CHAPTER I

CHILDREN OF MEN

BY

EDEN PHILLPOTTS

AUTHOR OF "EUDOCIA," "BRUNEL'S TOWER," ETC.

LONDON

WILLIAM HEINEMANN LTD.

_First Published_, 1923

PRINTED IN GREAT BRITAIN BY WOODS & SONS, LTD., LONDON W.1.

FOREWORD

The egotism of a personal note may, for once, be permitted to me,

since an enterprise, launched some thirty years ago in 'Children of

the Mist,' now reaches its port of destination with the present

story. When 'Widecombe Fair' was written, that book appeared the end

of the matter; but fresh challenges from life on the Dartmoors, and

renewed strength to meet them, enabled me to add certain passages to

the total and render the design orbicular and complete. With

'Children of Men' it is accomplished and the purpose may be related

in brief words.

Without learning, or bias, or convictions to determine my trend, I

have said 'Yes' to life as it unfolded in this small theatre. Mine

was neither a great nor a subtle vision, but unvitiated within its

limitations.

Given faith that conscious Will is at the helm of human affairs, then

a definite attitude must result before the spectacle of humanity; but

if the mind be built to accept only unconscious Law as controller,

the outlook differs and a resolute trust may develop in man, as

ultimate arbiter of his own destiny. Neither assumption can be

proved, or disproved; but the relation of a controlling, guiding

Spirit to the Universe lies open to doubt; its subjection to Law does

not; and building upon this latter certainty, I discovered, in the

evolution of the moral principle, full cause for trust and for hope.

Observation has convinced me that moral evolution is upward, despite

massive, contemporary evidence to the contrary. For the War and the

peace alike I recognise as a transient paralysis of human reason, not

its negation. The War was an attack of familiar maladies for which

man's own errors of ignorance were to be condemned, not the laws of

his being; but it was an unutterable infamy and disgrace to him, for

this reason, that it proves him to be lagging behind the time-table

of moral evolution. Ere now he should have outgrown his present

stature, and the causes of his tardy progress, his centuries of

loitering in the desert, are as plain as pitiful. An impartial

ethics can point to where his faith took the wrong turn; but progress

in righteousness is only delayed; I have seen dawn upon the mountain

tops too often not to trust that it will presently descend into the

shadowed homes and sleeping hearts of men.

Fortified by this opinion--the only opinion I ever clung to--my

instinct turned from the way of least resistance on easy and level

lands and strove to climb, to sacrifice without regret the highest,

best, most hopeful, as life itself actually does. Thus only is the

vitality of the creator proved in his creation and tragedy achieved,

which, according to the measure of an artist's endowment, is clean,

cathartic, inspiring and obedient to the laws and realities of things

as they are. Irrationalism chokes under this atmosphere: only the

humanist can breathe it.

But the world grows braver, for we have seen great artists open its

eyes and blow the breath of honesty and truth into its lungs; we have

seen the sentimental vapours of the past dispelled in the freedom

that art now attains; we have seen the artist pitiless, that his

audience may learn the meaning of pity; ugly, that others may find

wherein true beauty lies.

By the kindness of Messrs. Heinemann and The Macmillan Company full

titles of my Dartmoor cycle are recorded on another page; and it is a

source of deepest gratification to know that in the future, when

conditions of production admit it, they design for me a definitive

edition. His publishers can pay no author a greater compliment than

that, and I take this opportunity to thank them for the highest

distinction my work has ever brought.

As a man's footsteps in the dew of the morning are the labours of the

minor artist; but if he challenge surer feet and greater strength to

pursue his quest before the dews are dried and his passing forgotten,

then he also has played a part. The masters flash lightning through

our clouds of human passion, ignorance and error, or hang rainbows of

promise upon their gloom; but for us of the rank and file, it is

enough that we make happy such as have only heard of happiness and

waken the dayspring of courage in fearful hearts; it is enough if we

kindle one valley mist with a gleam of beauty, or pour some few, pure

drops of hope into the thirsty and percipient soul.

E. P.

CONTENTS

PROLOGUE

CHAPTER

I. Betrothal

II. On Ugborough Beacon

III. The Rescue

BOOK I

I. Jeremy

II. At Red House

III. Barton Gill Under Notice

IV. On Shipley Bridge

V. The Children

VI. Huntingdon Warren

VII. Sunday

VIII. The Revel

IX. The Gift

X. After the Holiday

XI. The Offer of Owley

XII. On the Hill

XIII. The Oranges

XIV. End of a Home

BOOK II.

I. Chorus

II. Verdict

III. Utility

IV. Auna Tries

V. Revenge

VI. The Witch Doctor

VII. At Jacob's Bedside

VIII. Jeremy Evasive

IX. Jacob Comes Home

X. Flight

XI. After the Wedding

XII. A Problem for Auna

XIII. At the Barbican

BOOK III.

I. 'Mother's Stone'

II. Driving in the Ponies

III. The Pilgrim Fathers

IV. Evening Star

V. The Autumn Wind

VI. The Children

VII. William's Birthday

VIII. Jeremy

IX. Exodus

X. Fever

XI. Jacob Lives

XII. The Christening

XIII. The Promise

CHILDREN OF MEN

CHAPTER I

BETROTHAL

On a day in high summer the valley was full of light, and Auna River,

her moorland journey ended, bowed under a plantation of pine and fir,

then sparkled forth, to learn what welcome awaited her in the lower

lands. Above the stream, easterly, a green hill towered against the

sky; stunted thorns broke the sweep of the eagle fern, grey rock

clitters spread and cloud shadows drifted over all, to cool the

brightness.

A wood massed beneath in the mouth of the vale, and from this dusky

retreat there leapt the river, in a succession of planes broken at

each little fall by an apron of granite. Here the ripples flashed

with foam; here the blue of the sky was caught in the gliding surface

between, where Auna's tresses twined soberly, and fern, heather,

woodrush cast their reflections into her tremorous mirror.

Two stone shelves presently barred the waterway and, leaping one, the

river made a circular sweep above the second and eddied in a little

backwater. The later ledge was gentle and its steps sloped to three

feet above the stream. It was fringed with herbage and flowers, and

here Auna loitered, making shadows for fingerling trout to play in.

Through the limpid crystal there shone agate and amber tones of rock

and pebble beneath; and these warm colours were repeated in the

tunic, breeches and gaiters of a girl who sat above the pool.

Round her thronged a dozen lesser lives, that wove a restless, ruddy

pattern about her feet, in her lap and upon her shoulders. Girl and

puppies completed the harmony and made a splash of rich, auburn light

beside the river. The Irish terriers kept on the move about their

kennel-maid and seemed to flow over her, as the stream flowed over

the stones. They nuzzled her cheeks, licked her fingers, thrust

their noses into the black hair coiled up under her cap. She was a

slim, brown girl with grey eyes, that seemed large for her small

features, and a pretty, yielding mouth. She was tall and of maidenly

slimness; her little breasts moved under the light garments that she

wore; she laughed and played with the puppies; but a deeper joy than

they could give lighted her face.

"Leave me alone, my chicks!" she said, and pushed them away from her

with both hands. They scattered, tugging and tumbling; then, while

the girl tidied her hair and stilled her laughter, the puppies set up

their infant barking; and she knew that somebody must be upon the

by-road that ran parallel with the stream.

She rose, jumped over the narrow neck of the pool and joined the man

who was coming up the valley. The puppies already swarmed round his

heels.

"Could you get it?" she asked, and the man held up a large tin.

"Just in time," he answered. "They were starting off with the cream

to Brent, but Mr. Winter spared me a pound."

"Are they settling in pretty clever?"

"Yes; they're getting straight."

Jacob Bullstone stood half a foot taller than the girl and was

fifteen years older. Now a great thing had happened to him, and, at

thirty-five, one whom his neighbours declared would remain a bachelor

was in love with his kennel-maid and engaged to be married. He owned

varied possessions and, thanks to an industrious and prosperous

father, inherited some fortune. Two farms were his property in the

lap of Ugborough Beacon, at the foothills of the moor a few miles

from his home; while here, beside the river behind the pine wood, he

dwelt with his widowed mother and pursued the business dearest to his

own heart.

Bullstone bred a famous strain of red Irish terriers and sustained

the reputation that his father had won before him. He was a man of

good education, great energy and high principle, and he lived a

narrow life. He had never roamed, but found his intelligence and

spirit of enquiry satisfied in his native environment of moor and

vale, comfortable state and interesting occupation. He did not guess

that his outlook was limited, for he had been educated at a grammar

school and thought himself to possess clearer wits than most of his

neighbours. The fact, together with his prosperity, made him

satisfied with his own accomplishments and wits. His old mother did

nothing to modify his self-judgment; but none ever found the man

unfriendly or puffed up, for he was of a kindly, generous

disposition, did good things and held it no fault in another to

differ from his opinions.

Love, however, opened Jacob's mind to a lack in himself that he had

not suspected. He still felt timid and distrustful before the depths

of ignorance revealed by his new emotions.

In person Jacob Bullstone was large and heavily modelled, with broad

shoulders and a clean-cut, swarthy face. His eyes were dark brown

and of a sulky cast in repose, but the expression belied him. He had

a low, wide forehead, a square jaw and heavy chin. He shaved clean

and his mouth was large and well shaped. He kept his black hair so

short that the lines of his skull were clearly seen. It sloped

rather steeply backward from the brow and bulged a little above his

small ears.

He was hatless and clad in tawny tweeds with black leggings and a

dirty, red waistcoat. He walked with a long stride, that he was now

taming to go with Margery Huxam's footsteps, and for adornment he

wore his father's gold signet-ring on the little finger of his left

hand and the silver mask of a fox in his green tie.

The lovers proceeded together deep in their own concerns, for they

had been betrothed a week; the startling news was known at Margery's

home in Brent, four miles away down the valley, and to-day her

parents and her brother were coming to the kennels, that they might

dine with Mr. Bullstone and his mother.

The cream from Shipley Farm was for them.

Margery Huxam had turned kennel-maid for love of the life and not

because any reason existed that she should earn her own living.

Barlow Huxam, her father, kept the post-office at Brent as an

addition to his own prosperous drapery establishment. He had but two

children living, and Margery, who adored dogs and understood them,

came to Red House, Jacob Bullstone's home, that she might fill the

vacancy until he should be suited with a new assistant.

The families were long acquainted and Mr. Huxam, little dreaming that

such a great matter would spring from the incident, raised no

objection to his daughter's wish.

She came for a fortnight in friendship, but liked the work so well

that she presently proposed to stop on at a salary; and since she had

proved herself skilled and had won the affection of old Mrs.

Bullstone and Jacob's head kennel-man, he was glad to secure her.

Her parents, however, protested and, after six months, began to

agitate for the return of their only daughter; but when Judith Huxam

demanded that Margery should come home again, the dog-breeder had

discovered that his future happiness depended upon her.

Their courting, at first almost unconscious, proceeded quickly

towards the finish, for man and woman were of a mind, and though a

gap of fifteen years separated them and made Bullstone fearful when

he found the truth, circumstances combined to diminish this

disparity, for the girl had been bred in a puritanical home under a

strenuous mother, who regarded happiness at best as doubtful.

Margery's experience of young men was exceedingly limited and, to

her, Jacob's sobriety, steadfast outlook and fixed opinions were more

attractive than the happy-go-lucky attitude of her own generation.

She loved him very heartily before he had given a gleam that he also

was in love; but her emotion had been of a gentle pattern and thrust

away with secret blushes as something near akin to wickedness. She

felt a gulf was fixed between such an important, well-to-do man and

her young self. Indeed she did not even suffer, but rather laughed

at herself for her moonshiney dreams. Then came the evidence from

the other side and she was overwhelmed to find her power over one

regarded as unyielding before women. He approached her with

humility, declared genuine pride and satisfaction on the discovery of

her love, rejoiced to learn that he seemed not too old to her and

instantly acquainted her parents with the fact that she had consented

to wed him.

Barlow Huxam declared gratification, but his wife was not so well

pleased.

The match, while in every respect a brilliant one and beyond what

they might have hoped for Margery, found her mother in some doubt.

She suspected that fifteen years was too great a difference of age;

and she professed uncertainty concerning the past life of a bachelor

of thirty-five. She did not know anything against Bullstone, or his

parents before him; she could not name the quality of her suspicions,

yet she questioned Margery very closely and warned her of the step

that she designed. But no permanent cloud appeared and Jacob

conducted himself in a manner to disarm Mrs. Huxam; for his views of

matrimony satisfied her and he proposed a settlement that could only

be regarded as generous. In this matter, however, Barlow Huxam was

not behind his future son-in-law.

Twice on Sundays the lover brought Margery to her family, and twice

he worshipped with them at their tabernacle. His behaviour was

agreeable to Mrs. Huxam and her doubts finally dwindled.

To-day, while Margery and Jacob walked side by side towards Red

House, nestling under a shoulder of the hill behind the pine woods,

the girl's parents and her brother were already upon their way,

tramping through shady lanes upward through the valley to Shipley

Bridge.

"I'd best change into a petticoat before they come," said Margery.

"Mother little likes my breeches, and thanks God I shan't wear 'em

much longer."

"I feel the same," said the man. "You know I'm at you to doff them

once for all."

"I love 'em," she declared. "I'll miss them cruel. You courted me

while I was in 'em, and I shall put them on now and again--for luck.

Petticoats slow your going and be tame after breeches."

"'T was never heard that man and wife both wore 'em," he said.

They passed through the woods with the puppies galloping round about,

and then they came to the stone-built home of the Bullstones--a

granite house under red tiles, which covered the upper storey of the

walls also. It basked under the hot sun in a hollow notch of Black

Tor, while the river ran at its feet and a grass lawn spread before

the windows. Above, on the hillside, were scooped terraces where

grew cabbage and turnip, and beyond sprang the trees to the hill

crest westerly. Laurel and rhododendron made the slope snug; the

kennels extended behind the house, while Bullstone's property spread

to the other side of the river also and there an acre or two had been

cleared, where potatoes grew in the rich alluvial. Fowls and ducks

flourished at stream side and the link between Red House and the

outlying cultivation was a bridge of pine logs thrown across Auna,

where her banks rose high.

Everything about the place was neat, trim and stern. The hedges were

clipt, the ground clean; for Jacob Bullstone's mother was an

old-fashioned woman and had lived with a husband inspired by the same

ideas.

"The highest beauty be tidiness," Mrs. Bullstone never wearied of

declaring, and her son was content to echo that opinion. His home

and its surroundings proclaimed the distinction of use, but none

other. There were no flower beds, no attempt to decorate house,

garden, or river. Indeed Auna was chastened by stone-built banks,

until she passed southerly away to the rocks and rapids and the deep

mossy pools, where Red House ducks and geese spent their pleasantest

hours. Nature strove with man, but man conquered for a little space.

Mrs. Bullstone was at the door and repeated her son's directions, as

she took the cream from him.

"Get up to your chamber and doff them clothes, Margery. I well know

your mother don't hold with 'em and I hope you won't wear 'em no

more."

"I'm kennel-maid a little longer, mother," replied the girl. Then

she entered and Jacob conducted the puppies to their quarters.

Behind the house was a large exercise yard, with open compartments

wired off round about it, a boiler house for the preparation of food,

and various buildings on two sides of the square. The red mothers of

the puppies welcomed them back and the little things knew their

parents. Separated dogs barked to Jacob from enclosures and pressed

their noses through the bars; but all were of the same breed and to

an untrained eye exactly resembled each other. Jacob accosted a few,

then turned to a man who was mixing food.

"The goats are gone up Shipley Tor," he said. For goats were a

feature of the establishment. A little flock was kept, since goats'

milk in Bullstone's opinion was the primest food for new born dogs.

Barton Gill, though bald and wrinkled, was not so old as he looked.

As a lad he had worked for Jacob's father and was now little more

than fifty, though he appeared to be nearer seventy. He was slow of

voice and gesture, but still was strong and hearty behind his

wrinkles and somewhat pessimistic view of life.

"They goats be the bane of my days," he said, "and a time's coming

when I shan't be able to keep pace with the toads."

Jacob laughed shortly.

"Must be grizzling--and you only in your full manhood, as we all

know."

A mile away walked slowly Barlow Huxam and his wife, while Jeremy,

their son, a lad of fifteen, loitered behind them, to play and fling

stones; but he kept his parents in sight. Mr. Huxam, a solid fair

man of five and forty, mopped his brow and declared that he must rest

and grow cooler before proceeding.

"We ought to have hired Mr. Catt's little chaise as I ordained to

do," he said. "'Tis drouthy weather and a thunder-storm promising

for certain."

His wife, however, did not agree with him.

"You don't take enough foot exercise, Barlow. If you was to walk

more, it wouldn't pour out of you same as it does. There's no

thunder in the air, else my head would know it. We'll rest by the

bridge since we're a thought before time."

Judith Huxam--a daughter of the prosperous race of the

Pulleyblanks---was the same age as her husband. A dark-haired, neat

woman was she, who put folk in mind of a bantam hen. Always trim,

alert and self-possessed, character marked her face, voice and

opinions. She was pious, with the piety of a generation now

vanishing away, and also very proud; but she had the instinct to hide

much of herself from the world, being seldom in her neighbour's

houses and restrained in the matter of criticism. She was stern and

never forgot a wrong; but she accepted everything that happened,

because she held it her duty to do so. She ruled her husband and her

children as a matter of course, and Mr. Huxam pretended greater

enthusiasm for her bleak religion and opinions than he felt; but he

entertained the keenest admiration for her and, if he ever differed

from her conclusions, it was only in his mind. He never crossed

Judith, but supported her rule in the home, as he had long since

fallen in with her conduct of the shop. Her face was strong and her

natural expression attractive, for she had a frank gaze and regular

features. But her grey eyes were hard, and while a pleasant,

receptive expression marked her features, her lips were set closely

together. She never laughed and rarely smiled, save conventionally

upon customers. She dressed in puritanical fashion and eschewed

finery. Her dark brown hair was parted in the middle and curled up

closely behind in a plain roll. She wore a small bonnet and always

dressed in grey. Her voice was rather low pitched and of agreeable

quality, but she spoke little save to the purpose. Indeed she

distrusted volubility.

The drapery establishment reflected Judith, and young people rarely

patronised it save for necessities. The maidens of Brent held that

if you wanted clothes that wouldn't show, Huxam's might be sought;

but for adornments, fripperies and "fal-lals," one must seek

elsewhere.

At Shipley Bridge the road crossed the river half a mile below Red

House; and here Mr. Huxam stopped, where, shaded by oak trees, there

spread inviting herbage.

"We'll sit here on the spine grass for ten minutes while I cool

down," he said.

He subsided, opened his waistcoat and dabbed his face, hands and neck

with a white handkerchief, while Mrs. Huxam called her son, tidied

him, made him dust his boots with a frond of fern and walk beside her

for the rest of the way.

She looked at a gold watch on a thin gold chain, then paced to a gate

a few yards distant and regarded the roof of a farm that rose under

the flank of Shipley Tor.

"I wonder how Miss Winter and Adam and Samuel are settling in," she

said. "A bit lonesome after Five Elms, and a poor place, so the last

man always declared."

"The last man would have made a poor place of any place," answered

her husband. "He was always clever at picking the eyes out of a farm

and then leaving it for a better than himself to build up again. And

so it will be here; but Winter's got it at a very low rent, and he's

a worker and may do well. His zany brother's a mighty worker also.

The Lord denied wits, but gave him a strong body."

Mrs. Huxam continued to regard the roof of Shipley Farm without

speaking.

"He's a man who'll come to Sunday meeting no matter how long the

way," declared Barlow Huxam hopefully.

"And his sister too. One of the Chosen her, if ever a woman was

chose," answered his wife.

Then Jeremy raised a shout and ran over the bridge.

"Here's Margery!" he cried.

The kennel-maid had put on a blue skirt, a straw hat with a white

ribbon and a plain white blouse. Mr. Huxam rose, while his daughter,

having kissed her brother, now greeted her parents.

"You're hot, you dear," she said to Mr. Huxam; but he declared that

he was now cool again.

They set out, Margery walking between her mother and father, Jeremy

playing with an adult terrier who had accompanied her.

"I hope," said Mrs. Huxam, "that they've made no great meal on our

account."

"They have then. We've got a sucking-pig!"

"A waste, and it ain't the weather for it anyway," declared Judith.

"It's always the weather for sucking-pig," said Mr. Huxam, "though

seldom enough nowadays do any man let himself go in that direction.

A dish for kings, and of such a tender substance that I've never

known the day was too hot to enjoy it. But it asks for mastery in

the kitchen. If I'd known, I'd have let Mrs. Bullstone have a recipe

from my old mother's cookery book. Full of vanished wisdom that

book."

"Fuller of vanished greediness," asserted his wife. "People thought

more of their stomachs in them days; at least you Huxam people did.

The Pulleyblanks----"

She stopped and called to Jeremy.

"Don't run no more--quiet down and walk along with me, boy."

Her eyes softened when they rested on her son.

A cool and refreshing shadow embraced them as they entered the pine

wood; then their destination glinted red through the tree stems and

Jacob Bullstone appeared to welcome them.

"Punctual to the stroke," he said.

"Them as keep a post-office don't fail there," declared Mr. Huxam.

"And how's yourself, Jacob? Still of a mind?"

"So much of a mind that I don't want you people to be gone till

Margery's named the day," answered the lover.

"Plenty of time for that," replied Margery's mother. "There's a lot

to be thought upon."

Her eyes were everywhere. She had a trick to bend her head a little

when she was observing, and now, herself unmarked, Judith took in a

thousand incidents, regarded with approval the spotless purity of the

place, its thrifty details of contrivance and the somewhat brusque

and stark lines of the outlying ground and little grass-covered

garden patch.

She had never been here before, but Red House was familiar to her

husband.

Mrs. Bullstone appeared at the door and in five minutes the party sat

at dinner. The parlour was a plain room with a solid table, solid

chairs and a solid and enormous sideboard bright with cups and

trophies won by Bullstone terriers. A few dog portraits hung upon

the walls, and the empty grate was heaped with red pine cones. Jacob

sat at the head of the table and his mother at the foot, while

Margery and her father were on Bullstone's left, Mrs. Huxam and

Jeremy upon the right.

The master devoted himself to his future mother-in-law.

"Margery favours you, ma'am," he said, "and Master Jeremy's like his

father."

Judith considered the suggestion.

"I wouldn't say that altogether," she answered. "My children's more

Huxam than Pulleyblank; but Thomas, my eldest boy--who died so brave

doing his duty two years ago--he was very like me."

"The daps of his mother was our dear Thomas," added Barlow. Then he

sighed.

"Thomas was all Pulleyblank, same as I am," continued Mrs. Huxam. "A

good young man."

"A sad loss for you," said Mrs. Bullstone.

"No; don't think that. I'm not one of those who say, 'What Thou

doest we know not now.' That's too grudging to the Lord. I know

where Thomas went, and faith is but an idle word if it can't help you

to face the Divine Will. When God sends for a young man, his mother

ought to be gay and proud to let him go."

"No doubt, no doubt," murmured Mrs. Bullstone.

"Faith is a fine thing carried to such a pitch," admitted Jacob.

"Yes," assented Barlow Huxam, "but, all the same, when you think on

the details of that fatal catastrophe, you feel bound to say, 'What

Thou doest we know not now.' For look at it. What happened? Our

Thomas sees a runaway hoss with a trap behind it, and a man and woman

in the trap. And like the chap he was, without a thought of self, he

goes for the creature's head. But he was carried off his legs in an

instant moment, and though he stopped the hoss and saved the man and

woman alive by so doing, the shaft struck him under the ribs and he

lived but three hours afore he went to his reward. And who did he

save? He saved Squire Blake's son and a scarlet woman he was driving

to Plymouth; and Marsden Philip Blake was drunk as a lord at the

time, else the badly used hoss wouldn't have run away."

"All true," said Judith quietly, "and to the common eye it will

always be matter for wonder that Providence worked like that. But no

wonder to me. Marsden Blake's not forgot. He was saved for a deep

reason, and before we die, we shall know it."

"He was up here with the otter hounds last week," said Jacob

Bullstone.

"Wait and watch," answered Mrs. Huxam. "Time will show why my Thomas

was called to save that man. It won't be hid from this generation."

Barlow guided the conversation into cheerfuller channels and praised

the sucking-pig; but he declined the decanter of brown sherry.

"All water drinkers," he said.

"Same here," answered Jacob. "I only bought it on your account."

Mr. Huxam regarded the wine without condemnation.

"Very good to go with such a rare dish," he admitted, "but my family

were never much addicted to it, and Pulleyblanks were famous

teetotallers always--though great on tea."

"I don't remember that we were great on tea," said Judith. "Who was

great on tea, Barlow?"

Mr. Huxam never argued with his wife.

"I'm mistook then," he answered. "I had a fancy your grandmother

doted on it, but no doubt I'm wrong."

"She liked the old herby tea made of marjoram," answered Mrs. Huxam.

"And a very pretty drink too," chimed in Jacob's mother. "I'm old

enough to remember it, and I've often had a mind to store marjoram;

but I dare say now it would seem very weak after proper China tea."

"My mother loves tea; and I'm all for cider," said Bullstone, "but

Margery won't touch even that."

"And never will," promised Mrs. Huxam. "Cider's too often the thin

end of the wedge. I've known it happen so. No young man stops at

cider."

Judith was quite silent for a considerable time after this remark,

and their talk ranged over various subjects.

Jacob felt not sanguine for his new neighbour.

"Adam Winter's making a mistake," he said, "and hardly a man that can

afford to make another by all accounts. A very honest chap they tell

me, but too trustful. No good ever come out of Shipley Farm--else I

dare say I'd have bought it before now; but my father always warned

me against it. I shall lend Winter a hand if it lies in my power,

however."

After dinner Mrs. Bullstone led the way to her little drawing-room

and she and Margery's mother spent half an hour together. It was an

apartment seldom used and impregnated with that faint smell common to

chambers not much occupied. The furniture was ugly and solid--a

suite upholstered in Cambridge blue. Adornments of coloured glass

occupied the mantelshelf, a case of gaudy stuffed birds stood on a

bracket, and another of waxen fruits filled the midst of a round and

highly polished walnut table in the centre of the room. A few books

were disposed round the central decoration, and upon a little

"what-not" reposed tropical shells. Elsewhere, as the chief feature

of a sideboard with a looking-glass back, a large and heavy book with

gilt edges reposed upon a red wool mat, while a smaller book lay upon

the big one.

Mrs. Huxam observed these two books and her eyes narrowed; but she

said nothing.

They chatted concerning their betrothed children, and each implicitly

indicated that the other mother might consider herself fortunate.

Then, apparently conscious that this attitude was exhausted, Jacob's

parent began to praise Margery and declared her to be a good and

attractive girl, well suited by her nature to her future husband and

by her nurture to the varied duties and obligations of married life.

Judith listened, but it was characteristic of her that when others

echoed her opinion, she generally began to modify it, and now, even

in the matter of her daughter, she put a period to the elder's

praises.

"We mustn't be blind, however," she said. "I think with you that

there's great virtues in Margery, and I've watched her grow up and

done my best to build her character; but she's not perfect: there's a

full share of Huxam. The Huxam qualities are there--good as well as

bad. And the good you've noted very clever, and I hope the bad won't

have any chance to display themselves. Yet that's a vain hope, too,

because the Tempter always takes very good care that life shall

strike at the roots of our weakness sooner or later, and touch the

danger spots."

"And what might they be, Mrs. Huxam?"

"A tendency to take the line of least resistance. We're all prone to

take it, but I hope your son doesn't. In my experience I find that

nine times out of ten, when two courses of action offer, nature,

which is our weakness, points one way; and religion, which is our

strength, points another. And religion's way is almost certain to be

the unpleasant one--so certain, in fact, that you may lay it down as

a rule the right way is always the one you shrink from."

"Well, I much hope they won't have no difficult and painful puzzles

to solve like that," said Mrs. Bullstone. "At any rate at first. If

they get used to each other and face life in love and understanding,

then troubles, when they come, will no doubt be met in a large,

Christian spirit by both, with love to lessen 'em. But I don't fear.

There was only one sort of woman I wouldn't much have liked for

Jacob, and that's the light-minded sort--not the bad sort, but just

the light-minded, pleasure-seeking kind of woman, who can't see that

marriage is a serious subject, but flits after amusement where she

may, and takes the whole solemn business of life and death as though

it didn't matter to her, no more than it does to a butterfly without

a soul to save."

"There are plenty such, I grant," said Judith; "and the men that

hanker after that empty sort deserve what they get."

"Lord knows what anybody deserves," confessed Mrs. Bullstone. "The

older you grow, the doubtfuller you be bound to get about rewards and

punishments, for whatever bounds the young break nowadays, they must

keep inside their characters; and to punish for wickedness they can't

help be, in honesty, no fairer than to reward for goodness that comes

natural. However, I know you won't see with me there, because, in

your Persuasion, your text is 'Many be called, but few chosen.'"

"And don't life show the text to be true?" asked Mrs. Huxam. "Don't

we see the many fail and the few succeed?"

"Leave that. I'm talking of Jacob and saying how glad I am that he

never cared for the wenches who put their pleasure first. My son has

had nothing to do with women, and you may say, till your Margery won

his heart with her beauty and simple, fine nature and, of course, her

worship of the dog kind--for dogs draw folk together in a way no

other beasts can--till then, Jacob's been heart-whole and come to

thirty-five without knowing the meaning of love. So it's all poured

out for Margery; and that's why I'm telling you I feel it a great

blessing she's one of the self-contained, sober sort--not a gadabout

or hungry for admiration. For if she had been, my son wouldn't have

liked it. His admiration she'll get and keep for ever; but, if I

know anything, I should say he might be a jealous man and greedy as

the grave in that direction."

"I don't quarrel with that," answered Margery's mother.

"Jealousy--so to call it--ought to be there in reason. But no sane

woman seeks to provoke it. He'll have no cause for that, and I hope

my daughter won't neither."

They talked amicably and found themselves in agreement, allowing for

the difference of their outlook and convictions. Judith perceived

that Mrs. Bullstone was honestly and deeply attached to her daughter,

and her study of Jacob led her to hope that he might furnish the

strength and force of character she held Margery to lack. Yet,

within this hour, a thing had much disquieted her. It was not very

great in itself, but argued faults in a vital direction--so Judith

feared.

The men called them out, and together all visited the kennels and

listened to Jacob expatiate on the subject of his Irish terriers.

Neither Barlow nor his wife liked dogs, but they were patient under

the ordeal.

Presently they walked beside the river and, after an early tea, the

Huxams started to return home. Mr. Bullstone offered to drive them,

but Mrs. Huxam declined and held the exercise would do her husband

good. Margery and Jacob accompanied them as far as Shipley Bridge;

then they parted, and while the lovers loitered by the river,

Margery's family proceeded homeward.

Judith preserved silence and her husband respected it. She had not

spoken so much for a long time. They walked through the gracious

evening light now roseal on the fields and hedges. The slow miles

passed and still Mrs. Huxam spoke not.

Then Barlow lifted his voice as Brent appeared beneath them,

stretched like a grey cobweb on the green vale.

"All gone off very nice and pleasant--eh? You've seen and heard

nought that wasn't convenient, Judy?"

"I've heard nothing, allowing for the difference between our clear

sight and the cloudy view of other Christians," she answered.

"Nothing I've heard, but something I've seen that was very

ill-convenient indeed, and I'm sorry I did see it."

"Dear me--I'm sorry, too, then," answered he. "Nothing as can't be

righted, I hope?"

"The thing can be righted," she answered, "and for that matter I did

right it with my own hand; but the fault that committed the thing

goes far deeper. It was in the parlour, where I sat with Mrs.

Bullstone. And a very nice room too. And on a shelf lay the family

Bible and upon it somebody had set another book!"

"Dear, dear," replied Mr. Huxam, displaying more concern than, as a

reasonable being, he felt. "That's bad! You never did ought to put

any other printed word on a Bible, of course."

"It's hard to think of a live Christian doing so. But he'd laid down

a dog book on God's Word; and it went through me like a knife."

"It would; it would," murmured Barlow.

"I took it off before the man's mother. I said no word, but just

took it off and put it aside and looked at her. She didn't seem to

understand. I'll tell Margery on Sunday."

"More thoughtlessness than wickedness, I'm sure," ventured Mr. Huxam;

but she continued to take a serious view.

"A man of thirty-five has no excuse for thoughtlessness," she

answered. "It was indifference, and that makes it a very serious

thing."

Meantime Jacob and Margery wandered till the stars sent them

homeward. They assured each other that all had gone very well, and

the girl declared how she had never seen her mother so bright,

cheerful, or talkative.

CHAPTER II

ON UGBOROUGH BEACON

There came an August morning when Margery and Jacob made holiday and

left Red House after breakfast to climb a famous hill some few miles

distant.

Bullstone designed to visit his two farms, which extended their acres

and lifted their homesteads upon the way; and they started, after an

early breakfast, with two of the red terriers for company.

The road ran west and brought them through ferny lanes, that twined

like a necklace beneath the border heights of the moor; while strung

upon them at intervals stood farmhouses in coomb and hollow, where

streams from aloft descended to the vale. Round each dwelling spread

orchard and meadow and dark tilth; behind them heaved the grey hills,

now brushed with the light of the ling.

Bullstone Farm, the ancient abode of Jacob's family, first appeared,

and he spoke to his companion concerning the name.

"We were called Bullhornstone once," he said, "and on the old graves

at Ugborough village you can see slates dating back far more than a

hundred years under that name. But I suppose some busy forefather of

mine found it was too much of a mouthful and dropped the 'horn.' And

he dropped his luck at the same time. My grandfather, who died here,

called himself 'Bullstone,' and there's a very good tomb to him and

my grandmother at Ugborough that I'll show you some day. The

family's nearly petered out. I am an only son; but I've got cousins

in America--in Kentucky--heard from one not six months ago."

Margery was interested by one detail of this narrative.

"How did your forbear drop his luck?" she asked.

"Along of a wicked wife," he answered shortly. "No tale for your

nice ears, yet a common enough thing for that matter. We're jealous

folk, or was. He had a wife, and she had a lover, and Michael

Bullstone caught them together and slew the pair of them. Then he

gave himself up; but women were a bit lower in male value then than

they are now, I reckon. The case was plain, but the jury--married

men, no doubt--brought in Michael Bullstone not guilty. It put the

fear of God into a good few wives I reckon. But the strange part of

the tale is to tell. He was forty when he killed them---forty and a

childless man. But at fifty he married one of the Elvins, of the

same family that are at Owley Farm now. Jemima Elvin he married, and

he had three sons and one daughter by her. People said it was like

the tale of Job--only in that case the Devil took everything from the

man but his wife; and in Michael Bullstone's case, his bad wife was

the only thing he lost, and that by his own act."

"'Tis beyond belief to me," said Margery, "that a woman can ever roam

from the man she loves."

"Such good-for-noughts don't know the meaning of love," he answered;

"and you'll find such dregs and trash of women generally end in the

gutter, where they belong."

"Must be an awful thing if love dies," she said.

"Love doesn't die," he answered with ingenuous conviction. "The

woman that can look on her husband with a cold heart never loved him.

True love is what you and I know--built for a lifetime."

"At first I was so proud, when you told me you loved me, that I

couldn't feel anything else but the pride. It seemed too wonderful a

thing to have happened to such an everyday girl as me. But when it

came home, then the secret love I'd hid for you burst out in a sort

of triumphant worship, till I felt, even if I died that instant

minute, I'd have had more happiness than any woman ever deserved."

He laughed at that.

"You're the old-fashioned sort, I reckon--content for man to be

master," he replied. "Women don't think so much like that now

seemingly. They want to run their own lives a bit more and be free;

but they'll soon tire of that caper and find security is better than

adventures. You'll be the crown of my house and my mother's right

hand so long as she's spared; and I'll do the man's work and stand

between you and every wind that blows if I can."

"And well I know it," she said.

At Bullstone, the farmhouse stood back from the lane at the summit of

a steep hill, and everything was well ordered. The whitewashed front

of the house shone in bright sunlight, only broken by the open

windows, and a great climbing shrub of buddleia, whose purple tassels

fell over the porch. The roof was of Delabole slate, and behind the

farm, a rising copse straggled up to frontier ridges of Ugborough

Beacon. Round about the farmyard stood buildings, mostly under

corrugated iron, that glittered silver bright, and in the porch sat

an old man shelling peas.

He saw Jacob and Margery enter the outer gate and came to welcome

them.

"Well, Mr. Catt, and how d'you find yourself?" asked the landlord,

shaking hands.

"Pretty peart, master; but seventy-five years is a middling load,"

answered the other, putting his hand to his ear. "And who's the

young lady? They tell me----"

"I know what they tell you, Matthew; they tell you; I've gone the way

of all flesh and fallen in love."

"So they do then; and this will be Mrs. Huxam's daughter."

He shook hands with Margery.

"A godly mother you've got, my dear, and a godly husband you'll have.

Come in and take a sup."

Jacob Bullstone's eyes were about the place while he smiled on the

old man.

"How's Mrs. Parsons?" he asked,

"Nicely. She was here a minute agone. Dogs I see. When was you

known without a dog? I'll call her."

Mr. Catt, who farmed Bullstone with a widowed daughter to keep his

house, brought them to the kitchen, and Margery praised the room. It

was rosy-washed, of surprising cleanliness and bright with brass upon

the mantel-shelf and copper on the walls. There hung two

warming-pans of ancient pattern and, between them, an 'eight-day'

clock.

"You're a thought slow," said Jacob; then came Milly Parsons.

"Wish you both good luck and good fortune," she said, shaking hands

with them. "When's it going to be, master?"

"Next November, Milly; and I'm hopeful you and Mr. Catt will mind the

day and come along as my guests."

She brightened.

"Thank you, I'm sure. A great compliment."

Milly was a thin, sallow woman with pale hair and a kindly, but

anxious face. With her came a pretty little, fair girl of ten years

old--her daughter. Milly raised her voice and talked to her father,

who heard badly.

"Mr. Bullstone's inviting us to the wedding next November, my dear."

"If I'm here, I'll gladly come," said Matthew.

Mrs. Parsons fetched a seed cake, two plates and two glasses.

"I was just thinking of 'forenoons," she said. "Father likes a snack

about now. He've been trying a cup of cocoa, and he catches a nice

bit of heat from it. He's a cold, old man, because he can't travel

much about nowadays. But laziness don't fatten him. I wish it

would. This is my daughter, Jane."

Mr. Catt nodded and smiled, aware that they were speaking of him, but

not hearing the words. Margery made friends with the child who was

very shy.

"I've got an old coat lined with rabbit-skin and only a bit worn,"

said Jacob. "Too hot for me in the coldest weather. Would he take

it amiss from an old friend?"

"Not him," answered Mrs. Parsons. "He'd be proud to wear a coat

after you I'm sure."

"He shall have it, then, next time somebody's along for Red House."

"Your father was always his great hero," continued Mr. Catt's

daughter. "He often runs back over the past now and always says the

same thing. He says 'Ah--ah--there were giants in the land in them

days, and George Bullstone was the best of 'em.'"

"I like to hear the old generation praise my father," answered Jacob.

"And now we must be gone. We're holiday making I must tell

you--going to eat our dinner on top of the Beacon."

"And why not? Not often you make holiday."

Mr. Catt accompanied them to the outer gate and, as they went on

their way, Jacob praised Matthew.

"Done for now--just waiting for time to throw him; but a rare good

farmer in his day, and he's got three understanding men, so

Bullstone's all right. A lot of quiet wisdom in the old chap that he

didn't get out of books. The Catts were as good as the Bullstones

once--yeomanry people like us; but they went down and we held up."

"There's a lot of Catts at Brent. One's a job master, and father

thinks very well of him," said Margery.

"I wish Joe Elvin at Owley had a bit of old Matthew's sense; but he's

always under the weather--a complaining man. Married to a good

woman, though a bit fanciful in her ideas. She was upper housemaid

at Beggar's Manor, and you'll find women who have gone to service in

big houses pick up a lot of notions--some useful and some useless."

"Father, when he was a boy, took the first telegram that ever came to

Brent out to Beggar's Manor," said Margery.

"A funny name for an estate; but no beggars ever lived there in human

memory I should reckon."

Their way fell sharply beside an orchard beyond Bullstone and

descended into a valley, where through the green and tangled bottom

ran Glaze Brook. The road crossed this little water by a bridge of

one arch, where, through a thicket of over-grown laurel, hazel and

alder, peered the grey ruin of Owley Mill. But now its wheel had

vanished, its roof was gone and only shattered walls remained.

Beside the bridge stood a tall pear tree--a ghost of a tree draped in

grey lichens that fluttered like an old woman's hair from every

branch. The venerable thing still lived; leaves struggled with the

parasite; scattered blossoms starred the boughs in early spring and a

few small fruits annually ripened.

"Still it stands--a hundred years old, they say, and may be more,"

declared Jacob. Then they breasted the hill beyond and presently

reached Owley. The farm showed fewer marks of prosperity than

Bullstone. Green mosses throve on its ancient thatch, and the man

who here pursued his life was not much disposed to tidiness.

"Who'd think that this was the richer place?" asked Jacob.

On one side of the way spread the farm, with fields round about; on

the other stood Owley Cot, a pretty dwelling bowered in climbing

roses with two great red firs springing beside it. Margery praised

the cottage.

"I always think that the dinkiest little home I ever saw," she said.

"But Mr. Elvin's mother ain't too contented for all that."

"Your home is nought if your heart's heavy," answered Jacob. "She

knows that Joe is not particular happy, and he gets his cranky nature

from her. Yet I'll be sorry if he's got to go."

"He pays his rent of course?"

"Oh, yes; but it drags a bit sometimes. He's had a good year,

however; and his corn is above average as he admits himself, so it

must be wonderful."

They entered, and Joe Elvin--a tall, thin man with a long nose, a

black beard and a discontented face--himself answered Bullstone's

knock.

They shook hands and Jacob explained that he had called on pleasure,

not business.

The farmer welcomed them and took them into the kitchen, where his

wife was making pastry, and two little boys played in a corner with

the dried knuckle bones of sheep.

"Just want to introduce Mrs. Bullstone to be," said Jacob.

Mrs. Elvin, a handsome, big-built woman, showed pleasure and

congratulated the lovers. Her little boys came and shook hands.

They were a well-mannered, cheerful pair and resembled their mother.

"Going to make farmers of 'em I hope, Joe?" asked the owner of Owley;

but Mr. Elvin was doubtful.

"Robert shapes for it," he answered. "But Jack is all for the sea."

"That's because he doesn't know anything about the sea," asserted

Jacob. "You keep him on the land, Joe. There's little enough to be

picked up off the sea, by all accounts."

The men strolled into the yard presently, for Elvin had a sick

sheep-dog and Bullstone readily offered to see it.

"Just my luck if he's going to die," said Joe moodily. "Best ever I

had, and sheep-dogs be so scarce you can't get a trained one over

distemper for money."

"He's not going to die," declared Bullstone. "He's too thin--same as

you are yourself."

He prescribed for the dog and Joe continued to grumble until

Bullstone grew impatient.

"What the mischief's the matter with you? Always grizzling for

nought. A man in fair health with a good wife, a good mother and two

fine, healthy sons. What more d'you want?"

Joe laughed mirthlessly.

"It sounds all right to your ears I dare say. But if you looked

underneath, perhaps you'd find a different story. Don't much matter

how good people are if they ain't good to you? Nobody knows where

the shoe pinches except the wearer, and you've no right to say I'm

one of the lucky ones, because you don't know nothing about it."

"Don't meet trouble half-way, Joe, and keep your eye on the bright

side."

"Time's past for silly sayings. Life's broke me and I know it; but

why it's broke me, and how it's broke me, be my own business."

"Rubbish and stuff! Get some physic for your bad digestion and

you'll soon feel hopefuller. It ain't life's broke you, but your own

low-spirited outlook on life. Life don't break us. It's the canker

inside spoils all when it works through. You can't help being a

melancholy sort of man, I suppose. That's your nature. But you've

got brains in your head and reasoning powers, and you ought to fight

yourself and have it out, and balance your good against your bad; and

look round with seeing eyes and count how many can't hold a candle to

you for fortune."

"A canker inside is a very good figure of speech--a very clever

thought," admitted Mr. Elvin. "And I'll tell you another thing: it's

not much use for them as haven't got cankers to preach to them as

have. Us ban't born with cankers most times. They grow, and I'm not

grumbling against my lot in particular. I know there's many things

might be worse. Only I've got in a state when I don't much like my

fellow-creatures, and I don't like myself no more than the rest."

"A foolish thing to feel. We have our faults and our virtues also.

You ought to see the faults in yourself and the virtues in other

people. At your gait, you'll end by thinking life isn't worth while

at all."

"I've thought that a powerful long time."

"Well, set about to make it worth while then--and if you can't make

it worth while for yourself--then make it worth while for your wife

and children. Do that, and you'll mighty soon find it worth while

for yourself too."

"Sounds all right," admitted Joe. "You wise blades always do sound

all right; but against a canker wise words be vain. A canker was a

very true word, Jacob."

Bullstone preached a little longer, asked Joe to come and see him at

Red House and shook his hand in friendly fashion when they parted.

He sighed, however, to Margery as they entered Ugborough Plain above

Owley and began to climb the fern-clad bosom of the Beacon.

"There's a man Fate can't tempt to be sane," he said. "And if I were

Fate and had the handling of him, I'd give over treating him fair and

knock him about a bit. He's one of the sort that don't know he's

born. He's asking for trouble, and his nature so poisons his mind

and blinds his eyes that he can't see his blessings, but looks

through and beyond into fancied woe that isn't there."

"Don't you know why?" she asked. "Old Mrs. Elvin will tell you. His

father lost his wits and was put away."

Jacob reflected.

"I'd forgot that," he replied. "I'll mind it next time I have a word

with him."

They ascended by a vast but gentle slope to Ugborough's crown of

cairns, and presently sat at the summit, with the sun and wind in

their faces and their backs against the stones.

Beneath them extended the mighty prospect of the South Hams, a mosaic

of hamlet, forest and field, that seemed to be basking in the sun and

stretching itself like a living thing. The varied colours of red

tilth and pasture were washed in air, brought together and made

harmonious. Earth rolled hugely out to the dim skyline of the sea,

and westerly the Channel bit into the land, while easterly, Devon

rose and swept the great waters out of sight behind her cliffs and

ridges. Knap and knoll ascended to break the coverlet of the fields;

here woods darkened the land and cloud shadows, vaster than they, hid

a parish in their passing and swept over the sun-soaked expanses, to

quicken the landscape with play of light and shadow.

"How tiny Brent looks from up here," laughed Margery; "just a grey

smudge and no more. And Brent Hill, shrunk to no bigger than a slice

of cake on end!"

"It's good to get a bird's view sometimes," said Jacob. "Steadies

the mind and makes you see things their proper size compared to other

things."

"But I was angry the first time I came up here, as a little one with

a school treat," continued the girl. "Properly vexed I was, because

it seemed all wrong somehow in my young eyes that the houses should

be so small and the church and chapels no more than spots. And

Marley Wood, that had always seemed to me the most wonderful place of

mysteries on earth, was just a dark dab no bigger than a

coal-scuttle, and the railway a thread, and the great thundering

trains no bigger nor faster than caterpillars! It didn't seem right

to have things turned upside down like that."

"I bet you were glad to go down among the familiar sights again and

find they hadn't changed, Margery."

"But they had," she answered. "I couldn't forget. I tried--I tried

hard, but children remember so. I hated the Beacon for days after

that, and was always glad when his head was covered with clouds, so I

couldn't see him. I thought he was a wicked monster that had gone

and spoiled things I set store by, and showed me they were small and

mean compared to him. But after to-day I'll forgive him."

Jacob felt mildly surprised at this unexpected glimpse into his

sweetheart's mind.

"Who'd have thought a chit of a child could get such fancies," he

said; "but I dare say girls are different from boys and dream all

manner of funny things like that."

"Don't boys dream too?" she asked.

"Maybe some do. I never did. All the same I like to hear about your

dreaming. Pretty I call it."

"No, you don't, Jacob. You'd call it silly in anybody but me. But

so it was. I made up things and told 'em to other children. And I

tried telling 'em to my brother, Thomas, who was some years younger

than me. He had a great contempt for girls, however. He was just

short of seventeen when he died, poor little chap."

"Took after your mother, she says."

"Yes, terrible serious, and that good! Goodness was his nature.

Jeremy's more like me."

"Your mother's a thought stern."

Margery nodded.

"Brings religion into everything," she answered. "A wonderful mother

she's been. You mustn't mind my seeing a lot of her after we're

married, Jacob. The little that's good in me I owe to her."

"You're frightened of her?"

Margery considered this.

"I was--we all were. A sort of love we'd got that didn't cast out

fear exactly. But I'm not frightened of her now. I trust her so in

every thing. Where there's perfect trust, there didn't ought to be

fear."

"I feel a very great respect of her, but she's hard," declared Jacob.

"I suppose she is to you," admitted Margery, "and I'll tell you why

she seems so. 'Tis her great goodness and high religion. Very few

can rise to it; and to everyday people mother does seem hard; but

it's only because most are soft. There's a bit of jealousy also.

Because even good people know they can't be as good as she is all

round."

Jacob differed and held Mrs. Huxam to be narrow and self-righteous;

but he did not say so.

"Don't you fear I shall quarrel with her," he said. "She's the

mother of my wife to be, and I'll be a very good son to her if she

lets me alone."

"She lets everybody alone when she can't help them," answered

Margery. "She pours her whole thoughts and all her time into

religion and the shop. It was a grief to her that I didn't go into

the shop; and, looking back, I always wonder how I didn't; but I was

such a one for out of doors, and father supported me, and doctor told

her I'd be a stronger girl if I lived in the air. Till I was fifteen

I was a poor, pinnikin thing."

"Never!"

"I was then--you look at my first photograph, took with Thomas and

Jeremy. But now I'm--so strong as a pony."

They ate their meal and Margery did most of the talking, while Jacob,

his hunger satisfied, lolled and smoked and listened to her.

Presently they set their faces northward and tramped Ugborough Moor,

their goal, Three Barrows, towering ahead among lesser hills. Jacob

dearly loved the Moor and discoursed upon it for his sweetheart's

benefit.

"They are cairns, not barrows," he explained, when they stood on the

great hill; but Margery was occupied with her old thoughts.

"Now even Ugborough looks small," she declared, gazing down whence

they had come. "He's not everybody, after all!"

The feminine view amused Jacob and he declared the unimportance of

size.

"It's not the greatness of a thing in bulk; it's the goodness and

fineness in quality that matters," he told her. "Now we're lifted up

between two rivers. Down there runs the Ernie and away beyond Zeal

Plains lie the famous 'rings' and your beloved Auna."

They talked of the 'old men' who had built the ruined pounds,

alignments and hut circles.

"Were they half apes, or creatures much like ourselves?" asked

Margery. "Father says they were less than us, and mother doubts if

they had souls at all. But mother says there can't be much hope for

any before Jesus Christ came, whatever they were."

Bullstone laughed.

"And little hope for very many that came since, if Mrs. Huxam's

right. I trust you are a bit larger hearted in that matter. It's

not often you see such a terrible, good woman with such harsh views

on the subject of heaven and hell as her."

Margery looked uncomfortable.

"It's hard to think so few be chosen; but of course there's chapter

and verse for it," she answered. "I dare say a lot more will be

saved than mother fears."

"A bootless business," he answered. "After all, there's no higher

thought for living man than his duty to his neighbour; and if you do

that, you'll mostly find you're doing your duty to yourself. God

forbid I should quarrel with your mother; but I won't pretend,

Margery; I don't go all the way with her and I'm glad of it."

The girl did not reply and he talked of the Moor.

"The 'old men' are gone," he said, "and be sure they were men and

women as good as we, if not so clever. They lived hard for certain,

but I dare say they had their bit of fun, if it was only fighting;

and as for goodness and hope of salvation, who are we, with all our

comforts and inventions, to deny goodness to them, or the eternal

reward of goodness? Why in the name of charity must nine out of

every ten humans that come into the world be doomed to hell? What

did the Lord die for, Margery, if all the doubtful characters are to

be damned?"

"Leave it," she said. "I feel same as you; but I haven't thought

about such fearful things and more have you; but mother and father

have. You must give them best in that matter, please, Jacob."

She was pained and they fell silent for a while. The man resolved to

enlarge her ideas presently, and felt a smoulder of indignation that

a creed so ugly to him should have seared the mind of an innocent and

happy girl.

They still held north over wild lands with the heights rolling about

them; then they reached the ancient Abbot's Way, running east and

west, and met Auna's stream near Huntingdon Cross, a granite memorial

from olden time. Less than five feet high it stood above the heath.

"Here's the Forest Boundary," said Jacob, "and now we'll get to the

Warren House yonder, rest a bit and start for home.'

"I always feel sorry to turn at the end of a great day," she

answered, "and this is the greatest day, but one, that ever I have

lived."

He kissed her.

"And that one was the day you asked me to marry you, Jacob."

"Don't I know it?"

The Warren House stood before them under a ragged sycamore. It was

almost the loneliest inhabited dwelling in Devon, and its squat,

white face peered out upon the wilderness from under a black,

tar-pitched roof. The rabbit warrens spread on either hand and the

dwelling lay in the protection of a tumulus that piled up to the

northward.

"I love this forgotten place," declared Bullstone. "In some

moods--not now, but once when I was younger and less content than

now--I've thought it would be a very good place to live, beyond the

fret and cark of life."

But Margery shivered.

"I'd have to be broke in mind and body and not wishful to live at

all, before I'd live here," she said.

Indeed the spot was somewhat melancholy and calculated to chill a

cheerful spirit. Death seemed to have made this place a home.

Evidences of mortality stared round about. In one corner of the

little yard was a heap of bones, and suspended from a low bough of

the sycamore, there hung a flayed horse by a hook.

"I'm sorry for my pretty Auna that she has to pass up here," declared

Margery. "She must be properly glad to wind away down into our

beautiful valley and come to Red House and Shipley Bridge."

"You should see Auna Head," he answered,--"that's where she rises, in

a desert of bog and cotton grass under Ryder's Hill. Lonesome there

if you like. Hardly will you hear a bee booming and never see colt

or head of kine. Nothing but the pad marks of a fox and the sweep of

his brush in the mud. We'll ride up some Sunday when I've got your

pony. Now let's go in, and you'll see two men that are so nearly

content as ever I knew men to be, for all their loneliness. Father

and son they are."

"I know them well enough," she answered, "I've often met 'em coming

in with rabbits when I was exercising the dogs."

"The deuce you have! And never told me?"

She smiled at him.

"Benny Veale's a good-looking chap, and his father's a fine old man

and kindly."

"I'm hearing things," exclaimed Jacob.

"You get to talk to a lot of people out with the puppies.

Everybody's so interested in them."

"And interested in you, I reckon. Well, you won't walk puppies and

talk to strangers much longer."

Now came a riot of life in the shape of the warrener's dogs. Half a

dozen lean, wiry creatures, barking and gambolling, ran before a man.

They worked for him on the warren, and the dead horse represented

meals to come. They wagged their tails and saluted the Irish

terriers in friendship. Benny Veale followed them--a sun-tanned, red

lad in a blue sailor's jersey and long boots. He was carrying a

dozen dead rabbits, but threw them down and saluted the visitors.

"Who'd have thought to see you, Mr. Bullstone!" he exclaimed,

grinning at Margery.

"Where's the governor?" asked Jacob.

"He'll be along direckly minute."

"Can you give us a cup of tea, Ned?"

"Ess I can, then; I'll make it."

"How's the rabbits?"

"No lack--just getting busy again; but us don't do much for a

fortnight yet."

He lifted his voice and shouted.

"Here's Mr. Bullstone come up over, father."

Then an old, bent man appeared from the hillocks of the warren. He

walked with a long stick and was bowed in the back and lame; but he

revealed a cheerful countenance and proved an elderly edition of his

son, though his red hair was nearly white and had dwindled to little

patches above his ears. Upon his head not a hair remained.

He beamed from a mouth wherein teeth were few.

"So here's the she!" he said, first shaking Margery's hand. "And I

wish you both luck I'm sure. 'Tis a terrible blow to Benny I can

tell you, for he's been chattering about you, Miss, ever since he

first catched sight of you along with the little dogs."

Benny did not hear this jest: he had gone in to prepare tea; but

Jacob did hear and little liked it.

"You're getting too old for this place and this job," he said.

"About time you took your bones down to the village, Frederick."

"Granted," answered Mr. Veale. "I did ought to be gone; but I say

that every winter, and yet find myself up for one more season come

summer again. I'm better this year than what I was last."

"You look very well indeed, Mr. Veale," declared Margery.

"The point of the wedge is in," confessed Frederick humorously.

"Death have got it among my bones, and will hammer it home in God's

good time; but my vitals is all working very suent yet, and if I

sleep a lot, I'm wonderful between whiles."

They entered a rough, unclean kitchen cumbered with trappers' tools.

Jacob was not at ease and regretted that they had come. He cut short

Benny in some simple gallantries and having drunk a cup of tea,

declared that they must push forward.

But Mr. Veale protested.

"Bide a bit," he said, "and smoke your pipe. Us don't have visitors

very oft I warn 'e."

"I do trust you be going to ask us to the wedding, Miss," ventured

Benny, who could not take his eyes off Margery's face.

"I'd like for you to come," she answered. "I hope there will be a

brave rally of neighbours I'm sure."

"You'll be married from the post-office, of course," assumed Benny's

father. "Trust Mr. and Mrs. Huxam to do it in good order. But be

she willing to go to Church, or can the Chosen Few hold lawful

marriage?"

"It's going to be in Church, because Mr. Bullstone's Church of

England," explained Margery.

"And when do it happen, Miss?" asked Benny.

"Next November."

Jacob gave each man a fill from his pouch and the talk ran for a time

on dogs; then he rose to depart.

"Well, may your love adventures all turn out well and fine," said Mr.

Veale, "and the Lord remember you and be good to the pair of you."

Benny shyly took a sprig of white heath from a jam jar, where it

stood in water.

"Found it yesterday. Please accept of it, Miss."

She thanked him and guessed he had intended to present it on the

following day, when it was probable they would have met at Shipley

Bridge--she with her puppies, he with a cart of rabbits on his way to

Brent. But before Huntingdon Warren House was lost on their homeward

way, Jacob asked her to drop the flower.

"I don't like that sort of nonsense," he said. "The young man made a

hole in his manners offering it, in my opinion. I'll forgive him

this time, because he used to be a sailor and they don't know better."

Margery instantly flung away the blossoms.

"A mannerless oaf," added Jacob, "else he'd have known wiser than to

stare at you as though you were a show. I'll ask you not to take

note of him if you meet him again without me."

Margery wondered and her heart beat a little quicker.

"Isn't he a good sort of man?" she asked.

"For all I know; but the woman that's going to marry me needn't

trouble whether any other man's good or not."

"That's true," she said, smiling to herself. "I never thought about

how good you were when I began to love you--only how wonderful and

precious. Love don't take much account of goodness or badness I

reckon."

"Very often not, till too late."

"Then it's a bit of added fortune to fall in love with a right good

man," she said.

"Safest no doubt. But I wasn't quite like you. I did take into

account your goodness; and I wouldn't have let myself love you, as I

do love you, if you hadn't been better than gold. If I'd found you

were light and didn't take life seriously, I should still have been

interested in you and anxious for your future and wishful to advance

it; but I shouldn't have fallen in love with you, Margery."

"You fright me when you say that," she answered, "because we all know

lovers can't see straight; and now I shall fear you'll find me not

half so good as you think."

"There--there; now you're fishing for praise! You know yourself very

well; and if you hadn't been my sort, you wouldn't have fallen in

love with me. And don't you be fearing I'm too serious and like to

bore you. I love life and the good things of life, though work's the

best of them and wears best. But we won't miss the junkettings and

revels now and then; though with your upbringing, I shouldn't wonder

if you proved a thought more stiff-starched than I, for all my age

and experience."

They chatted very joyously together and then a good thing happened,

for in the shaking moss, where a spring was born and bubbled up out

of the granite, Jacob marked a piece of bog heather, white as snow,

and though he had to wade half up his leggings to get it, he did not

hesitate.

"There!" he said, "there's your white heather, and now you've got

your luck from me and none else."

"I'll treasure it up for ever and ever," she said. "I've got my luck

from you--that's a true word in the sight of God; and I hope a time

is coming when you'll say you've got your luck from me."

"Luck's a poor word," he answered. "I've got my new life from you,

Margery. All that's coming means you--all."

"Who laughed at me and said I was talking poetry on Ugborough?" she

asked, with the evening light on her dark hair and in her eyes.

Jacob put his arm round her.

"What I say isn't poetry--unless God's truth be poetry," he answered.

So they came home together beside the river.

CHAPTER III

THE RESCUE

Two persons, ignorant of each other's presence, sat nigh the river on

a windy day in October. The latter rains had fallen, the springs

were unsealed. Each rillet was swollen to a gushing stream and the

rivers ran in torrents. North and south they shouted from their

drowned fountains and hurried a mighty volume of cherry red and spumy

water back again to the Channel and the Severn Sea, whence it had

come.

Auna, running riotously high above her summer bed, hung dead sticks

and withered foliage on inundated branch and bough, to mark her

progress and leave a signal of her autumn frolic. She shouted, wild

as a mænad, and leapt from rock to rock, swirling here, flinging

wide, glassy billows there, and submerging each familiar stock and

stone along her banks. The height of the freshet was over and the

river had already fallen a foot from her torrent of the day before.

Now sunshine filled the valley, while the fires of the fall flashed

on oak and beech and the last of the rowan berries.

On Shipley Bridge sat a man smoking and waiting to keep an

appointment. He was to meet Benny Veale from the warrens, and beside

him, in a limp heap of grey and white fur, lay a dozen dead rabbits.

Adam Winter, the new tenant of Shipley Farm, was a man of thirty with

a fair, commonplace face. He stood only five feet eight, but was

well built and strongly put together. He wore a small moustache and

a little patch of sandy whisker before each ear. His pale blue eyes

were kindly, the expression of his face amiable, easy and rather

wistful.

He had failed at Brent and lost half his capital, an inheritance from

his dead father; and now he was trying his luck again on a smaller

place, with the moorman's privileges of turbary and grazing. A

maiden aunt kept house for him, and his right hand was an elder

brother, Samuel Winter, a man weak-minded and lacking in

self-control, yet resolute to work, happy in solitude and not

difficult to manage.

Adam had made a start and being of a temperate and reflective nature

in most affairs of life, faced the future without fear. He was not

ambitious, or concerned to do much more than keep his aunt and

brother and himself in solvency. Five years earlier he had been in

love in a tepid fashion, but his romance came to nothing and its

failure left him cast down for a short while only. He soon

recovered, but revived no ambition to wed.

Here, then, he lingered with the sun on his back, appreciated the

gentle warmth, smoked his pipe, listened to the thunder of the river

in the gorge beneath him and perceived that the granite bridge

vibrated to its rough challenge.

A heavy network of boughs hid the valley above him. Otherwise he had

observed the only other occupant of the spot, where sat Margery on

her favourite ledge, now only just clear of the water. The pool

beneath her remained calm no more, but was alive and dancing and

deep. The bottom had disappeared in the peat-soaked current, and

little argosies of spume trembled here with bursting bubbles, while

half the backwater was hidden under the honey-coloured churnings of

the river. Her favourite, smooth reaches were no longer smooth; her

laughing stickles were drowned. All heaved and rolled with unwonted

weight of waters, and against the deep baying of the river, Margery's

puppies lifted their shrill yap. Above her crossed the arms of oak

and ash; upon the banks the fern was down and the tawny brakes spread

sodden purple under much rain. Beneath this point, Auna narrowed to

a cleft, where an augmented waterfall now tumbled into the gully

below.

Margery sat and brooded, for the day was one of eventful character in

her life. To-morrow her reign as kennel-maid at Red House would end;

she was to return home and not reappear until after her marriage.

Happiness dominated her mind; yet there were regrets. Never again

would she wear doublet and hose; and that grieved her, for she loved

this attire and marvelled why women should be denied such seemly and

convenient raiment. It was a small thing, yet not to be relinquished

without sighs. And she would be queen of the puppy dogs no more.

The busy, russet creatures, growing sturdy now and ripe for

discipline, still made her the centre of their activities and joys.

Their eyes were ever uplifted to her, for she was their god--the

benignant power that ordered their world, chastened them, cheered

them and encouraged them, applauded them, made games for them, flung

fir cones for them, consoled them in disaster, shared their joy,

filled their little, ever hungry bellies.

Now they nosed her and squeaked into her ears, while she sat with

elbows on knees and chin in hands as motionless as the grey stones.

"Oh, you duckies!" she said aloud, "how am I going to say good-bye to

you even for six weeks? But half of you will be sold and out in the

world before I come back."

She pushed them away and the pups scattered to pursue their pleasure.

They were wide awake to the meaning of water and she felt no fear for

them, but concentrated on herself and the days to come.

There stole into her heart a feeling that the past had been too good

to continue long.

"It isn't often what's good turns into what's better," thought

Margery. "My days can't be so perfect for ever, if what mother says

is true."

Then suddenly, without one preliminary monition, Mrs. Huxam's

prophecy was confirmed, and the rag of many colours that men call

life rent for Margery and revealed a new thing.

She heard a sudden howl of terror from a puppy, and leaping up, saw

one of her charges in the river. Two playing on the bank had rolled

together at water's brink, and in a moment one was over. The current

tumbled the small thing away and swept him into the main channel. He

now bore down upon Margery, who stood ten yards below, and she

perceived that the sole way to save him must be by wading to the

central tide, where it gleamed between two shallows a few yards above

the fall. If she failed, the terrier would certainly go over and

make an end of himself. He was drowning already, with terrified eyes

and black nose lifted, while he swept downward like a dead leaf,

beating the water with his paws.

She did not hesitate, but dashed in at once, knee deep, thigh deep,

all unconscious of the forces against her. She intercepted the

little lump of red hair, grabbed him, and then, finding herself

powerless to stem the heaving water, took both hands to the puppy and

flung him five yards to the bank. Happily he fell light on broken

fern, where he lay shivering, shaking and weeping till his brothers

found him.

To plunge before the stream had been easy but, against the flood

water, return proved impossible for Margery. The river converged and

held her now at the centre of the current, where its energies were

concentrating for the fall. She heard the roar behind her and felt

fierce hands thrusting her backwards toward it. She strove to fight

forward, but her long, slim legs were not built to oppose such power.

She swayed, and as she lifted one foot, the other was instantly swept

from under her. Now she was up to her waist and in another two

seconds off her feet and rolled over. A yard above the waterfall her

head and shoulders were heaved up and she tried to catch a rock in

vain. Then she screamed, with the terror of sudden death in her

voice, and a moment later vanished in the great, amber-coloured roll

of the river, as it swept to its fall.

Her cry had been heard, though it seemed doubtful whether a human

being could survive that shattering drop, even if the rocks were

merciful. But Adam Winter caught the shriek and, jumping to his feet

and peering under the boughs, was just in time to see a human arm and

leg thrust from the resounding arc of the waterfall and hurled into

the welter of foam beneath. He knew the place and wasted no time.

He judged that some foolhardy boy had fallen into the water and been

swept to destruction; but the scream made it clear that the victim

had come to his ordeal with plenty of life in him.

Winter scrambled down the bank, flinging off his coat as he did so.

If any thought passed through his mind as he automatically rushed to

his task, it was one of annoyance that he should be called to a

business so unpleasant. The discomfort troubled him more than the

danger; indeed for him there was little danger. He jumped over a

bank into the river, found it reach to his middle and then ploughed

up from the shallow end of the hole to the deep water under the fall.

The place was dark and full of the din of the water. He saw a hand

sweep up and disappear; then he left the ground and swam a few

strokes to the boiling dance of the foam.

Good fortune favoured Adam, for he came straight upon Margery's

floating body, held her before she sank again, got his shoulder under

her and so swam the little distance necessary to reach foothold.

Then he stood up, gripped her round the waist and presently carried

her clear of the river. Not till he found her hair all over his face

did he know that he had saved a woman. He brushed it away and

recognised Margery; then, in great dread that he carried a corpse,

set out with her to the Red House. His own place was nearer, but

Adam felt impelled up the valley.

The girl remained quite unconscious. She was not heavy and he made

good way, finding time to wonder what had brought her into the river.

Then the puppies appeared and crept in doubt and dismay round him.

To see their god limp, silent, still, thus carried in a man's arms,

appalled them. They barked and whimpered, but would not lose sight

of their guardian and followed in an agitated company at Winter's

heels.

Thus they came, until Bullstone, proceeding under the fir trees to

find Margery, suddenly discovered her in Winter's arms. The blood

surged up to his face; he stared; he snorted and then charged forward.

"What in God's name----?" roared Jacob; then he dropped his ash

sapling and almost snatched the unconscious girl from Adam.

"Fell into the river and went over the rocks into the pool," said the

younger man quietly. "Please the Lord she ain't dead. I don't think

she is."

Jacob was panting.

"For any man but me to touch her!" he almost groaned, to himself

rather than the rescuer.

Winter stared and stopped. He was about to explain events, but Jacob

strode away, the puppies streaming behind him.

He lifted his voice and bawled for help before he reached his door.

Then Mrs. Bullstone hastened and found him already beside the kitchen

fire. He lowered Margery to the ground, bade his mother undress her

and went for brandy.

Returning with it he found the sufferer had regained consciousness.

She could not speak but her eyes were open. She drank; then Jacob

went for blankets and within ten minutes had left the house, hastened

to the stables and saddled a horse. He quickly galloped off to Brent

for a doctor and Margery's mother.

In time they arrived, to a turmoil of talk and tears from Mrs.

Bullstone--a dislocated, agitated upheaval in which Judith Huxam and

her daughter alone preserved calm. The physician found Margery

bruised and cruelly shaken, but without a broken bone. There was

concussion, how severe he could not immediately determine.

He directed them and asked a question of Jacob before leaving.

"How did she get in the water? Not intentionally I hope?"

For the last time that day Bullstone was staggered beyond reason.

"'Intentionally?' Good God, doctor, she's engaged to marry me!" he

said. Then happened a strange thing, for in the morning, Margery

proved already better after sleep, and sitting beside a convalescent

sweetheart, Bullstone was reminded of one he had forgotten.

With deep emotion he came to her and gasped to see how small Margery

appeared, sitting up with a pink shawl round her shoulders and her

hair down.

Out of his joy and to steady himself, he blamed her--even assuming an

angry manner.

"Properly mad, and must mean a screw loose in you," he said. "To go

into a raging torrent like that for a puppy! You never thought of

me."

"Of course I thought of you," she answered in a weary, little voice.

"It was your dog and I had to save it. But in truth I thought of

nothing. I was in the water before I began to think."

The threatened shadow seemed still to hang over her. Her voice was

weak and her manner listless.

"I'd give ten years of my life if it had been me who rescued you," he

said. "It's proper gall to think that any other man did it."

"You must forgive him--for my sake, Jacob."

"Forgive him! The mischief is that I'm under a life-long obligation

now, and he may be the sort to rub it in. Not that he'll need to. I

shan't forget that my debts are for ever beyond payment."

"Have you thanked him?"

"Not yet."

She was silent and then expressed a desire that startled her lover.

"No more have I. But I'm not going to let the day pass before I do."

"I'll say all there's need to say."

"No, Jacob. Life's life. I'm properly thankful not to be drowned.

Think what he's done for me! If you say a word against, you'll vex

me, and I mustn't be vexed."

The subject dropped while she talked of her accident--such of it as

she remembered; but she felt desirous to know the exact sequel, and

that only Adam Winter could tell her. When Jacob put her off and

told her to trust Winter to him, she became quite silent. Then she

asked him to leave her.

He went and presently the doctor called and gave a good report. He,

too, brought discomfort, for Margery had repeated her wish to thank

Adam Winter, and begged that she might do so immediately. She was

wilful and strangely insistent, as it seemed to Jacob. Her mother,

however, supported her and held it a right thing to happen. The

doctor therefore advised that Mr. Winter should see her before she

slept. He had found Margery so completely recovered that there was

no need to call again.

"Keep her in bed one more day, and then let her get up and stop by

the fire," he said. "Youth will never cease to astonish me."

Jacob Bullstone went to Shipley Farm after midday dinner and summoned

Adam Winter.

"You've done more than I can pay, as you well know," he said, "and

that's granted; but if it's ever in my power to lessen the

obligation, I gladly shall, for I little like to be in any man's

debt."

"No need to talk that way. There's no debt and no obligation. Who

wouldn't have done the same? Didn't Miss Huxam go in the water

herself after a puppy? We do these things, not for any return, but

because we must. I'd have done as much for a sheep--so would you. I

hope she's out of danger?"

"She's wishful to see you--nothing will do but she thanks you herself

this instant moment."

"No need at all."

"So I say--no hurry anyway; but that's her will and she must be

obeyed, if you please."

"Them caught from the grave like that did ought to be humoured," said

Adam's aunt. She was a little woman with grey hair and a red face.

"I'll come, then, if it must be so," said Winter. "The green plover

be back, and I shot a brace this morning. Will she accept 'em?"

"No, thanks; I'll get a bird or two for her presently."

The men returned together. Their walk had been silent on Jacob's

part, while Adam related the particulars of the rescue.

"I properly thank you," said Margery, when they ascended to her room

and Adam took a chair in the window, while Bullstone stood with his

hands in his pocket at the foot of the bed and Judith Huxam sat

beside it.

"We'll never, never forget it, Jacob and me," continued Margery.

"I hope you will, then," answered the farmer. "Why such a noise

about it? Duty's duty. In fact 'twas more of a pleasure than a

duty, I'm sure, and if I hadn't much feared you was a goner, I should

have enjoyed the fun."

Jacob's eyes were restless, he frowned and moved about. Then he

turned his back and examined some family photographs on Margery's

mantelshelf.

"To save a life is a great thing, Mr. Winter," said Mrs. Huxam.

"Now, whatever your own life's got in store for you, you can always

remember that you had a hand, under God, in keeping a human creature

alive."

"The puppy's no worse," declared Margery, "and if he knew which it

was, Jacob would never part with it. But we never shall know, for I

don't remember which I saved. You must be terrible strong to have

faced that awful water. It took me like a leaf."

"Wasn't the water's fault," he answered. "Young women can't go

playing about with the rivers in flood. A little item like you was

bound to be swept away."

"It's a wonderful thing to look at a man who's saved your life," said

Margery.

"Wish I was a finer object," he replied.

Jacob hid his emotion, but had to speak and occupy himself. The

invalid was nursing two young puppies from the last litter. She had

demanded something to play with.

"Best let me take them back," he said. "Mustn't keep Mr.

Winter--he's a busy man. And mustn't spoil young dogs. Bless it,

you're cuddling them as if they was a brace of babbies!"

"They are babbies," answered Margery, "and if you can't cuddle

babbies, what should you cuddle?"

She was wilful still and continued to speak in a tired, small voice.

"Are you fond of dogs?" she asked, and Adam declared that he was.

"What's life without 'em, I say," he answered.

"So do I," she replied. "Jacob can't see the human side of dogs--no,

you can't, Jacob. He's all for discipline."

"Quite right too," declared Winter. "You must put into the heart of

a dog his bounden duty from the first, else he'll grow up a nuisance

to himself and everybody else. Work did ought to be found for every

dog. If it ain't, they think life's all play and that makes 'em

selfish."

"Jacob's the whole law and the prophets about dogs," asserted

Margery. "They're blessed creatures and nothing's too good for

them--you know you think so, Jacob."

"They haven't got souls, however," explained Mrs. Huxam, "and you had

no sort of right, Margery, to run the risk of drowning for a dog."

"Some dogs have got far bigger souls than some men," answered her

daughter; "and you've only got to look in their eyes to see 'em."

"That's a wicked thing to say, and I'm sorry you said it," replied

Judith. "It shows your mind is wandering still and there's fever

left in your brain. So these men had best to be gone. You forget

your religion, Margery."

The girl was silenced, but Adam Winter, who did not fear Mrs. Huxam,

ventured on a doubtful joke.

"The dogs have got religion anyway," he assured them, "for I'm sure

the little ones worship your darter, ma'am; and the big ones worship

Mr. Bullstone."

"'Tis a great thing to search to the heart of a dog," murmured

Margery, "and nobody ever did that like Jacob."

Adam Winter, conscious that his last remark had annoyed Mrs. Huxam,

though she did not answer it with words, got up to go his way.

"Mustn't bide no more," he said. "And I hope you'll soon be down

house and as right as rain, Miss."

She stretched out a hand and he took it and stood a moment on his way

to the door.

"Mind you come to our wedding," bade Margery. "I will have you

there; there wouldn't have been a wedding at all but for you."

"I'll gladly come, be sure."

He went through the door, and Bullstone followed without speaking.

BOOK I

CHAPTER I

JEREMY

The market town of Brent differed but little from like boroughs

linked by the artery of the railroad to centres greater than

themselves. It grew, reacted to the ordinary stimuli and, upon

discovery of Dartmoor as a healthful resort of pilgrimage, enlarged

its borders to meet increasing demand.

An environment was created after the usual pattern, and from the

village centre of shops and cottages, there extended good roads on

which stood single and semi-detached houses with gardens about them.

The class of shop improved to serve the class of customer; the

atmosphere thickened from its primitive simplicity. Change

increasingly dominated Brent, creating an environment wherein to be

honest and fearless grew more difficult, while cowardice and

hypocrisy were encouraged by the nature of things.

Human capacity was displayed at its customary levels; greed and

creed, after the inevitable rule, dominated the minds of men and

women and infected the minds of the children. Education progressed,

but its evidences were often painful, and, along with it, things

worthy of preservation departed for ever. Modern education promotes

selfishness and egotism in the pupil, but neglects any valuable

formative influence on character--the result of that narrow and

unimaginative type of man and woman foremost in the ranks of the

certified teachers.

Ambition at Brent was only understood in terms of cash; among many of

the young men and women cleverness became only another name for

cunning. They were brought up, generation after generation, on the

ideals of their parents, which proved a far more penetrative

principle than the teaching of their schools. Then dawned class

consciousness and class prejudice; and the fresh point of view took

shape in creation of new values and animosities. The timid admired

the bold, who had courage to scant his service, yet draw his wages.

The worker who robbed his employer, confident that trade unionism

would support him in any open conflict, became the hero of the shop;

while the employer retaliated without patience or perspicuity. Thus

worthless and unsocial ideals were created in minds upon the way to

adolescence.

The church stood in the midst--architecturally a very beautiful and

dignified object. Its significance otherwise only related to form

and ceremony. So many had ceased to go, that the timorous began to

feel they, too, might stay away without suffering in reputation, or

trade. There were various chapels, also, and a few spirits reflected

the past and professed obsolescent opinions, while a small minority

still actually practised them.

Of such were the postmistress and her husband, Judith and Barlow

Huxam. To the Chosen Few they belonged--the woman from her birth,

the man by adoption; for Judith insisted, as a condition of marriage,

that Barlow must join her particular sect and he, much in love and of

no deep convictions, did not hesitate to oblige her. And still the

pair worshipped with that mournful denomination, while the Chosen Few

lived up to their proud title and became yearly fewer. This fact

brought sorrow, but not surprise, to Mrs. Huxam. Fewer, indeed, were

chosen, for the good reason that fewer deserved to be. She took a

long view, and though admitting that her own generation was painfully

distinguished by a lack of just persons in all classes, yet hoped

that better times might be coming and subsequent humanity provide a

more handsome inheritance for the Kingdom.

Apart from her religious predilections, Mrs. Huxam was stern, but

reasonable. She knew that offences must come, while regretting that

more appeared to come from Brent than most other places. She was not

censorious, though glad to remember that the mills of God always

ground small in the long run; and she never wavered in conviction

that all was for the best and divinely preordained.

Her husband she honoured and respected, and indeed he was a man

worthy of respect and honour. He had earned admiration and applause,

for to have lived with Judith through thirty-five unclouded years

argued great gifts of patience and philosophy on the part of Mr.

Huxam. They worked in perfect amity and their drapery establishment

was still the most important shop in Brent.

Judith felt prouder of her own family than her husband's, and a

slight to any member of the clan was an affront upon herself. A

bachelor brother lived at Plymouth. He owned trawlers and prospered,

letting it be known that his niece, Margery, would some day inherit

his possessions. Mrs. Huxam's father, Tobias Pulleyblank, a saddler,

had been dead ten years, and her mother passed a year earlier. But

other Pulleyblanks still flourished round about. They lifted

steadfast lights on a naughty world, and nothing had disappointed

Judith Huxam more than to find that Pulleyblank blood was not

pre-potent in the veins of her own boy and girl. They both lacked

that steel of character and indomitable will power she herself

possessed; and though Margery Bullstone, the elder child, married to

a prosperous man, had done her duty and given her mother just cause

for gratification and contentment, of Jeremy, her son, this could not

be admitted.

It happened that Jeremy Huxam's parents were now dwelling on this

subject, for, upon the following day, Jeremy was due to return home.

Once more he had been tried in the ranks of men and found wanting.

Barlow and his wife were in bed. They retired early and, as a rule,

conversed for an hour on the interests of the day before sleeping.

When Mr. Huxam stretched his hand for a little box beside him and

took a mucilaginous lozenge for his 'tubes,' that was the signal that

conversation must cease and sleep be sought.

"Jeremy certainly is a puzzling man," he confessed, "and I wish there

was more of you in him and less of me. He's not altogether soft, and

he's not altogether lazy, and he's always civil spoken and

respectful, and everybody likes him; yet what does he amount to? A

dead weight on our hands, and no sooner, after unheard-of efforts, do

we launch him into deep water, than he's back on the beach again."

"It's lack of purpose," said Judith. "He's like one of them ants you

see in the woods. They'll tug and tug and wander this way and that,

pulling along a scrap of rubbish; and they'll climb up a stone and

fall off a score of times and get no forwarder. Yet you can't deny

the creatures are busy enough. Of Jeremy you can only say that he's

himself and made as his Maker willed him to be. He'll never treat

time like a servant, but let it master him. That's what our Thomas

understood, though only a child when he died."

"True," answered Barlow, "and seeing that nobody can tell how little

time may be granted them, it's a cruel sight to see the precious

stuff frittered away. Some fools just kill time--murder it, because

they haven't the brain power to know what to do with it; and such men

ought to be took in hand, like other criminal malefactors, in my

opinion, and set to do the world's work whether they want to or not.

But Jeremy's not like that. He's wishful to do some good; yet things

all fall to pieces when he touches them."

"Incompetence is the only word for it," said Judith.

"And with competence writ large before his eyes from his youth up!"

mused Barlow. "Generally it's just the opposite, and you see

children either give their parents away, or offer a good

advertisement for their homes, as the case may be. A child's

terrible clever at echoing and copying what goes on around him, being

just so remorseless in that matter as a parrot. They'll pick up the

good, or bad, manners or customs and the general outlook of their

elders, and be a sort of running comment upon their fathers and

mothers to the quick eye that marks 'em; for, unless they are idiots,

children will be learning, and we be teaching 'em something all the

time, whether we want to, or don't. Yet Jeremy breaks the rule, for

what did he learn except to be hard-working and God-fearing? And

that unfortunately ain't enough to make a success of life, though, no

doubt, if we were all nearer Christ in thought and deed, as well as

profession, it would be."

"Yes," said Mrs. Huxam. "No child of mine, or yours, ever gave us

away, because, thank God, there was nothing to give away. But they

well might have shone a bit brighter in our mortal view. However,

that's God's affair."

She reviewed her children and took comfort in an interesting

psychological fact.

"So there they stand--Jeremy, a slight man, of good intentions, but

no driving power--and Margery--all right, in the keeping of a man of

character, though I never pretended his character was all I could

wish in the way of religion. But what shows to me the wisdom of God

so amazing clear is Margery's children. Three out of the four are

full of Pulleyblank!"

"You may say they have a big pinch," admitted Barlow; "and what does

that amount to? Why, that the Lord knows a good thing when He sees

it. The Pulleyblank character has helped to make England what it is,

and if the world of men and women were flooded with it, the Chosen

Few would soon rise up to be the Chosen Many."

"We can't hope that," she answered, "because the Word says 'no'; but

Margery's two boys and her eldest girl have got character, and if

they see enough of us as time goes on, so much the better for them."

"Margery's got character too--she thinks right," declared Mr. Huxam.

"She does--I'm not judging her. Jacob Bullstone is a difficult man

in some ways, though where she's concerned I don't quarrel with him.

Margery is a very good wife; but she was always fond of pleasure in

season and out; and that's the weakness."

"Well, Bullstone ain't. By no means a pleasure-loving man; and we

must give him credit in his children also. They've been brought up

to the dignity of work. They're not spoiled."

"He'll claim the credit, no doubt; but I shan't be sorry when they're

out in the world."

"The blessing is that they've got what Jeremy never did have," said

Mr. Huxam; "and that's an idea of what they want to do. John Henry

will be a farmer, and there's no shadow of turning with him, young as

he is. That's Pulleyblank. Then Peter's for the dogs. He'll carry

on his father's business. They're not particular good scholars, so

schoolmaster tells me, but they'll go to work presently, knowing all

they need to know about learning in general. And you can get on

without a lot of learning, so called, amazing well. Then Avis is

handsome and will be married in a few years. And that only leaves

Auna."

"To call a child after the river was a silly thing, and I never

thought the same of the man after he did it," said Judith.

"It was poetry," explained Barlow. "And you can't fairly blame him.

Margery loves the river and she would have it so."

"He ought to have withstood her. My wish was 'Mary.' We haven't had

a 'Mary' since my aunt died."

"Auna's the living daps of what her mother was at eleven years old,"

continued Mr. Huxam. "But Jeremy's the matter now. I'm going to

propose that he sees his brother-in-law as soon as may be. Jacob

Bullstone will help him for his wife's sake, if it can be done. He's

always been very well disposed to Jeremy."

"What can he do?"

"Who knows? We never yet did ask him to lend a hand, and this may be

the appointed time."

Mrs. Huxam was doubtful.

"I shouldn't much wish to be under any obligation in that quarter,"

she said.

"You won't be," he replied. "It's Jeremy who goes to the man, not

you. And Jeremy's the sort must be under obligations. He's built

so. There's plenty others like him. They give the stronger

Christians a chance to shine and practise the virtues. You must have

weak members for the righteous to show their light before men."

He stretched for his jujubes and Judith, heaving a sigh, settled down.

Jeremy Huxam was the sort of son a mother is bound to love, even

though her respect has vanished and her ambition disappeared. He had

a charming face, charming manners and a sanguine nature, easily

elated and easily cast down. He was fair, with an amber moustache,

which did not conceal a small and pretty mouth. He had large, grey

eyes and a trifling forehead, over which hung bright, curly hair. He

was a sort of womanly edition of Mr. Huxam, but taller and more

gracefully built. Jeremy attached importance to his clothes and

dressed well. His voice was gentle and he often laughed. He was

exceedingly selfish; but he had the knack to please, and had won many

friends, for his own urbane sake as well as his father's. But new

enterprises, begun in hope, always sank into doubt and ended in

exasperation. He was an attractive, futile person, and would

continue to be so.

Mrs. Huxam, remembering her own mighty influence for good on her

husband, sometimes thought that, did her son take a wife, the

situation might be saved; but Barlow deprecated any such enterprise

at present, pointing out that the sort of wife Jeremy would be likely

to choose was ill-calculated to fortify his spirit, or strengthen his

footsteps.

Now that opinion of the past echoed with resounding chaos upon his

parents' ears, for Jeremy Huxam returned from Plymouth on the

following day a married man. It was the second, shattering shock in

the lives of Barlow and Judith.

His father went to meet Jeremy, who emerged from a third-class

carriage on the arrival of the train, and then handed out a very fine

young woman. He beamed upon Barlow, shook him warmly by the hand and

turned to the girl who stood behind him.

"Jane," he said, "this is my dear father, and now he'll be yours."

Then he introduced his wife.

"A bit of a surprise, father. You don't remember Jane Parsons, I

expect, daughter of Mrs. Parsons up at Bullstone Farm in the old

days; but she's Jane Huxam now and has honoured me by marrying me.

And, from this great event, there's no doubt my fortunes will change."

Jane Huxam, dark and tall, with a humble expression and a loose

mouth, shook the postmaster's hand very nervously and hoped he would

forgive them.

"We've known each other a longful time," said Jeremy, "and

remembering you thought so well of the Catt family, I was pretty sure

you'd be glad to hear that Jane cared for me. And it's the turning

point, and it will be like your unfailing kindness, father, if you

take us hopefully before mother, as if you was pleased about it."

"We feel that as man and wife we shall be able to get on a lot better

in the world than separate," explained Jane. "Nothing will be

difficult to me when I think of Jeremy."

"Same here," declared her husband. "I always wanted a home-grown

wife, and we're both that fond of Brent that we shall be a lot

happier here. Jane's properly glad to be back, and I'm very wishful

to find work near you and mother. I missed you both a lot. Of

course you'll say that we ought to have told you the glad news, and

you must understand Jane was set on doing so. But the fault is

entirely mine, dad."

Having said these things hastily, Jeremy went to see after the

luggage, and Mr. Huxam, who had been too astonished to do more than

stare and listen, turned to his daughter-in-law.

"And when you naturally asked my son to let us hear about this, what

reason did he give for refusing?" he inquired.

"Truth's truth, Mr. Huxam," answered Jane, twisting her wedding-ring,

"and I've told him we must speak the truth in everything, else such a

woman as Mrs. Huxam would turn against us. It's like this. I was

assistant at a pastry-cook's and, of course, I've known Jeremy since

we were children, and he often came to Bullstone Farm after his

sister married Mr. Jacob. So we met in Plymouth, and I went with

Jeremy on a steamer, for one of they moonlight excursions to the

Eddystone Lighthouse. And, coming home, he offered for me, and I

said 'yes.' Then I was all for telling the great news; but he

wouldn't."

"And why wouldn't he? There must have been a reason."

"The reason was that he much feared his mother would rise up and

forbid it," said Jane. "Truth's truth, Mr. Huxam, and I won't begin

my married life with a lie, even if we have to live in a gutter. He

felt cruel sure that Mrs. Huxam wouldn't like him marrying, though he

never said she wouldn't like me myself. He felt sure that you would

like me, because you had a very high opinion of my late grandfather,

Mr. Matthew Catt, and of the Catts in general; but he weren't going

to take any risks, and being a man of tender mind, he knew it would

hurt him dreadfully if his mother was to put down her foot against

the match. And he felt, rather than face such a sad thing as that,

and cause his mother pain, and suffer a lot himself, and perhaps even

be drove to break it off, which would have pretty well killed me--in

a word, Mr. Huxam, he felt 'discretion was the better part of

valour.' That was his own wise words. And so we were married quite

lawful and regular in a church, and he's got the lines. And if love

can make him a success, he'll be one in future. He's a wonderful man

really."

Jeremy returned.

"Tom Bonus will bring along our two boxes," he said. "It's very

comforting to see faces you know round about you again, and I hope I

shan't be called to leave Brent no more. My next job will be tackled

with all the determination of a married man, dad; and, if it suits

me, I shouldn't wonder if I surprised you."

Mr. Huxam began to collect his shattered wits.

"I don't want no more surprises," he answered. "We'll walk round the

long way, and just let me get law and order into the situation afore

we go home. I blame you a very great deal; but that's neither here

nor there. My rule is to face facts and never waste time thinking

how much nicer it would be if they was different. You're

married--that's the first thing to grasp--and the second and more

important is this that you are now going before your mother, wife in

hand, and your mother don't know what you've done."

"We've come home properly worked up to face the music," said Jeremy.

"United we stand, dad. We feel that very much indeed; and divided we

should have fallen without a doubt. But well we know that there's

nothing like the plain, unvarnished truth and----"

"Dry up and listen to me," replied his father. "As nought else will

serve but the truth in a case like this, it ain't particular

wonderful to hear you say the truth have got to come out. But why

you hid the truth, you know; and Jane's told me, so I know also.

That's your weak nature, and I'm not troubling myself about you, nor

yet this woman, who may very like be too good for you."

"Far from it, Mr. Huxam," said the young wife. "With all his faults,

Jeremy's a lot better than me."

"Don't eat humble pie, Jane," said her husband. "That's a thing that

never pays with mother. She hates for people to cringe."

"It's your mother and only your mother I'm thinking upon at present,"

continued Barlow, "and according as your mother receives this blow,

so it will be. At best it must shake her to the roots, because it

shows up a very dark and unexpected side of you. Cowards are always

cunning, and it don't astonish me so much, because it's well in

keeping with your character to do a thing behind the scenes you

wouldn't dare in the open; but his mother have always had a soft

corner for him, Jane--the only soft corner she ever allowed herself

for anybody--except her Maker--and so this is going to be an

eye-opener for her. And an eye-opener, where the heart is set,

always happens to be the most painful sort."

"You're speaking without allowing for the great powers of my wife,

dad," murmured Jeremy.

"I am," admitted Mr. Huxam, "because I don't know anything about the

great powers of your wife; but I know the great powers of mine, and

her way of looking at everything; and her principles and her trust in

even Higher Powers than her own."

"Our marriage was made in Heaven, if ever there was one, I'm sure,"

ventured Jane.

"It may, or may not have been. But Heaven never meant for you to

keep it hid from Jeremy's parents; and if it was made in Heaven, Mrs.

Huxam would have been the last to try and prevent it," answered

Barlow. "The point for the minute is to break it to her, and I'm

inclined to think I can do that a lot better than my son."

"Devil doubt it!" said Jeremy with great relief. "It's like your

sense to see that, father. I quite agree. I quite agree. Supposing

Jane and I go for a nice walk and come back home to tea?"

"Do Mrs. Parsons know?" asked Mr. Huxam.

"There again," answered Jeremy. "We didn't tell her. Not but well

we know she'll be glad."

"She'll be proud," promised Jane. "It will be the proudest day of

her life. She never hoped anything like Jeremy for me, Mr. Huxam.

She knew there were a good few after me, but never thought of your

son."

Mrs. Milly Parsons now dwelt in a cottage by Lydia Bridge, where the

river took a great leap before descending into the meadows and woods

of Brent. Thankfully Jeremy postponed the supreme moment of the day,

left his father to break the news, implored him to do so in a

friendly spirit and wandered off with his wife up the valley beside

the river.

Then Barlow Huxam returned to his shop, called Judith from behind the

counter for a moment and prepared to tell her what had happened.

"At my wish, Judy, our son has gone up over and won't be back till

tea-time," he began, but Mrs. Huxam stopped him.

"Who is she?" asked Jeremy's mother quite quietly.

Again Barlow felt the solid earth slipping.

"You know?" he asked.

"Two boxes have come, and Bonus brought them," she answered. "I told

him only one was Jeremy's, and he said very like, but that the other

belonged to his wife."

"It's true. Wonders never cease in our family--well ordered though

it may be. The world's to the young, and a proper mess they seem

likely to make of it. You always thought that marriage would save or

settle Jeremy, and we can only pray that it will save him."

Mrs. Huxam was pale. She mopped her face quietly with a white

handkerchief and remained silent.

"Don't you take on," he begged. "Don't let it shake you."

"Does anything shake me?" she asked. "What right should I have to

stand with the Chosen Few, Barlow Huxam, if anything shook me? It's

the Lord's will and that's enough."

"There!" he said, "faltering creature that I am, I never thought of

that."

"No--nor yet Jeremy. But a man don't marry a woman by chance. It

had to be, and it is. And who is she?"

"Jane Parsons--child of Milly Parsons by Lydia Bridge, who was

daughter of the late Matthew Catt of Bullstone Farm. The Lord's

doing and marvellous in our eyes, Judy."

"Things done behind our backs are often marvellous in our eyes, when

we first see them," she answered. "I shall take this as I take

everything else, Barlow, knowing where it comes from."

"It may be a blessing in disguise. She's a fine girl and will have

her mother's little bit of money. Farmer Catt left just in sight of

four figures. They'll be here to tea. They're full of resolutions."