ask. Honor Luxmore, what did you say when you took my bowl of broth
from me?' Honor drew back.
'I spoke too hastily,' she said. 'I spoke without knowing.'
'You said that the bowl contained poison. Why did you say that?'
'It was fancy. Let me throw the broth away. I am sure of nothing.'
Unlike her usual decision, Honor was now doubtful what to say and do.
'I insist on knowing. I made a charge against your brother, and it has
proved false, because it has been gone into. You have made a
charge----'
'I have charged no one.'
'You have said that this bowl'--he took it from the shelf--'is poisoned.
Why did you say that? No one touched it, no one mixed it, but Mrs.
Veale. Therefore, when you said it was poisoned, you charged her with a
dreadful crime; you charged her, that is, with an attempted crime.'
'I heard my sister say that she saw a yellow packet of rat-poison in the
china dog on the shelf in the kitchen,' said Honor nervously, 'which--I
do not mean the dog--I mean the poison, which Mrs. Veale had bought at
the Revel, and when I was in the passage just now I saw Mrs. Veale put
the contents of this packet into the broth she was stirring on the fire,
before pouring it out into the basin, in which it now is. But,'
continued Honor, drawing a long breath, 'but Kate is not very accurate;
she sometimes thinks she sees a thing when she has only imagined it, and
she talks at random at times, just because she likes to talk.'
'It was mace,' said Mrs. Veale.
'Follow me,' ordered Taverner Langford, taking the basin between his
hands, and going to the door. 'Let her go. She will follow me.'
'I've followed at your heel as a dog these fifteen years,' muttered Mrs.
Veale, 'and now you know I must follow till you kick me away.'
Charles, however, would not relinquish his hold.
'Don't let her escape,' entreated Charles; 'she's a bad un, and ought to
be brought to justice for falsely charging me.'
'Open the door, will you?' said Taverner roughly. 'Mrs. Veale, follow
me into the harness-room'--this was the room on the other side of the
passage, the room made out of the entrance hall.
Charles drew the woman through the door, and did not relax his hold till
he had thrust her into the apartment where Langford wished to speak to
her alone.
Taverner and she were now face to face without witnesses. The soft warm
mist had changed to rain, that now pattered against the window. The
room was wholly unfurnished. There was not a chair in it nor a table.
Taverner had originally intended it as an office, but as he received few
visitors he had come to use the parlour as reception room and office,
and had made this apartment, cut from the hall, into a receptacle for
lumber. A range of pegs on the wall supported old saddles and the gear
of cart-horses, and branches of beanstalks, that had been hung there to
dry for the preservation of seed. An unpleasant, stale odour hung about
the room. The grate had not been used for many years, and was rusty;
rain had brought the soot down the chimney, and, as there was no fender,
had spluttered it over the floor. The window panes were dirty, and
cobwebs hung in the corners of the room from the ceiling--old cobwebs
thick with dust. Moths had eaten into the stuffing of the saddles, and,
disturbed by the current of air from the door, fluttered about. In the
corner was a heap of sacks, with nothing in them, smelling of earth and
tar.
'I've served you faithful as a dog,' said Mrs. Veale. 'Faithful as a
dog,' she repeated; 'watched for you, wakeful as an owl.'
'And like a dog snarl and snap at me with poisoned fangs,' retorted Mr.
Langford. 'Stand there!' He pointed to a place opposite him, so that
the light from the window fell on her, and his own face was in darkness.
'Tell me the truth; what have you done to this broth?'
'If you think there's harm in it, throw it away,' said Mrs. Veale.
'No, I will not. I will send it to Okehampton and have it analysed. Do
you know what that means? Examined whether there be anything in it but
good juice of meat and water and toast.'
'There's mace,' said the woman; 'I put in mace to spice it, and pepper
and salt.'
'Anything else? What do you keep in yellow paper, and in the china
dog?'
'Mace--every cook puts mace in soup. If you don't like it throw it
away, and I will make you some without.'
'Mrs. Veale, so there's nothing further in the soup?'
'Nothing.'
'You warned me that a corpse-candle was coming to the door--nay, you
said you had seen it travel up the road and dance on the step, and that
same night I was taken ill.'
'Well, did I bring the corpse-light? It came of itself.'
'Mrs. Veale, I am not generally accounted a generous man, but I pride
myself on being a just man. You have told me over and over again that
you have served me faithfully for fifteen years. Well, you have had
your way. You served me in your own fashion, with your head full of your
own plans. You wanted to catch me, but the wary bird don't hop on the
limed twig, to use your own expressions. I don't see that I'm much in
your debt; if you are disappointed in the failure of your plans, that's
your look-out; you should have seen earlier that nothing was to be made
out of me. Now I am ready to stretch a point with you. You have robbed
me. Fortunately for me, I've got my money and box back before you have
been able to make off with it. What were you waiting for? For my
death? For my marriage? Were you going to finish me because I had not
been snared by your blandishments? I believe you intended to poison
me.'
'It's a lie!' said Mrs. Veale hoarsely, trembling in every limb, and
with flickering lips and eyes and nostrils and fluttering hair.
'Very well. I am content to believe so. I can, if I choose, proceed
against you at once--have you locked up this very night for your theft.
But I am willing to deal even generously with you. It may be I have
overlooked your many services; I may have repaid them scantily. You may
be bitterly disappointed because I have not made you mistress of this
house, and I will allow that I didn't keep you at arm's length as I
should, finding you useful. Very well. The door is open. You shall go
away and none shall follow, on one condition.'
He looked fixedly at her, and her quivering became more violent. She
did not ask what his condition was. She knew.
'Finish this bowl, and convince me you were not bent on my murder.'
She put out her hands to cover her face, but they trembled so that she
could not hold them over her eyes.
'If you refuse, I shall know the whole depth of your wickedness, and you
shall only leave this room under arrest. If you accept, the moor is
before you; go over it where you will.'
He held the bowl to her. Then her trembling ceased--ceased as by a
sudden spasm. She was still, set in face as if frozen; and her eyes,
that glared on her master, were like pieces of ice. She said nothing,
but took the bowl and put it to her lips, and, with her eyes on him, she
drained it to the dregs.
Then the shivering, like a palsy, came over her again. 'Let me go,' she
said huskily. 'Let none follow. Leave me in peace.' Langford opened
the door and went back into the parlour. Mrs. Veale stole out after him,
and those in the sitting-room heard her going down the passage like a
bird, flapping against the walls on each side.
'Where is she going?' asked Charles. 'She is not to escape us. She's
such a bad un, trying to involve me.'
'I've forgiven her.' answered Langford in a surly tone. 'I mayn't be
over generous, but I'm just.'
'And now, Taverner, one word wi' you,' said old Nanspian. 'I reckon you
thought to sloke away this Red Spider, as you did the first; but there
you are mistaken. As I've heard, you have tried to force her to accept
you--who are old enough to be her father--shame be to you! But this is
your own house, and I'll say no more on what I think. Now, Taverner, I
venture to declare you have no more hold on the girl. Her brother never
took your money; you were robbed by your own housekeeper. You say
you've forgiven her because you are just. What the justice is, in that,
I don't see, but I do see one thing clear as daylight, and that is,
you've no right any more to insist on Honor coming here as your wife,
not unless by her free will and consent, and that, I reckon, you won't
have, as Larry, my boy, has secured her heart.'
Langford looked at Nanspian, then at Honor and Larry; at the latter he
looked long.
'I suppose it is so,' he said. 'Give me the settlement.' He tore it to
pieces. 'I'll have nothing more to do with women, old or young. They're
all vexatious.'
'Hark!' They heard a wailing cry.
'Go and see what is the matter,' said Langford to Piper; then, turning
to Oliver, he said, 'I tear up the settlement, but I'll not lend the
hundred pounds.'
'Larry!' said old Nanspian, 'she shan't be sloked away any more. Take
the maid's hand, and may the Lord bless and unite you.' Then to
Langford, 'Now look y' here, Taverner. Us have been quarrelling long
enough, I reckon. You've tried your worst against us, and you've failed.
I've made the first advance on my side, and uninvited come over your
doorstep, a thing I swore I never would do. Give me your hand,
brother-in-law, and let us forget the past, or rather let us go back to
a past before we squabbled over a little Red Spider. You can't help it
now; Langford and Chimsworthy will be united, but not whilst we old folk
are alive, and Honor will be a queen o' managers. She'll rake the
maidens out of their beds at five o'clock in the morning to make the
butter, and----'
Piper burst into the room. 'Mrs. Veale!' he exclaimed.
'Well, what of Mrs. Veale?' asked Langford sharply.
'She has run out, crying like an owl and flapping her arms, over the
moor, till she came to Wellon's Hill.'
'Let her go,' said Langford.
'She went right into the mound,' continued Piper breathlessly, 'and when
I came up she had crawled into the stone coffin inside, and had only her
arm out, and she was tearing and scraping at the earth and drawing it
down over the hole by which she'd gone in--burying herself alive, and
wailing like an owl.'
'Is there any money still hid there?' asked Langford.
'She screamed at me when I came up, "Will you not leave me alone? I be
poisoned! I be dying! Let me die in peace!" Whatever shall us do?'
*CHAPTER XXXVIII.*
*THE LOOK-OUT STONE.*
One Sunday evening, a year after the events just related, Taverner
Langford and Hillary Nanspian, senior, were seated in the sun on the
Look-out stone, in friendly conversation. Nanspian was looking happier,
more hale, and prosperous than he had appeared since his stroke. He
wore the badger-skin waistcoat, and his shirtsleeves. The waistcoat had
been relined with brilliant crimson stuff; bright was the hue of the
lining displayed by the lappets. Taverner Langford had not a cheerful
expression; his hair was more grizzled than it was twelve months ago,
and his face more livid. There was, however, a gentler light in his
eyes.
'It is a great change in Larry,' said Nanspian. 'Though I say it, there
never was a steadier and better son. He is at work from morning to
night, and is getting the farm into first-rate order--you'll allow
that?'
'Yes,' answered Langford, 'I'll allow he begins well; I hope it will
last. As for first-rate order, that I will not admit. "One year's
seeds, three years' weeds," as Mrs. Veale----'
He checked himself.
'That were a queer creature,' observed Nanspian, taking the pipe from
his mouth, and blowing a long puff. 'That was the queerest thing of
all, her burying herself, when she felt she was dying, in old Wellon's
grave.'
'It was not his grave. It was a grave of the old ancient Britons.'
'Well, it don't matter exactly whose the grave was. Mrs. Veale seemed
mighty set on making it her own.' He continued puffing, looking before
him. 'I'm not sure you acted right about her,' he said after a while.
'I suppose you didn't really suppose there was any poison in the broth.'
'I'm a just man,' said Langford, 'To do as you were to be done by is my
maxim. And--it's Gospel.'
'But you didn't think it would kill her?'
'I don't know what I thought. I wasn't sure.'
Another pause.
'Swaddledown ain't coming to the hammer after all,' said Nanspian.
'No, I'm glad the Voadens remain on.'
'Ah! and Sam is a good lad. I reckon before Michaelmas he and Kate will
make a pair. They'd have done that afore if it had been settled whether
Swaddledown would be sold, and they have to leave.'
'Kate is too giddy to be any use in a farm.'
'Oh, wait till she has responsibilities. See how well she has managed
since Honor has been here--how she has kept the children, and made her
father comfortable.'
'The children are half their time at Chimsworthy.'
'Well, well, I like to hear their voices.'
'And you see more than you like of Luxmore.'
'Oh, no, I like to see a neighbour. I allow I'm a bit weary of Coombe
Park; but bless you, now you and I let him have a trifle, he spends most
of his time when not in the van rambling about from one parish to
another looking at the registers, and trying to find whether his
grandfather were James, or John, or Joseph, or Jonah. It amuses him,
and it don't cost much.'
'He'll never establish his claim.'
'I reckon he won't. But it's an occupation, and the carrying don't
bring him much money--just enough to keep the children alive on.'
'Have you heard of Charles lately?'
'Oh, he is on the road. That was a fine idea, making a carrier of him
between Exeter and Launceston. There are so many stations on the
way--there's Tap House, and Crockernwell, and Sticklepath, and
Okehampton, and Sourton Down Inn, and Bridestowe, and Lew Down, and
Lifton; and he can talk to his heart's content at each about what he did
in Afghanistan, and what he might be if his father could prove his claim
to Coombe Park. Then he's so occupied with his horses on Sundays at
Launceston that he can't possibly get over here to see his relations,
which is a mercy.'
'I've been thinking,' said Langford, 'as we've got Larry in for third
feoffee in Coryndon's Charity, couldn't we get the baby in for the
fourth now there's a vacancy?'
'But the baby ain't come yet, and I don't know whether it'll be a boy or
a maid.'
'It would be a satisfaction, and a further bond of union,' argued
Langford. 'The Coryndon trust land comes in very fitting with Langford
and Chimsworthy, and I thought that when you and I are gone, Larry might
absorb our feoffeeships into himself, as a snail draws in his horns, and
then there'd be only he and his son, and when he himself goes, his son
would be sole feoffee and responsible to no one. Coryndon's land comes
in very fitly.'
'I don't think it can be done,' said Nanspian, shaking his head.
'There's such a lot of ramping and roaring radicalism about. I thought
we'd better put in Sam Voaden. Thus it will be in the family.'
'In the Luxmore, not in ours.'
'We can't have everything,' argued Nanspian. Then both were silent
again. Langford sighed. Presently he said, 'I'm a just man, and do
like to see the property rounded shapely on all sides. That is why I
proposed it.'
Then another pause.
Presently Hillary Nanspian drew a long pull at his pipe, and sent two
little shoots of smoke through his nostrils. 'Taverner,' said he, when
all the smoke was expended, 'going back to that woman, Mrs. Veale, I
don't think you ought to have taken me up so mighty sharp about her.
After all this is sifted and said, you must allow you stood afraid of
her, and I allow that you had a right to be so. A woman as would steal
your cashbox, and make attempts on your heart, and poison your gruel, no
man need blush and hang his head to admit that he was a bit afraid of.'
'And, Nanspian,' said Langford with solemnity, 'you will excuse my
remarking that I think you took me up far too testily when I said you
was a long-tailed ourang-outang, for it so happens that the
ourang-outang is a _tailless_ ape. Consequently, no offence could have
been meant, and should not ha' been taken.'
'You don't mean to say so?'
'It is true. I have it in print in a Nature History, and, what is more,
I've got a picture of an ourang-outang, holding a torn-off bough in his
hand, and showing just enough of his back to let folks understand he's
very like a man. Well, I've a mind, as the expression I used about you
was repeated in the long room of the "Ring of Bells," to have that
picture framed and hung up there. Besides, under it stands in print,
"The ourang-outang, or _tailless_ ape."'
'You will? Well, I always said you were a just man; now I will add
you're generous.' The brothers-in-law shook hands. After a moment's
consideration Nanspian said, 'I don't like to be outdone in generosity
by you, much as I respect you. If it would be any satisfaction to the
parish of Bratton Clovelly, the weather being warm, and for the quieting
of minds and setting at rest all disputes, I don't object to bathing
once in the river Thrustle before the feoffees of Coryndon's Charity,
excepting Larry, whom from motives of delicacy I exclude.'
'Well,' said Langford, 'I won't deny you're a liberal-minded man.'
Taverner sprang to his feet, and Nanspian also rose. Over the stile
from the lane came Honor, in her red stockings and scarlet cloak, the
latter drawn closely round her.
'Why didn't you call us?' said Nanspian. 'We'd have come and helped you
over.'
'You shouldn't be climbing about now,' said Taverner.
'Come and sit between us on the Look-out stone,' said Nanspian.
So the two old men reseated themselves on the granite slab, with Honor
between them.
'You tried hard to sloke her away,' remarked Nanspian, shaking his head.
'Let bygones be bygones,' said Langford. 'She may be here at Chimsworthy
now, but she'll be at Langford some day. I'm proud and happy to think.'
'Ah!' said Nanspian, 'she's made a mighty change in Larry, and, faith,
in me also. I'm a happier man than I was.' He put his arm round behind
Honor.
'I may say that of myself,' said Langford. 'I can know that Langford
will be made the most of after I'm gone.' He put his arm round her, and
clasped that of Nanspian.
'Ah!' said Nanspian, in his old soft, furry, pleasant voice, 'if I'd a
many score of faces in front of me, and I were addressing a political
meeting, I'd say the same as I says now. Never you argue that what we
was taught as children is gammon and superstition, it's no such thing.
It has always been said that he who lays hold of a red spider secures
good luck, and we've proved it, Taverner and I, we've proved it. Us
have got hold of the very best and biggest and reddest of money-spinners
between us--us don't try to sloke her away to this side or to that. Her
belongs ekally to Chimsworthy and to Langford, to myself and to
Taverner, and blessed if there be a chance for any man all over England
of getting such another treasure as this Red Spider which Taverner and I
be holding atween us--ekally belonging to each.'