GRACE MALHERB HEARS THE NEWS
Harvey Woodman was ploughing with a team of six
bullocks, and as he plodded behind them over the burnt
ground, he sang a strange song understanded of the cattle. It
cheered them at their toil, and the low, monotonous notes
sometimes broke suddenly, and leapt abruptly a whole octave upward.
When the song stopped, the steers also stopped, nor would they
resume their labour until the ploughman returned to his music.
Beside Woodman tramped his son to turn the team when necessary.
But they made poor ploughing through the heavy and
ill-drained ground, and Maurice Malherb, who watched the
operations from a distance, was alive to the fact. His personal
unwisdom prompted the enterprise, for he was engaged in
attempting to reclaim land that defied the effort; but, as usual,
he set all blame upon other shoulders than his own. Now he
approached Mr. Woodman and accosted him.
"You're not getting what you might out of those brutes. If
you'd sing less and watch your work closer----"
"Ban't that, your honour--devil a bit will they go unless a
man chants their proper song to 'em. 'Tis the nature of the
earth, not the cattle."
"Nonsense. The land is no worse than the rest aloft there,
that I've drained and pared and turned into fine fallow. The
cattle go uneasily. I'll wager that fool blacksmith at Prince
Town shoed them ill." He examined the hoof of an ox as he
spoke. The inside claws behind were left unprotected, but the
outer ones had been carefully shod with iron. Malherb
perceived that the work was good.
"Then he threw them carelessly, I'll wager. These big steers
should be thrown with the greatest skill."
"To be just, your honour, 'twas very cleverly done, for I
helped myself," answered Woodman.
The master turned away without another word. In his stormy
mind of late there had been growing a darkness foreign to it.
Dim suspicions, thrust aside only to reappear, shadowed his
waking hours and haunted his pillow. From cursing ill success
he had, by rare fits and starts, risen superior to his character and
asked himself the reason for it. With impatience and an oath
the answer was generally rapped out; but the question returned.
In secret arcana of his heart, Maurice Malherb knew that he had
acted with overmuch of haste. Thereupon he distributed the
blame of his enterprise right and left: and chiefly he censured
Sir Thomas Tyrwhitt, in that the knight had always prophesied
smooth things. Yet honesty reminded Malherb that while
pursuing the suggestions of local men where it pleased him to do
so, he had widely departed from the beaten track of experience
in many directions. He remembered a recent interview with the
owner of Tor Royal, and the words bluntly uttered then: that in
certain particulars of husbandry Malherb attempted the
impossible. The impossible, indeed, had always possessed a fatal
charm for him. He had of late despatched cattle to Bideford
Fair and sheep to that at Bampton--a matter of considerable
expense in those days. But no prize nor commendation rewarded
his undertaking. He was spending money still with but meagre
return for it. He saw his means dwindling, and already the
future of his family depended largely upon the success of a
midland canal, in which Maurice Malherb, fired by glowing promises,
had embarked a very large proportion of his capital. Canals
were the rage amongst speculators a hundred years ago, but few
sensibly succeeded; many were no more than the schemes of
rascals and existed only upon paper.
Now this man, conscious of gathering troubles, lifted a corner
of the veil that hid his spirit and looked upon himself. The
spectacle was disquieting and made him first impatient, then sad.
Angry he often was, but sadness before this apparition proved
something of a new emotion. For a few fleeting moments he
glimpsed the real and perceived that his own stubborn pride and
boyish vanity were near the roots of life's repeated failures. For
once, in the glare of a mental lightning-flash, he saw and
understood; then his troubled eyes caught sight of flocks feeding in
the bosom of Cater's Beam; and Malherb's misery lifted.
Scattered upon the hills like pearls, their fleeces washed to snowy
whiteness by recent rain, the farmer saw his sheep; and they put
heart into him, and dispelled the gloom begotten elsewhere. He
turned his back on Harvey Woodman and failure; he stopped
his ears to the cattle song, and looked out upon the Moor.
"The music of a sheep-bell rings my fortune," he reflected.
"There lies my strength; that wool means high prosperity
presently and an issue out of these perplexities."
Now his flocks represented the counsel of other men.
A moment later the master went his way with mended spirits,
and as he entered his farmyard a grumbler met him. Mr. Putt
revealed a face red to his sandy locks, while the rims of his eyes
were even pinker than usual. Consciousness of wrong stared
out of his face and he spoke with great feeling.
"I does my stint, God He knows. I work by night as well as
day, but 'tis too much to be agged into a rage six times a week
by they females, Dinah Beer an' t'other, just because I can't do
miracles. Ban't my fault things go awry in the fowl-house; ban't
in me to alter the laws of nature an'----"
"What's the matter? Despite your scanty vocabularies, all
you men take a wearisome age to say what might be said in
a minute. But if you had more words perhaps you would make
shorter speeches."
"Ban't vocableries at all, axing your pardon, sir," said Tom
Putt; "'tis rats--an' their breeding is no business of mine. I'm
at 'em all the time wi' ferrets an' traps an' terriers; but they will
have the chickens, for they'm legion. But what's the sense of
Mary Woodman using sharp words to me? I do all that a man
may. Look at the barnyard door next time you pass, your
honour, an' you'll see varmints of all sizes an' shapes nailed
against it. There's owls an' weasels, an' rats' tails by the score,
an' martin-cats, an' hawks. I can't do no more; an' Leaman
Cloberry hisself couldn't."
"Go your way. I'm satisfied that you work hard enough. We
shall get 'em under presently. As to Cloberry--the old moth-eaten
knave--let him not show his face to me while he shoots foxes."
"There was a brave gert fox round here two nights since," said
Putt. "I heard un bark, an' he got short in his temper, too, when
he found the ducks was out of reach. You could tell by the tone
of his voice that he was using the worst language he knowed.
An' I told Miss Grace; an' her laughed an' said she could wish
as he'd collared hold of a good fat bird for hisself and his family."
Mr. Malherb smiled grimly.
"Very right and proper," he said. "If any duck of mine will
help a good fox to stand before hounds, he's welcome to it.
Never touch a fox as you hope to be saved, Thomas Putt. Thank
the Lord cub-hunting begins in a fortnight."
Cheered by this reflection, the master proceeded about his
business, and Putt went the round of the mole-traps to find not a
few of Mr. Cloberry's "velvet-coats" dangling from the hazel
switches that he had set. As he returned he met Grace about to
start on her ride, and hearing of Mr. Putt's speech with the master,
she bid him take to heart what her father had said. Then, turning
to John Lee as they trotted out of sight into the wilderness,
she continued upon the same matter.
"To think that within a few short weeks I may win my first
brush! But a cub's little brush--it seems so unkind to kill the
baby things. Still the baby hounds must be brought up in the
way they should go--eh, John?"
But the young man's thoughts were far from foxes, because he
was now to tell his lady of the conversation with Lovey Lee.
"You're sad," she said, as they rode over the Beam and
descended into those heathery wastes that stretched south-east of
it. "Even the thought of my first brush wins no enthusiasm
from you. What's amiss, John? I fear that Lovey----?"
"Even so," he answered. "'Twas but the day before yesterday,
and yet it seems long years since I heard it--my death-knell."
"What a word!"
"The true one. I only ask your leave to go. Bide here I
cannot any more."
Grace looked very grave.
"What dreadful thing has fallen out?" she asked. "Whatever
you have learned, it cannot make you other than you are. And
it cannot surely make you love me less."
"My father was your father's brother, Grace--your Uncle
Norrington, who died."
She did not answer, but stared before her. A flush lighted her
cheek, but it was of exultation rather than dismay,
"You're a Malherb! How glorious."
He shook his head very sadly.
"Not I. My mother's name and my mother's shame is all my
portion."
"Poor John--'tis hard to smart for others so. Yet--you're
my own cousin."
"Don't think it. These things run by law, not by blood. I'm
mere fatherless dust--not worthy to be trod upon by you. I can't
live for you now, Grace; I might die for you; 'tis the highest
fate I hope for."
She reflected for some moments, then answered--
"I do not see that the case is much altered. We had guessed
at this, John; it hardly hurts me. We are still as we were. There
is nothing between us that prevents me from being your wife."
"How ignorant you are of this cold, cursed world! You argue
like an angel might that had never been beyond the gate of
heaven. But we must face facts now. All is changed."
"Except my word and yours. I've promised to wed you; and
a Malherb does not break promises. Don't I love you dearly?
Tell me that I do."
"Right well I know it."
"Then that's your weapon against this cold world you speak
of. You've got to make the world warm for yourself--and me;
you've got to make the world forget this accident of birth. How
are you different? You were born like any other. A man may
be born to power; but no man is born great. 'Tis but an extra
handicap and obstacle at the start. Oh, my brains are quick as
lightning to-day! You must conquer this thing, as many great
men have; you must see that it might have been ten thousand
times worse. Your father was my father's favourite brother. He
was a soldier and died in the wars. Now 'tis for you to make my
father your friend. Then he gets you a commission in the Army.
Then you go to the wars, and--oh, no, no--to think that I can
say that! I who still wear black for my brother!"
But he saw her vision of himself--grown great despite his birth.
He beheld himself winning a place in the world even worthy to
offer her. He was young and sanguine, and her words had thrown
a veil over the harsh truth. Yet his spirit sank.
"If such a thing could be!"
"Such things have been a thousand times. History is rich in
them."
"I might do something, yet never anything great enough to
offer to you."
"It must mean that you went far away, and I don't think I
could let you go. And yet----"
"The thought is too grand even for hope. Who am I that I
should ever win a commission in His Majesty's Army?"
"You are the son of a good soldier. The time cries for
soldiers; but no, I couldn't let you--oh, dear, gentle John, I
couldn't. Perchance Sir Thomas Tyrwhitt might--but I can't
plot the details in cold blood, and I wish heartily I'd never
thought of such a horrid idea at all. You shall not go to the
wars for me. You must shine in a peaceful part."
"Fighting's the only sure quick way to success in these days.
How to get Mr. Malherb's good word?"
"I've thought of that already. I've been thinking of it ever
since you told me, and hating myself for thinking with such a
hard heart. You've got a grandmother, and she is shrewdly
suspected of a great crime. If, indeed, she robbed dear father,
and you could prove it----"
"If I could find the amphora and bring it to him!"
"You must do so! That is what lies before you."
"But it may be all a dream, Grace."
"Then we must go on with the dream until we waken. Our
love's no dream at least, and if one way won't serve, we will seek
another."
"Honesty and right point the only way--for me: that leading
out of your life."
"You are downcast and you try to make me so; but you shall
not succeed, I promise you. Am I nobody, that you talk so
easily of the road that leads away from me? Do you want to
be off with the old love, John? Ah! Now I know what
has fallen out: you've found a pretty girl and one easier to come
by!"
"Don't--don't! 'Tis no time for jesting. My heart's breaking
to see my duty so cruel plain."
"Your duty lies where your love is, and honour bids you keep
your word to me before everything, John. And if you love me
well enough to go into the world and fight for me, you shall;
though 'tis my heart that will break, not yours, when I think of it.
Thus it stands: you must win my father to your way and if good
chance helps you to bring him back his treasure, then so much
the more quickly will you come to your reward."
"It may be so. Certainly there is some place that my
grandmother used to haunt by night, and I know the direction."
"As a child she nearly killed you for spying; now, as a man,
you must do the like again to better purpose. She can't whip you
now."
"You will jest."
"The amphora is no jest. Secure it, and my father is under
an eternal obligation."
"Would you have me ask for his daughter?"
"No, indeed; he would fling the amphora back in your face.
But you ask--oh, that I should say it--for a commission. Yet,
please God, the war will be done; and yet, again, if it is, whence
are you going to win glory?"
"Glory!" He sighed and said no more.
"To be frank," continued Grace, "dear father would not keep
the amphora now. He loves beautiful things, but he loves his
farm better. He needs money. He looks so far ahead, that the
present often finds him very straitened. Just now 'tis money
he most wants, and you have to begin the campaign by finding
twenty thousand pounds for him."
"I'll do my best--the Lord helping."
"And think not, dear John, that I am light of heart because
my tongue wags so fast. I laugh, but my spirit is low enough
when I remember all that these things must mean. Your life will
be full of fret and fever and action; I shall have nothing but
thought and hope to fill mine."
"I wish I could believe you. Your dangers will be real ones.
If I departed, who is to stand between you and Peter Norcot?
Since I am to fight, 'tis your battle, not the King's, that I long to
enter into."
Grace shook her head.
"Have no fear for me, John; I can take good care of myself--of
that I do assure you. Now tell me that no maid more practical
and sensible and brave than I, ever set sail to face a sea of
troubles."
Then fell silence between them for a long season, and there
was no sound but the rasp of the dry, burnt heather twigs against
their horses' feet.