FOLLY
Had Mr. Norcot heard the conversation which he
interrupted between John Lee and Grace, it must have amazed
him exceedingly and reminded him of his lady's youth and
inexperience.
Those most concerned knew nothing of the relation that now
obtained between Grace and her servant, for that a daughter of his
could look upon a groom was an idea beyond the wildest mental
flight of Maurice Malherb; but humbler folks found themselves
not wholly ignorant of recent developments. Harvey Woodman
had hinted to his wife that the girl spent a great deal of her time
in riding with miser Lee's grandson, and Mary Woodman murmured
in secret upon this unquiet theme with Dinah Beer. The
question in their minds related to Mrs. Malherb.
"Ought us to tell her?" asked Mary. "Such a good, high-minded
lady as her be. An' Miss Gracie--so promising as a
March calf, bless her."
"'Tis a hard thing. I've nought against the boy for my part
either," declared Dinah. "He's civil an' smart, an' his face would
soften a stone. But they'm both young, an', loramercy! what
Nature teaches boys an' girls ban't wisdom, for sartain! Mr. Norcot
will never come it over her, for she hates him. Her told
me once, when I catched her crying all alone, poor maiden, that
she couldn't abide his shadow, an' when I said as her parents
knowed best about it, she talked treason wi' the fire in her cheeks.
'Love can't be made to order,' her said; an' when I telled
something about her duty, she cut me short an' axed, 'Do you love
your Richard, Dinah?' 'Ess fay!' I sez. 'An' if your faither
an' mother had told you to marry some person else--what then?'
she sez. 'There, Miss, let me get to my work,' I answered her;
but the truth--I couldn't tell it: that me an' Dick runned an' got
married against faither's orders, as meant for me to take a
cordwainer to Tavistock."
"Shall we tell Kekewich?" suggested Mrs. Woodman. "For
all his wickedness he'd never do an unwitty thing. He's terrible
wise--not after the event, when us all be--but in time."
"I couldn't," declared Dinah. "It do always bring a cloud to
my heart when I see his pain-stained face--such a prophet of evil
as he be."
"He never promises any good to anybody, so he's always
right," answered Mrs. Woodman, who was in a pessimistic vein.
"My husband don't like him, no more don't I," replied the
other woman. "Don't say nought to him--a baggering old Job's
comforter. He'd get John Lee turned off without a character.
Us have right an' reason to trust Miss Grace in such a thing.
Only I do wish the proper one would turn up. She never sees a
young man but him."
"A terrible pretty chap--Lee, I mean. Have 'e noticed how
mincing he gets in's speech?"
"Dick an' your husband was laughing at him for it last night.
He picks it up from Miss Grace."
"Which shows they must have a lot to say to one another."
Dinah nodded, and with an uneasy sense of guilt changed the
conversation. But the truth was in fact nearer their suspicions
than they guessed, and Grace Malherb, by slow degrees, had
come to make a close friend and confidant of John Lee. He
possessed other charms than beauty, for his mind was simple; his
heart was generous; his disposition kindly. Romance and some
mystery hovered round him; and Grace, left much to her own
devices, found the groom too often in her mind, his voice too
often upon her ear.
A critical conversation fell out between them upon the day of
Norcot's return to Fox Tor Farm. For three months Lee had
now served his new master, and attended Grace to all parts of the
Moor. Sometimes Mr. Malherb accompanied these expeditions,
and generally he superintended Grace's hurdle practice, for she
was to hunt during the coming season; but the father did not
always find himself at leisure to follow this pleasant task, and
Lee, whose first duty was to wait upon Miss Malherb, went far
afield with her alone.
From indifference Grace woke to pleasure at his delicate and
refined nature. She encouraged him to talk, and presently heard
as much of his scanty story as he himself knew. The narrative
fired her imagination, and lent him a romantic interest to her
mind. Gradually she divulged a few of her own secrets, and the
less he apparently desired to know, the more she found herself
telling him. His courteous reserve even piqued her upon occasion.
Once she quarrelled with him, and bade him retire. But
her apology upon the following day, brought him quickly to her
side.
"'Twas not indifference, God knows, Miss Grace," he told her.
"I held back for fear I might seem too forward in your affairs.
Every breath you draw is a thing of account to me. I do know
by the very light in your eyes whither your thoughts be tending--up
or down. An' I'm loth to call Mr. Norcot into your mind;
for his name brings a shadow over your face, like a cloud across
noon sunshine."
"I thought you yawned yesterday, John, when I mentioned
him. That is what angered me."
"'Yawned'! I've never yawned since I knowed you."
"Since you knew me, John. You are so slow to mend that
weak ending of the past tense. 'Tis a part of Devon
speech--a thing in their blood--but not in yours."
"I wish I knew all that was in my blood," he answered.
"You will some day. Light will come. Sometimes I think old
Lovey stole you, as gipsies steal little children. 'Tis monstrous to
suppose that you are kin of hers."
"Not so; her daughter was my dear good mother without a
doubt."
"'Tis strange how a man's heart warms to the very name of his
mother, though he has never known her," said Grace.
"Mine does, but I can only remember a white face and great
frightened eyes that belonged to her. And when I ask my granddam
for my father, she laughs--that laugh like tin beating on
tin--and tells me to look in the river and I'll see him."
"He was a very handsome man then. You've got about the
most beautiful ears I ever saw on anybody."
She spoke in a pensive and a critical tone with her eyes lifted
to the hills, as though she spoke to them.
"Good Lord, Miss Grace. Have I?"
And so they talked and daily drifted nearer danger. A
conversation of moment happened between them concerning Lovey
Lee. John ransacked his memory for Grace's benefit and told
her of early recollections, of his mother's funeral, of his arrival
with Mrs. Lee at Siward's Cross when a child, and of his first
labours upon the Moor.
"I had to collect the lichen of which they make dyes," he said;
"then I went wool-gathering, and grew very clever at setting briars
in the sheep-tracks. Later I learned to plait rexens, or rushes as
I should call 'em; then a man taught me how to ride. And as I
grew and got sense, my grandmother became a greater wonder
and mystery to me. She lived two lives, and of one I knew
nothing. Oftentimes I found that she went abroad by night.
Lying in my straw near the cattle, with their sweet breath coming
to me, I'd wake and see light in the slits of the boards overhead
where Granny slept. Then she would dout the flame--put it out,
I mean--and the boards would creak and she'd come down the
ladder and go out into the night. 'Twas moonlight she always
chose, and once, when I was a bit of a lad, up home twelve
years old, I reckoned I'd follow after and see what 'twas that took
her off so secret when all things slept. But 'twas a poor thought
for me. I followed 'pon a summer night in staring moonlight;
and half a mile from Fox Tor, under which she went, my foot
slipped where I was sneaking along a hundred yards behind her
and I fell into a bog. She heard me splash out of it, and afore I
could crouch down and hide, her cat's eyes had marked me and
she turned and catched me, breathless an' soaking wet to the
waist."
"Alack, John! And what did she do?" asked the girl, reining
up her horse to hear his answer.
"Well, 'tisn't too strong a word to say that she very nearly
knocked the life out of me. She changed from a woman into
a demon. She screamed like to a horrid vampire, and clapper-clawed
me from head to foot. 'You'd spy, you li'l devil!' she
said. 'I'll larn you to peep 'pon my doings; I'll tear your liver
out, I'll----' Then under her blows I went off fainty, an' she
scratched me like a cat-a-mountain, an', no doubt, left me for
dead. I was only a little boy, of course, and she was just the
same as she is now, only six years stronger. When I come to
again she'd gone; but I thought I'd waked to die, for there was
a dreadful bitter pang in my breast. I crawled back to the
cottage somehow, and next day, when she was out of the way,
I caught a donkey she had, and got up to Prince Town. The
doctor at the prison by good fortune passed me as I came, and
I made bold to tell him I was ill, and he had a look at me and
said two of my ribs were broken. They kept me at a cottage up
there, where Granny was known, and 'twas a round six weeks
afore I went back to her. Then first thing she said was that she'd
kill me and salt me down in her snail barrel if ever I spied on
her again; so you may be sure I never did."
The story fascinated Grace.
"How you must have suffered! But to think of the secrets
that horrid old woman has hidden! It makes my mouth water,
John. Father believes that she knows all about the Malherb
amphora--the priceless glass vase that vanished, you know--and
I believe she knows all about you. These things must
be discovered; and 'twill be your task to find them out, John
Lee."
"Ah! if I could find my father. But that's a search I'm almost
fearful to make. I----"
He broke off, and Grace felt the matter too delicate for
comment. Her interest in Lee grew daily, and, ignorant of love,
the girl now believed her emotion towards him must be called
by that name. He for his part loved indeed with all his young
heart and soul. Care clouded his life, because he knew that he
was wrong to think twice about his mistress. By night, when
alone, his courage sometimes increased; but daylight and duty
quenched it. Under darkness he dreamed dreams, yet when he
rose to hear rough men laugh at his amended speech, and see
Malherb order him hither and thither, as he ordered the rest,
John Lee's folly stared him in the face. He fought with himself
to relinquish his task and depart from Fox Tor Farm; he fancied
that he had conquered himself, and determined to go; then
would come a long, lonely ride with Grace, and a return to vain
unquiet hopes. His conscience urged him away; his power of
will proved insufficient to take him beyond temptation. As for
the girl, her tender feeling was an unconscious instinct of
self-preservation. She desired a strong protector rather than a lover;
and he who might secure her safety was sure to win her active
regard. Grace's delight in John Lee, her increasing admiration
for his goodness, honesty and chivalrous nature, she mistook for
love. The fatuity of such a conclusion was not impressed on
the girl's virgin mind; and the secret of John's parentage proved
no obstacle to attachment, but rather an incentive. That he was
a gentleman in every vital particular she perceived.
Upon this day a barrier fell down between them. She had
found herself sad and weak before the approaching shadow of
Peter Norcot; and John had waxed desperate, and forgotten
everything in heaven and on earth but the lovely, mournful maid
beside him. They were but seventeen and eighteen; of the
world they knew nothing at all; but his world was in her eyes,
and she believed that her future welfare and hopes of happiness
now rode at her elbow in the handsome shape of the lad.
"John," she said, exactly one hour before Mr. Norcot's horse
appeared nigh Cater's Beam--"John, he's coming to-day."
"I know it. I know the weather of your heart, Miss Grace,
as soon as I look upon you; for the eyes are the sky of the mind."
"Come closer," she answered; "come closer and comfort me."
"Mr. Peter is a great man now--head of the Wool Factory,
and worth many thousands of pounds."
"Cold comfort! If he was made of gold with diamond eyes
he would still be Peter Norcot."
"'Tis strange, but you are the only person in the world that
don't like him."
"And you," she said quickly, "you hate him too."
"Yes, I hate him well enough--because he's a coward and a
hard-hearted man at bottom to plague you so, when you've made
it clear you cannot love him. I hate him for that, I promise
you. I could believe dark things against him gladly. Do you
know what Tom Putt said?"
"No," replied Grace. "Not that Putt's opinion is of much
moment save in matters of salmon."
"He is courting a maiden at Chagford; and her brother--a
man called Mason--is an outdoor servant to Mr. Norcot. And
last Sunday, when the women were at church, Putt had speech
with this man, and they got merry over drink. Tom praised
Mr. Norcot mightily, and his servant said with great admiration
that he believed as like as not, Mr. Peter had killed his uncle
to get head of the Wool Factory. Mason said he couldn't pay
Mr. Norcot a higher compliment for skill and cleverness; but
Tom Putt was rather afeared about it, and he's in doubt now
whether to go on courting that man's sister."
"There was a mystery," declared Grace. "Peter Norcot last
saw his uncle alive on the Moor. Oh, John--to think of it! He
is cruel, for he sets man-traps and spring-guns in his woods. A
man who would do that would--he may be even a murderer!
Under all his rhymes and nonsense he surely has a tiger's heart!"
"You mustn't think of it--either that he could do so wicked
a deed, or that you are going to marry him. Most gentlefolks
put man-traps in their preserves nowadays. But, to be honest,
he don't, for I heard him tell master he didn't last time he was
here. And as for you, the right man must soon come. He----"
"Stop there, John! 'Tis like your kind self to talk so to me;
yet I know very well how it hurts you."
"Sweet!" he cried. "I have told you how I love you. I
couldn't choke it down longer. And you forgave me, and pitied
me a little. You must let me hope and pray for the right man,
since 'tis impossible I can ever be anything to you."
Grace was silent, and he continued.
"I've learned better since that moment. I'm not a fool. My
love at least is too big a pattern to offer it to you again."
"Can a man love a maid too much then?" she exclaimed.
"He may love too little and so offer himself. I love--there,
my love's all of me. But who am I to dare to lift eyes to
you?"
"'Tis just that, John," she said with a fluttering heart. "Who
are you?"
"Until 'tis known----"
"What difference can that make? Can a fact not known alter
a fact known? Mr. Norcot taught me that much. Facts never
contradict themselves, he said once; and the fact is--you love
me. If a king was your father, you still love me; and you are
you--honest and true, and generous. And--and you've got a
dear face like my dead brother's."
He stared in front of him, and Grace mused over his virtues.
Suddenly he spoke.
"You'll make me mad again!" he cried. "I ought to spur
away for dear life, and for honour and right; I ought to turn my
back and gallop to the ends of the world; but I can't--I can't
do it--more shame to me."
"You certainly love me with all your heart, John. Well, John
dear, I think I love you too!"
"No, no," he said. "You must not; it can't be; 'tisn't in
sober reason."
"So much more likely to be real," she answered. "True love
is not reasonable, John. And you must fight a great battle for
me, because all the world is against us."
"The world--the world's here--here! The rest I can put
under my foot and forget. You love me--oh! Grace, my
star--is it true?"
"Yes, for I've never felt so before, and I've done almost everything
but fall in love in my time. 'Tis quite a new thing--sure
it must be love; for what other name is there to give it? I love
your beautiful face, and your voice, and your gentle ways; and
I love you best of all for loving me, John."
"Every living thing loves you," he said solemnly. "Yet you
can come to a useless, poor, humble man like me, and trust me
with yourself!"
"Yes, I trust you, John," she said with gravity equal to his.
"I know not what may betide; but you must stand between me
and--and that man. Do you love me well enough to run risks
and dangers for me?"
"May time prove it!"
"Your love is shield and buckler both to me," she said.
"And yours such a blessing as God Almighty never poured
into any life before," he answered earnestly. "'Tis my prayer
henceforth that I may lift myself up to be worthy."
"I love you with all my heart, indeed. And some day, far
on, when the world rolls kinder and everybody's wiser, and
Mr. Norcot is an angel or a married man--then I'll be your wife,
John Lee."
The lad appeared more weighted by this mighty promise than
jubilant at it.
"Do 'e call home all it means, my lovely?" he asked. "Do
'e know that your whole beautiful life rests on whether 'tis a wise
deed or a vain one?"
Grace nodded.
"Love casts out all fear," she said.
"Then I can only fall back upon God to be on our side," he
answered. "'Tis my life and light and heaven on earth to hear
you say that. Ay--you shall be my song for evermore. I'll try
to live worthy of such bounty. There's no going back now--none,
for I'm only flesh and blood, and Michael and all his
angels shan't take 'e from me any more!"
Before she could speak he was close at her side and she felt
his arm about her waist, his kisses raining upon her cheeks.
"For ever and ever, Grace!"
"Oh yes, dear John. Love never dies."
"If we could ride away over the hills now----" he said,
dreaming his golden dream.
"We should meet Mr. Norcot, for there he comes," she
answered.
"I feel that I should like to go to him and take him out of
his saddle and crush him like an eggshell."
"My valiant sweetheart! You may indeed have to do so some
day. Drop back now, dear John, and let my cheeks cool. Oh,
how lovely a thing it is to have this mighty secret between us!"
"If I died now," he said, "I should have had far, far more
than my share of the good of the world."
"Talk not of dying. You must live for me."
"That will I--and die for you if need be."
"We'll live and die together, John. Now fall you back, my
own dear love--else Mr. Peter will grow jealous."
Thus it came about that when the manufacturer winked at
young Lee and called him "a lucky dog," he uttered a great
truth, although he was quite ignorant of the fact.