The blind man was silent for a moment; then he said--

"This shows the folly of building castles in the air for other folks to

live in. Anyway you must make him welcome during his visit, Honor, for

there are many reasons why you should. The farm and the mill, once his

father's, down Tavistock way, have passed out of his hands now. He is

free; he has capital; he wants an investment. At least you'll treat him

as a kinsman; while as to the possibilities about Bear Down, Myles will

very quickly find those out for himself if he's a practical man, as I

guess."

"You don't congratulate me on Christo," she said petulantly.

"I hardly seem able to take it seriously yet."

Honor turned away with impatience. Her uncle's attitude to the

engagement was almost her own, allowing for difference of standpoint;

and the discovery first made her uncomfortable, then angry. But she was

too proud to discuss the matter or reveal her discomposure.

*CHAPTER III.*

*A WISE MAN AND A WISE WOMAN*

Mr. Scobell, the Vicar of Little Silver, often said, concerning Mark

Endicott, that he was as much the spiritual father of the hamlet as its

parson. Herein he stated no more than the truth, for the blind man stood

as a sort of perpetual palliative of human trouble at Bear Down; in his

obscure, night-foundered passage through the world, he had soothed much

sorrow and brought comfort to not a few sad, primitive hearts in the

bosoms of man and maid. He was seventy years old and knew trouble

himself; for, born to the glory of light, he had been blind since the

age of thirty, about which period the accident of a bursting gun

destroyed his right eye. The other, by sympathetic action, soon became

darkened also; and Mark Endicott endured the full storm-centre of such a

loss, in that he was a man of the fields, who had depended for his

life's joy on rapid movement under the sky; on sporting; on the

companionship of horse and dog and those, like himself, whose lives were

knit up in country pursuits. He had dwelt at Bear Down before the

catastrophe, with his elder brother, Honor Endicott's father; and, after

the affliction, Mark still remained at the farm. He was a bachelor,

possessed small means sufficient for his needs, and, when the world was

changed for him, cast anchor for life in the scene of his early

activities. Before eclipse the man had been of a jovial, genial sort,

wholly occupied with the business of his simple pleasures, quite content

to remain poor; since loss of sight he had fallen in upon himself and

developed mentally to an extent not to have been predicted from survey

of his sunlit youth. Forty years of darkness indeed ripened Mark

Endicott into an original thinker, a man whose estimate of life's

treasures and solutions of its problems were broad-based, tolerant, and

just. If stoical, his philosophy was yet marked by that latter

reverence for humanity and patience with its manifold frailties that

wove courses of golden light into the decaying fabric of the porch, and

wakened a dying splendour in those solemn and austere galleries ere the

sun set upon their grey ruins for ever. Epictetus and Antonine were

names unknown to him, yet by his own blind road he had groped to some of

their lucid outlook, to that forbearance, fearless courage, contempt of

trifles and ruthless self-estimate an emperor learned from a slave and

practised from the lofty standpoint of his throne. Mark Endicott

appraised his own conduct in a spirit that had been morbid exhibited by

any other than a blind man; yet in him this merciless introspection was

proper and wholesome. The death of his sight was the birth of his mind,

or at least the first step towards his intellectual education. Seeing,

the man had probably gone down to his grave unconsidered and with his

existence scarcely justified; but blind, he had accomplished a career of

usefulness, had carved for himself an enduring monument in the hearts of

rustic men and women. He was generally serious, though not particularly

grave, and he could tolerate laughter in others though he had little

mind to it himself. His niece represented his highest interest and

possessed all his love. Her happiness was his own, and amongst his

regrets not the least centred in the knowledge that he understood her so

little. Mark's own active participation in affairs extended not far

beyond speech. He sat behind his leathern screen, busied his hands with

knitting great woollen comforters for the fishermen of Brixham, and held

a sort of modest open court. Often, during the long hours when he was

quite alone, he broke the monotony of silence by talking to himself or

repeating passages, both sacred and secular, from works that gave him

satisfaction. Such were his reflections that listeners never heard any

ill of themselves, though it was whispered that more than one

eavesdropper had overheard Mr. Endicott speak to the point. His quick

ear sometimes revealed to him the presence of an individual; and, on

such occasions, the blind man either uttered a truth for that particular

listener's private guidance, or published an opinion, using him as the

intelligencer. It is to be noted also that Mark Endicott oftentimes

slipped into the vernacular when talking with the country people--a

circumstance that set them at ease and enabled him to impart much homely

force to his utterances. Finally of him it may be said that in person

he was tall and broad, that he had big features, grizzled hair, which he

wore rather long, and a great grey beard that fell to the last button of

his waistcoat. His eyes were not disfigured though obviously without

power of sight.

Honor made a hearty meal and then departed to continue preparations for

her cousin's visit. In two days' time he was arriving from Tavistock,

to spend a period of uncertain duration at Bear Down. The bright

afternoon waned; the shadows lengthened; then there came a knock at the

outer door of the kitchen and Henry Collins entered. He had long been

seeking for an opportunity to speak in private with Mr. Endicott; and

now his face brightened from its usual vacuity to find that Mark was

alone.

"Could I have half a word, maister, the place bein' empty?"

"You're Collins, the new man, are you not?"

"Ess, sir; Henery Collins at your sarvice; an' hearin' tell you'm ready

to give your ripe judgment wheer 'tis axed an' doan't grudge wisdom

more'n a cloud grudges rain, I made so bold--ess, I made that bold like

as to--as to----"

"What is it? Don't waste breath in vain words. If I can give you a bit

of advice, it's yours; an' take it or leave it as you mind to."

"I'll take it for sure. 'Tis this then: I be a man o' big bones an' big

appetite, an' do handle my share o' vittles braavely; but I do allus get

that cruel hot when I eat--to every pore as you might say--which

swelterin' be a curse to me--an' a painful sight for a female,

'specially if theer's like to be anything 'twixt you an' she in the way

of keepin' comp'ny. An' if theer ban't no offence, I'd ax 'e what I

should take for't."

Mr. Endicott smiled.

"Take less, my son; an' don't swallow every mouthful as if the devil was

arter you. Eat your meat an' sup your drink slow."

"Ban't a calamity as caan't be cured, you reckon?"

"Nothing at all but greediness. Watch how your betters take their food

an' see how the women eat. 'Tis only gluttony in you. Remember you're a

man, not a pig; then 'twill come right."

Mr. Collins was greatly gratified.

"I'm sure I thank 'e wi' all my heart, maister; for 'twould be a sorry

thing if such a ill-convenience should come between me an' a bowerly

maid like Sally Cramphorn, the out-door girl."

"So it would then," assented the elder kindly; "but no need--no need at

all."

Collins repeated his sense of obligation and withdrew; while elsewhere

that identical young woman who now began to distract the lethargic

solidity of his inner life was herself seeking advice upon a deep matter

touching heart's desire. Soon after five o'clock Sally escaped from the

supervision of her jealous parent, and started upon a private and

particular errand through leafy lanes that led northerly from the farm

and skirted the Moor in that direction. Presently she turned to the

left, where a gate marked the boundaries of common land and arrested

cattle from straying on to the roads. Here, dipping into a little tunnel

of living green, where hazels met over a watercourse, Sally proceeded by

a moist and muddy short cut to her goal. It was a cottage that rose all

alone at a point where the Moor rippled down to its hinder wall and a

wilderness of furze and water-meadow, laced with rivulets and dotted

with the feathers of geese, extended in front. A dead fir tree stood on

one side of the cot, and the low breast-work of granite and peat that

separated a little garden from the waste without was very strangely

decked with the vertebrae of a bygone ox. The bones squatted imp-like

in a row there--a spectacle of some awe to those who knew the

significance of the spot. Upon the door were nailed many horse-shoes,

and walls of red earth or cob, painted with whitewash and crowned by

venerable and moss-grown thatch, formed the fabric of the cottage. Upon

fine days this mural surface displayed much magic of varied colour; it

shone cool in grey dawns, hot at noon, delicate rose and red gold under

such brief gleams of sunset light as the Moor's ragged mane permitted to

reach it. Stone-crops wove mellow tints into the rotting thatch above,

and the moss cushions of dark and shining green were sometimes brushed

and subdued by a haze or orange veil thrown over them by the colour of

their ripe seed-vessels. In the garden grew many herbs, knowledge of

whose potency their owner alone possessed, and at one corner arose the

golden spires of great mullein--a flower aforetime called "hag's taper"

and associated with witches and their mystic doings. Here the tall

plant towered, like a streak of flame, above pale, widespread, woolly

leaves; and it was held a sign and token of this wise woman's garden,

for when the mullein flowered she had proclaimed that her herbs and

simples were most potent. Then would such of her own generation as

remained visit ancient Charity Grepe in her stronghold; while to her

also came, with shamefaced secrecy, young men and maidens, often under

cover of darkness, or in the lonely hour of winter twilights.

"Cherry," as old Charity was most frequently called, had openly been

dubbed a witch in times past. She recollected an experience, now near

fifty years behind her, when rough hands had forced open her jaws to

seek those five black spots observed upon the roof of a right witch's

mouth; she knew also that the same diabolic imprint is visible upon the

feet of swine, and that it indicated the point where unnumbered demons,

upon Christ's command, once entered into Gadara's ill-omened herd.

Since then, from a notoriety wholly sinister, she had acquired more

seemly renown until, in the year of grace 1870, being at that date some

five or six years older than the century, Mother Grepe enjoyed mingled

reputation. Some held her a white witch, others still declared that she

was a black one. Be that as it may, the old woman created a measure of

interest in the most sceptical, and, like the rest of her vanishing

class, stood as a storehouse of unwritten lumber and oral tradition

handed on through generations, from mother to daughter, from father to

son. The possessor and remembrancer of strange formularies and

exorcisms, she would repeat the same upon proper occasion, but only

after a solemn assurance from those who heard her that they would not

commit her incantations to any sort of writing. In her judgment all

virtue instantly departed from the written word.

At this season of her late autumn, the gammer was entering upon frosty

times, for, under pressure of church and school, the world began to view

her accomplishments with indifference. Yet the uncultured so far bowed

to custom and a lustre handed down through half a century as to credit

Cherry with some vague measure of vaguer power. Little Silver called

her the "wise woman," and granted her all due credit for skill in those

frank arts that pretend to no superhuman attribute. It is certain that

she was familiar with the officinal herbs of the field. She could charm

the secrets and soothing essences from coriander and anise and

dill--with other of the umbel-bearing wild folk, whose bodies are often

poison, whose seeds are little caskets holding carminative and anodyne.

Of local plants she grew in her garden those most desirable, and there

flourished peppermint, mother-o'-thyme, marjoram, and numerous other

aromatic weeds. With these materials the old woman made shift to live,

and exacted trifling sums from the mothers of Little Silver by preparing

cordials for sick children; from the small farmers and credulous owners

of live stock, by furnishing boluses for beasts.

Sally Cramphorn, however, had come on other business and about a widely

different sort of potion. She was among those who respected Cherry's

darker accomplishments, and her father himself--a man not prone to

praise his fellow-creatures--openly confessed to firm belief in Mother

Grepe's unusual powers.

The old woman was in her garden when Sally arrived. It had needed sharp

scrutiny to observe much promise of wisdom about her. She was brown,

wrinkled and shrivelled, yet exhibited abundant vitality and spoke in a

voice that seemed musical because one expected the reverse. Her eyes

alone challenged a second glance. They were black, and flashed in the

twilight. Dame Grepe's visitor, a stranger to shyness, soon explained

the nature of the thing desired. With blushes, but complete

self-possession in all other respects, she spoke.

"'Tis 'bout the matter of a husband, Cherry; an' you'm so wise, I lay

you knaw it wi'out my tellin' you."

"Ess--you be wife-auld in body; but what about the thinking part of 'e,

Sally Cramphorn? Anyway I wonder you dare let your mind go gadding

arter a male, seeing what fashion o' man your faither is."

Sally pouted.

"That's the very reason for it I reckon. What gal can be happy in a

home like mine?"

"A man quick to think evil--your faither--a vain man--a man as scowls at

shadows an' sees gunpowder treason hid behind every hedge--poor fule!"

"So he do then; an' ban't very nice for a grawed woman like me. If I

lifts my eye to a chap's face, he thinks I be gwaine to run away from

un; an' there ban't a man in Little Silver, from Squire Yeoland to the

cowboy at the farm, as he've got a tender word for."

"I knaw, I knaw. Come in the house."

Sally followed the old woman into her cottage, and spoke as she did so.

"It's hard come to think on it, 'cause I'm no more against a husband

than any other gal. 'Tis awnly that they'm feared of the sound 'pon

theer tongues as gals won't awn up honest they'd sooner have husbands

than not. Look at missis--she'll find herself a happy wife bimebye if

squire do count for anything."

"Be they much together?"

"Ess fay--allus!"

The old woman shook her head.

"A nature, hers, born to trouble as the sparks fly upwards. Fine metal,

but easy to crack by fire. She comed to me wance--years agone--comed

half in jest, half in earnest; an' I tawld her strange things to her

fortune tu--things as'll mean gert changes an' more sorrow than joy when

all's acted an' done. Full, fair share of gude an' bad--evil an'

balm--an' her very well content to creep under the green grass an' rest

her head 'pon the airth come fulness of time."

"Lor, mother! You do make me all awver creepy-crawly to hear tell such

dreadful things," declared Miss Cramphorn.

"No need for you to fear. You'm coarser clay, Sally, an' won't get no

thinner for love of a man. An' why should 'e? Pray for a fixed mind;

an' doan't, when the man comes beggin', begin weighing the blemishes of

un or doubtin' your awn heart."

"Never, I won't--and my heart's fixed; an' I be so much in love as a gal

can be an' hide it, Cherry."

"I knaw, I knaw. 'Tis Greg Libby you wants," answered the sibyl, who

had observed certain hay-makers some hours earlier in the day.

"Ess, I do then, though you'm the awnly living sawl as knaws it."

"Doan't he knaw it?"

"Not a blink of it. He'm a wonnerful, dandified man since he come from

Lunnon."

"Be he gwaine to do any more work?"

"Not so long as his clothes bide flam-new, I reckon. Ban't no call for

un to. An' I love un very much, an' do truly think he loves me, Cherry.

An', in such things, a little comin'-on spirit in the man's like to save

the maid much heart-burnin'; an' I minded how you helped she as was

Thirza Foster, in the matter of Michael Maybridge, her husband now.

'Tis pity Gregory should bide dumb along of his backward disposition."

"A love drink you're arter! Who believes in all that now?"

"I mind how you made Maybridge speak, whether or no, an' I'll give 'e

half-a-crown for same thing what you gived Thirza."

It was growing dusk. Gammer Grepe preserved silence a moment, then rose

and lighted a candle.

"Half-a-crown! An' I've had gawld for less than that! Yet times

change, an' them as believed believe no more. It all lies theer. If

you believe, the thing have power; if not, 'tis vain to use it."

"I do b'lieve like gospel, I assure 'e. Who wouldn't arter Thirza?"

"Then give me your money an' do what I bid."

She took the silver, spat upon it, raised her hand, and pointed out of

the window.

"Do 'e see thicky plant in the garden theer, wi' flowers, like to tired

eyes, starin' out of the dimpsy light? 'Tis a herb o' power. You'll

find un grawin' wild on rubbish heaps an' waste places."

She pointed where a clump of wild chamomile rose with daisy-like

blossoms pallid in the twilight.

"Ess, mother."

Then the wise woman mouthed solemn directions, which Sally listened to

as solemnly.

"Pick you that--twenty-five stalks--at the new moon. Then pluck off the

flowers an' cast 'em in the river; but the stalks take home-along an'

boil 'em in three parts of half a pint o' spring watter. Fling stalks

away but keep the gude boiled out of 'em, an' add to it a drop more

watter caught up in your thimble from a place wheer forget-me-not do

graw. Then put the whole in a li'l bottle, an' say Lard's Prayer awver

it thrice; and, come fust ripe chance, give it to the man to drink mixed

in tea or cider, but not beer nor other liquor."

With the ease of an artist Cherry improvised this twaddle on the spot,

and the girl, all ears and eyes, expressed great thankfulness for such a

potent charm, bid the gammer farewell, and hastened away.

*CHAPTER IV.*

*THE KISS*

Some days later Christopher Yeoland was returning from the village of

Throwley to Little Silver, by a road that winds along the flank of the

Moor. He carried a basket in which reposed a young collie pup. Himself

he wanted no such thing, but the little beast came of notable stock,

possessed a special value, and seemed worthy of Honor. Among those

delights represented by his engagement was the facility it afforded for

giving of presents. He had already sketched on paper the designs of

many engagement rings. A circle of gold with diamonds and emeralds in

it was his vague intention; while his visions of how he should come at

such a jewel were still more doubtful. This man possessed great power

in the direction of dreams, in projecting the shadows of pleasant things

and winning happiness from these conceits despite their improbability.

Love of beauty was a characteristic in him, but otherwise he could not

be described as sensual. Beauty he adored; yet delight of the eye

appeared to suffice him. His attitude towards the opposite sex is

illustrated by an event now to be described.

The day was done and the hour of rest had come upon the workers.

Labouring folk moved through the long July twilight upon their own

concerns, as private pleasure or business led them; and now, under the

huge shadow of the Moor, there unfolded a little drama, slight enough,

yet reflecting sensibly upon the future concerns of those who played in

the scene. Christopher Yeoland, his mind quite full of Honor, overtook

Sally Cramphorn in the valley, and being upon friendly terms with all

the countryside, marched awhile beside her. He allowed no social

differences at any time to obtain between him and a pretty face. Sally

was good to see, and as for Yeoland, of late days, chiefly by reason of

an exceeding honour that the mistress of Bear Down had done him, he felt

pliable, even reverential before all things feminine, for her dear sake.

He was not of that sort who find all other women sink into shadows after

the unutterable One has joined her fate with his for evermore; but,

contrariwise, the possession of Honor heightened his interest in her

sex. He might have been likened to a bee, that indeed loved clover

before all else, yet did not disdain a foxglove or purple lupin upon

occasion. So he walked beside Sally and contemplated her proportions

with pleasure, watched her throat work and the rosy light leap to her

cheek as he praised her.

In Sally's heart was a wish that Greg Libby might see her with such a

courtier; but unfortunately a very different person did so. Mr.

Cramphorn, with an ancient muzzle-loading gun at full-cock and a

fox-terrier under the furzes ahead of him, was engaged in stalking

rabbits a few hundred yards distant. His keen eye, now turning

suddenly, rested upon his daughter. He recognised her by her walk and

carriage; but her companion, in that he bore a basket, deceived Mr.

Cramphorn. Full of suspicion and growling dire threats in his throat,

Jonah forgot the rabbits for this nobler game. He began stalking the

man and woman, skulked along behind the hazels at the common edge, and

presently, after feats of great and unnecessary agility, found himself

snugly hidden in a lofty hedge immediately beneath which his daughter

and her escort must presently pass.

Meanwhile, she strolled along and soon recovered her self-possession,

for Yeoland was in no sense awe-inspiring. The young woman had now come

from securing a priceless thimbleful of water that bathed the roots of

forget-me-nots. She carried this magic liquid concealed in a little

phial; the rest of the ingredients were hidden at home; and she hoped

that night to brew the philtre destined for Mr. Libby.

"Sally," said Christopher, "I'll tell you a great piece of news. No, I

won't; you must guess it."

She looked up at him with a knowing smile on her red mouth.

"You'm gwaine to marry missis, sir--be that it?"

"You gimlet of a girl! But, no, you never guessed--I'm positive you

didn't. Somebody told you; Miss Endicott herself, perhaps."

"None told me. I guessed it."

"How jolly of you! I like you for guessing, Sally. It was a compliment

to us."

"I doan't knaw what you mean by that, sir."

"No matter. You will some day, and feel extremely flattered if people

congratulate you before you've told them. If you simply adore one girl,

Sally, you love them all!"

"Gude Lard! Ban't so along wi' us. If we'm sweet in wan plaace, we'm

shy in t'others."

"Only one man in the world for you, then?"

"Ess--awnly wan."

"He's a lucky chap. Mind that I know all about it in good time, Sally.

You shall have a fine wedding present, I promise you--whatever you like,

in fact."

"Things ban't come to that yet; though thank you kindly, sir, I'm sure."

"Well, they will."

"He haven't axed ezacally yet."

"Ass! Fool! Dolt! But perhaps he's in mortal fear of you--frightened

to speak and not able to trust his pen. You're too good for him, Sally,

and he knows it."

"I be his awn order in life, for that matter."

"I see, I see; it's this hidden flame burning in you that made you so

quick to find out our secret. I love you for it! I love every pretty

face in Devonshire, because my lady is pretty; and every young woman on

Dartmoor, because my lady is young. Can you understand that?"

"No, I caan't," confessed Sally. "'Tis fulishness."

"Not at all. At this moment I could positively hug you--not

disrespectfully, you know, but just out of love--for Miss Endicott."

"It do make a man dangerous seemin'ly--this gert love of a lady."

"Not at all. Far from it. It draws his claws. He goes in chains. Did

anybody ever dare to hug you, Sally?"

"No fay! Should like to have seed 'em!"

"You wouldn't have minded one though?"

"Caan't say, as he never offered to."

"D'you mean he's never even kissed you, Sally?"

"Wance he axed if he might."

"'Axed'! And of course you said 'No' like any other girl would?"

"Ess, I did."

"Fancy asking!"

"What should he have done then?"

It was a dangerous inquiry on Miss Cramphorn's part, and it is within

the bounds of possibility that she knew it. Had she been aware that her

sole parent was glaring, like an angry monkey, from a point in the hedge

within six yards of her, Sally had scarcely put that disingenuous

problem. The answer came instantly. Honor's pup fell headlong into the

road and greeted its descent with a yell; like lightning a pair of

tweed-clad arms were round Sally, and a rough, amber-coloured moustache

against her lips.

"Sir--give awver! How dare 'e! What be doin' of? You'm squeezin'

me--oh----!"

There was a crash in the hedge, the bark of a dog and the oath of a man.

Then Christopher felt himself suddenly seized by the collar and dragged

backwards. He turned red as the sunset, swore in his turn, then realised

that no less a personage than Jonah Cramphorn had been witness to his

folly. Trembling with rage, Bear Down's head man accosted the squire of

Little Silver.

"You! You to call yourself a gen'leman! Out 'pon 'e--to rape a gal

under her faither's awn eyes! By God, 'tis time your wicked thread was

cut an' Yeolands did cease out of the land! Small wonder they'm come

down to----"

"Shut your mouth, you fool!" retorted Christopher savagely. "How dare

you lay a finger upon me? I'll have you up for breaking other people's

hedges, and, what's more, I've a mind to give you a damned good hiding

myself."

"You tell like that, you hookem-snivey young blackguard! I'd crack your

blasted bones like a bad egg--an' gude riddance tu! Ban't she my awn

darter, an' wasn't you carneying an' cuddlin' of her in broad day?

'Struth! I could spit blood to think such things can happen! An' me to

be threatened by you! You'll hide me--eh? Thank your stars I didn't

shoot 'e. An' if I'd slayed the pair of 'e 'twouldn't have been no gert

loss to clean-livin' folks!"

"I'm ashamed of you, Cramphorn--reading evil into everything that

happens," said Yeoland calmly.

"God stiffen it! Hear him! Hear him! Preachin' my duty to me. You

lewd, stalled ox, for two pins----"

"Put that gun down or I'll break it over your head!" answered

Christopher; but the other, now a mere maniac, shaking and dancing with

passion, refused. Whereupon Yeoland rushed at him, twisted the gun out

of his hands, and threw it upon the ground. The next moment Jonah had

hit his enemy in the face with a big fist; Christopher struck back,

Sally screamed, and Cramphorn spit blood in earnest. Then they closed,

and Jonah's dog, grasping the fact that his master was in difficulties,

and needed assistance, very properly fastened on one of Yeoland's

leathern leggings and hung there, as both men tumbled into the road.

The girl wrung her hands, lifted her voice and screamed to the only

being visible--a man with a cart of peat outlined against the sunset on

the heather ridges of the Moor. But he was a mile distant and quite

beyond reach of poor Sally's frantic appeal. Then both combatants rose,

and Cramphorn, returning to battle, got knocked off his feet again. At

the same moment a man came round the corner of the road, and mended his

steps upon hearing a frenzied announcement that two fellow-creatures

were killing each other. A moment later he hastened between the

combatants, took a hard blow or two from both, swept Christopher aside

with no particular difficulty, and saved the elder from further

punishment.

Sally wept, thanked God, and went to minister to her parent; while the

new-comer, in a passionless voice that contrasted strangely with the

rapidity of his actions, accosted Yeoland.

"What is this? Don't you know better than to strike a man old enough to

be your father?"

"Mind your own business," gasped Christopher, brushing the dust off

himself and examining a wound in his wrist.

"It's anybody's business, surely."

The other did not answer. His passion was rapidly cooling to shame. He

scanned the speaker and wished that they might be alone together. The

man was tall, very heavily built, one who would naturally move with a

long and tardy stride. His recent energy was the result of

circumstances and an action most unusual. He still breathed deep upon

it.

"I'm sure you'll regret what has happened in a calmer moment, and pardon

me for helping you to your senses," he said.

"So he shall regret it, I'll take my dying oath to that," spluttered Mr.

Cramphorn. "Idle, lecherous, cold-hearted, hot-blooded beast as he be."

"Get cool," said the stranger, "and don't use foul language. There are

remedies for most evils. If he's wronged you, you can have the law of

him. Put some cold water on his head."

Sally, to whom the last remark was addressed, dipped her apron in the

brook by the wayside, but Mr. Cramphorn waved her off.

"Get out o' my sight, you easy minx! To think that any cheel o' mine

would let strange men put theer arms around her in broad day!"

"I'm entirely to blame--my fault altogether--not hers," said

Christopher. "I felt in a cuddling mood," he added frankly. "I

wouldn't have hurt a hair of her head, and she knows it. Why should it

be worse to kiss a pretty girl than to smell a pretty flower? Tell me

that."

"Theer's devil's talk for 'e!" gurgled Jonah.

"You miserable old ass--but I'm sorry--heartily sorry. Forgive me, and

go to Doctor Clack and get a soothing something. And if I've hurt your

gun I'll buy you a new one."

"Likely as I'd have any dealin's wi' a son of Belial Beelzebub same as

you be! I'll put the law to work against 'e, that's what I'll do; an'

us'll see if a woman be at the mercy of every gen'leman, so-called, as

loafs 'pon the land because he'm tu idle to work!"

"That'll do. Now go off about your business, Cramphorn, and let us have

no more nonsense. We ought both to be ashamed of ourselves, and I'm

sure I am. As a Christian man, you must forgive me; I'm sure, as a

Christian girl, Sally will."

"Leave her alone, will 'e! I won't have her name on your tongue. Us'll

see if folks can break the laws; us'll see----"

He strode off, pulling his daughter by the hand, and entirely forgetting

his gun beside the way; but after the irate father had departed, Yeoland

recovered his weapon and found it unhurt. He then picked up Honor's

pup, and overtook the stranger who was proceeding in the direction of

Little Silver.

"How came you to get that man into such a white heat?" the latter asked

him.

"Well, I kissed his daughter; and he was behind the hedge at the

critical point and saw me."

"Ah!"

"I'm a chap who wouldn't hurt a fly, you know. But I'm particularly

happy about some private affairs just at present, and--well, my

lightness of heart took that turn."

The other did not smile, but looked at Christopher curiously.

"You said a strange thing just now," he remarked, in a deep voice, with

slow, dragging accents. "You declared that to kiss a girl was no worse

than to smell a flower. That seemed a new idea to me."

Yeoland opined that it might well be so. This was no woman's man.

"I believe it's true, all the same," he answered.

"Isn't there a lack of respect to women in the idea?"

The speaker stood over Christopher by two inches. His face had a cold

comeliness. His features were large, regular, and finely modelled; his

complexion was dark; his eyes were grey; he wore a moustache but no

other hair upon his face. A great solidity, slowness, and phlegm marked

his movements and utterances, and his handsome countenance was something

of a mask, not from practised simulation or deliberate drilling of

feature, but by the accident of flesh. A high forehead neither declared

nor denied intellect by its shape; the man in fact showed but little of

himself externally. One might, however, have predicted a strenuous

temperament and suspected probable lack of humour from a peculiar sort

of gravity of face. His eyes were evidently of exceptional keenness;

his speech was marked by an uncertainty in choice of words that denoted

he was habitually taciturn; his manner suggested one who kept much of

his own company and lived a lonely life--either from necessity or

choice.

*CHAPTER V.*

*PAGAN ALTARS*

The men proceeded together, and Christopher's companion made himself

known by a chance question. He inquired the way to Bear Down, whereupon

Yeoland, aware that a kinsman of the Endicotts was expected, guessed

that this must be he.

"You're Myles Stapledon then?"

"I am. I walked from Okehampton to get a glimpse of the Moor. Came by

way of the Belstones and Cosdon--a glorious scene--more spacious in some

respects than my native wilds down West."

"You like scenery? Then you'll be joyful here. If Honor had known you

were walking, I'll dare swear she would have tramped out to meet you;

still, thank the Lord she didn't."

"You know her well to speak of her by her Christian name," said

Stapledon slowly.

Christopher was but two years younger than his companion, but one had

guessed that a decade separated them.

"Know her! Know Honor! I should rather think I did know her. She's my

sun and moon and stars. I suppose she hoped to tell you the great news

herself, and now I've babbled it. Engaged--she and I--and I'm the

happiest man in all the South of England."

"I congratulate you. My cousin promised to be a pretty woman--just a

dinky maid in short frocks when last I saw her. And your name----?"

"My name is Yeoland."

"The Squire of Godleigh, of course?"

"That proud personage; and there lies Endicott's--under the wind-blown

sycamores where the whitewash peeps out. Your luggage is there before

you, no doubt. This is my way: to the left. You go to the right, pass

that farm there on your left, follow the road and so, after about five

minutes, find yourself in the presence of the Queen of the Moor.

Good-bye. We shall meet again."

"Good-bye, and thank you."

Stapledon moved onwards; then he heard a man running and Christopher

overtook him.

"One moment. I thought I'd ask you not to mention that scrimmage on the

hillside. Honor would quite understand my performance, but she'd be

pained to think I had struck or been struck by that lout, and

perhaps---well. She'll hear of it, for Cramphorn and his daughter are

Bear Down people, but----"

"Not from me, rest assured."

"A thousand thanks. You might mention that you met me returning from

Throwley and that the pup is a gem. I'll bring it along some time or

other to-morrow."

Again they separated, and such is the character often-times exhibited in

a man's method of walking, that appreciation of each had been possible

from study of his gait. Stapledon appeared to move slowly, but his

stride was tremendous and in reality he walked at four miles an hour;

the other, albeit his step looked brisk, never maintained any regularity

in it. He stopped to pat a bruised knee, wandered from one side of the

road to the other, and presently climbed the hedge to get a sight of

Bear Down, with hope that Honor might be seen in her garden.

But at that moment the mistress of Endicott's was welcoming her cousin.

They greeted one another heartily and spoke awhile together. Then, when

Myles had ascended to the room prepared for him, Mr. Endicott listened

to his niece's description of the new arrival.

"Better far than his photograph," she said. "More expression, but too

big. He's a tremendous man; yet very kind, I should think, and not

proud. Almost humble and most austere in dress. No rings or scarf

pin--just grey everything. He looks older than I thought, and his voice

is so curiously deep that it makes little things in the room rattle. We

were in the parlour for two minutes, and every time he spoke he vibrated

one particular bass note of the piano until I grew quite nervous. He

has very kind eyes--slate-coloured. I should say he was extremely easy

to please."

"A fine open-air voice, certainly, and a good grip to his hand," said

the blind man.

"Yet no tact, I fear," criticised Honor. "Fancy beginning about poor

old Bear Down wanting attention, and hoping that he might put some money

into it before he had been in the house five minutes!"

"Nervousness. Perhaps you surprised him."

But, later in the day, Myles endeavoured to repair a clumsiness he had

been conscious of at the time, and, after collecting his

thoughts--honestly somewhat unsettled by the sight of Honor, who had

leapt from lanky girl to beautiful woman since last he saw her--his

first words were a hearty congratulation upon the engagement.

"Endicott's stock is very nearly as old, but there's a social

difference," he said bluntly. "'Tis a very good match for you, I hope.

You'll live at Godleigh, of course?"

"It's all a long, long way off, cousin; and I'm sure I cannot guess how

you come to know anything at all about it," said Honor.

Then the traveller told her, beginning his narrative at the point where

he had asked Christopher the road to Bear Down. He concluded with a

friendly word.

"Handsome he is, for certain, with the wind and the sun on his cheek;

and a man of his own ideas, I judge; an original man. I wish you joy,

Honor, if I may call you Honor."

"What nonsense! Of course. And I'm glad you like my Christo, because

then you'll like me too, I hope. We have very much in common really. We

see things alike, live alike, laugh alike. He has a wonderful sense of

humour; it teaches him to look at the world from the outside."

"A mighty unwholesome, unnatural attitude for any man," said Mark

Endicott.

"Yet hardly from the outside either, if he's so human as to want a

wife?" asked Honor's cousin.

"He wants a wife," she answered calmly, "to take the seat next him at

the theatre, to walk beside him through the picture-gallery, to compare

notes with, to laugh with at the fun of the fair, as he calls it."

Mr. Endicott's needles tapped impatiently.

"Vain talk, vain talk," he said.

"It may be vain, uncle, but it's none the less true," she answered. "If

I do not know Christopher, who does? The companionship of a congenial

spirit is the idea in his mind--perhaps in mine too. He's a laughing

philosopher, and so platonic, so abstracted, that if he had found a man

friend, instead of a woman, he would have been just as content to swear

eternal friendship and invite the man to sit and watch the great play

with him and laugh away their lives together."

"I hope you don't know Mr. Yeoland as well as you imagine, Honor," said

Mark Endicott.

"You misjudge him really, I expect," ventured Myles, his thoughts upon a

recent incident. "Think what it would be to one of active and jovial

mind to sit and look on at life and take no part."

"'Look on!'" burst out the blind man. "Only God Almighty looks on; and

not even He, come to think of it, for He's pulling the strings."

"Not so," said Myles; "not so, Uncle Endicott. He put us on the stage,

I grant you; and will take us off again when our part is done. But

we're moved from inside, not driven from out. We play our lives

ourselves, and the wrong step at the entrance--the faulty speech--the

good deed--the bad--they all come from inside--all build up the part.

Free-will is the only sort of freedom a created thing with conscious

intelligence can have. There's no choice about the theatre or the play;

but neither man nor God dictates to me how I enact my character."

Mark Endicott reflected. He was a stout Christian, and, like an old

war-horse, he smelt battle in this utterance, and rejoiced. It was left

for Honor to fill the silence.

"It's all a puppet-show, say what you will, cousin," she summed up; "and

anybody can see the strings that move nine dolls out of ten. A

puppet-show, and a few of us pay too little for our seats at it; but

most of us pay too much. And you need not argue with me, because I know

I'm right, and here is Mrs. Loveys to say that supper's ready."

A week later it was practically determined that Myles should concern

himself with Bear Down; but the man still remained as unknown to Honor

as in the moment of their first meeting. His money interested her not

at all; his character presented a problem which attracted her

considerably during those scanty hours she found heart to spend away

from her lover. It happened that Christopher having departed on a

sudden inspiration to Newton Races, Honor Endicott and her cousin set

out together for an excursion of pleasure upon the high Moor.

The day was one in August, and hot sunshine brooded with glowing and

misty light on hills and valleys, on rivers and woods, on farm lands and

wide-spread shorn grasses, where the last silver-green ribbons of dried

hay, stretching forth in parallel and winding waves, like tide-marks

upon great sands, awaited the wain. Stapledon walked beside Honor's

pony, and together they passed upwards to the heather, beside an old

wall whose motley fabric glimmered sun-kissed through a blue shimmer of

flowers, and faded into a perspective all silvery with lichens, broken

with brown, thirsty mosses, many grasses, and the little pale pagodas of

navelwort. Beech trees crowned the granite, and the whisper of their

leaves was echoed by a brook that murmured unseen in a hollow upon the

other side of the road. Here Dartmoor stretched forth a finger,

scattered stone, and sowed bracken and furze, heather and rush and the

little flowers that love stream-sides.

The travellers climbed awhile, then Myles stopped at a gate in the old

wall and Honor drew up her pony. For a moment there was no sound but the

gentle crick-crick-crick from bursting seed-pods of the greater gorse,

where they scattered their treasure at the touch of the sun. Then the

rider spoke.

"How fond you are of leaning upon gates, Myles!"

He smiled.

"I know I am. I've learned more from looking over gates than from most

books. You take Nature by surprise that way and win many a pretty

secret from her."

The girl stared as at a revelation. Thus far she had scarcely

penetrated under her cousin's exterior. He was very fond of dumb

animals and very solicitous for them; but more of him she had not

gleaned until the present.

"Do you really care for wild things--birds, beasts, weeds? I never

guessed that. How interesting! So does Christo. And he loves the dawn

as much as you do."

"We have often met at cock-light. It is a bond we have--the love of the

morning hour. But don't you like Nature too?"

"Not madly, I'm afraid. I admire her general effects. But I'm a little

frightened of her at heart and I cringe to her in her gracious moods.

Christo's always poking about into her affairs and wanting to know the

meaning of curious things; but he's much too lazy to learn."

"There's nothing so good as to follow Nature and find out a little about

her methods in hedges and ditches, where she'll let you."

"You surprise me. I should have thought men and women were much more

interesting than rabbits and wild flowers."

"You cannot get so near to them," he answered; "at least, I cannot. I

haven't that touch that opens hearts. I wish I had. People draw the

blinds down, I always think, before me. Either so, or I'm more than

common dense. Yet everybody has the greater part of himself or herself

hidden, I suppose; everybody has one little chamber he wouldn't open to

God if he could help it."

"Are you a Christian, Myles? But don't answer if you would rather not."

"Why, it makes a man's heart warm by night or by day to think of the

Founder of that faith."

Again Honor was surprised.

"I like to hear you say so," she answered. "D'you know I believe that

we think nearly alike--with a difference. Christ is much dearer to me

than the great awful God of the Universe. He was so good to women and

little children; but the Almighty I can only see in Nature--relentless,

unforgiving, always ready to punish a slip, always demon-quick to see a

mistake and visit the sins of the fathers on the children. Nature's the

stern image of a stern God to me--a thing no more to be blamed than the

lightning, but as much to be feared. Christ knew how to forgive and weep

for others, how to heal body and soul. The tenderness of Him! And He

fought Nature and conquered her; brought life where she had willed

death; health where she had sent sickness; stilled her passion on blue

Galilee; turned her water into wine."

"You can credit all that?"

"As easily as I can credit a power kinder than Nature, and stronger.

Yes, I believe. It is a great comfort to believe; and Christopher does

too."

"A beautiful religion," said Myles; "especially for women. They do well

to love One who raised them out of the dust and set them up. Besides,

there is their general mistiness on the subject of justice.

Christianity repels me here, draws me there. It is child's meat, with

its sugar-plums and whips for the good and naughty; it is higher than

the stars in its humanity."

"You don't believe in hell, of course?"

"No--or in heaven either. That is a lack in me--a sorrowful

limitation."

"Yet, if heaven exists, God being just, the man whose life qualifies him

for it has got to go there. That's a comforting thought for those who

love you, Myles."

The word struck a deep note. He started and looked at her.

"How kind to think of that! How good and generous of you to say it!"

The voice of him sent an emotion through Honor, and, according to her

custom when moved beyond common, she fell back upon laughter.

"Why, we're getting quite confidential, you and I! But here's the Moor

at last."

They stood upon Scor Hill and surveyed their subsequent way, where it

passed on before. Beneath swelled and subtended a mighty valley in the

lap of stone-crowned hills--a rare expanse of multitudinous browns.

Through every tone of auburn and russet, sepia and cinnamon, tan and

dark chocolate of the peat cuttings, these colour harmonies spread and

undulated in many planes. From the warmth and richness of velvet under

sunshine they passed into the chill of far-flung cloud-shadows, that

painted the Moor with slowly-moving sobriety and robbed her bosom of its

jewels, her streamlets of their silver. Teign wound below, entered the

valley far away under little cliffs of yellow gravel, then, by sinuous

courses, through a mosaic of dusky peat, ripe rushes, and green banks

overlaid with heather, passed where steep medley and tanglement of

motionless boulders awakened its volume to a wilder music. Here, above

this chaos of huge and moss-grown rocks, scarlet harvests of rowan flung

a flame along the gorges; grey granite swam into the grey-green of the

sallows; luxuriant concourse of flowers and ferns rippled to the brown

lips of the river; and terraces of tumbling water crowned all that

unutterable opulence of summer-clad dingle with spouts, with threads,

with broad, thundering cataracts of foaming light. Here Iris twinkled

in a mist that steamed above the apron of mossy-margined falls; here

tree shadows restrained the sunlight, yet suffered chance arrows of pure

amber to pierce some tremulous pool.

Each kiss of the Mother wakened long miles of earth into some rare hue,

where the Moor colours spread enormous in their breadth, clarity, and

volume. They rolled and rippled together; they twined and intertwined

and parted again; they limned new harmonies from the union of rush and

heath and naked stone; they chimed into fresh combinations of earth and

air and sunshine; they won something from the sky outspread above them,

and wove the summer blue into their secret fabrics, even as the sea

does. Between dispersed tracts of the brake fern and heather, and amid

walls of piled stone, that stretched threadlike over the Moor, there lay

dark or naked spaces brushed with green--theatres of past spring fires;

rough cart roads sprawled to the right and left; sheep tracks and the

courses of distant rivulets seamed the hills; while peat ridges streaked

the valleys, together with evidences of those vanished generations who

streamed for metal upon this spacious spot in the spacious times.

Beyond, towards the heart of the Moor, there arose Sittaford's crown; to

the west ranged Watern's castles; and northerly an enormous shoulder of

Cosdon climbed heaven until the opaline hazes of that noontide hour

softened its heroic outlines and something dimmed the mighty shadows

cast upon its slopes. Light winds fanned the mane of Honor's pony and

brought with them the woolly jangle of a sheep-bell, the bellow of

distant kine, the little, long-drawn, lonely tinkle of a golden bird

upon a golden furze.

"The Moor," said Honor; and as she spoke a shade lifted off the face of

the man beside her, a trouble faded from his eyes.

"Yes, the Moor--the great, candid, undissembling home of sweet air,

sweet water, sweet space."

"And death and desolation in winter, and hidden skeletons under the

quaking bogs."

"It is an animate God to me notwithstanding."

She shivered slightly and set her pony in motion.

"What a God! Where will it lead you?"

"I cannot tell; yet I trust. Nature is more than the mere art of God,

as men have called it. That is why I must live with it, why I cannot

mew myself in bricks and mortar. Here's God's best in this sort--the

dearest sort I know--the Moor--spread out for me to see and hear and

touch and tread all the days of my life. This is more than His

expression--it is Him. Nothing can be greater--not high mountains, or

eternal snows, or calling oceans. Nothing can be greater to me, because

I too am of all this--spun of it, born of it, bred on it, a brother of

the granite and the mist and the lonely flower. Do you understand?"

"I understand that this desert is no desert to you, Myles. Yet what a

faith! What a certainty!"

"Better than nothing at all."

"Anything is better than that. Our best certainties are only straws

thrown to the drowning--if we think as you do."

"Bars of lead rather. They help to sink us the quicker. We know

much--but not the truth of anything that matters."

"You will some day, Myles."

"Yes, too late, if your faith and its whips and sugarplums are true,

Honor."

"The life of the Moor is so short," she said, suddenly changing the

subject. "Now it is just trembling out into the yearly splendour of the

ling; then, that done, it will go to sleep again for month upon

month--lying dry, sere, dead, save for the mournful singing of rains and

winds. The austerity and sternness of it!"

"Tonic to toughen mental fibres."

"I'm not so philosophical. I feel the cold in winter, the heat in

summer. Come, let us cross Teign and wind away round Batworthy to Kes

Tor. There are alignments and hut circles and ruins of human homes

there--granite all, but they spell men and women. I can tolerate them.

They cheer me. Only sheep haunt them now--those ruins--but people dwelt

there once; Damnonian babies were born there, and wild mothers sang

cradle songs and logged little children in wolf-skin cradles and dreamed

golden dreams for them."

"Nature was kind to those early folk."

"Kind! Not kinder than I to my cattle."

"They were happier than you and I, nevertheless. Happier, because nearer

the other end of her chain. They had less intelligence, less capacity

for suffering."

"That's a theory of Christopher's. He often wishes that he had been

born thousands of years ago."

"Not since you promised to marry him," said Myles, with unusual

quickness of mind.

"Perhaps not; but he's a savage really. He declares that too much work

is done in the world--too much cutting and tunnelling and probing and

tearing Nature's heart out. He vows that the great Mother must hate man

and resent his hideous activity and lament his creation."

"One can imagine such a thing."

"And Christo says there is a deal of nonsense talked about the dignity

of work. He got that out of a book, I believe, and took the trouble to

remember it because the theory suited his own lazy creed so perfectly."

For once Myles Stapledon laughed.

"I do admire him: a natural man, loving the wine of life. We have more

in common than you might think, for all that I'm no sportsman. I

respect any man who will rise with the birds for sheer love of a fair

dawn."

"Your rule of conduct is so much more strenuous, so much sterner and

greyer," she said, "The cold rain and the shriek of east winds in

ill-hung doors are nothing to you. They really hurt him."

"Temperament. Yet I think our paths lead the same way."

Honor laughed in her turn.

"If they do," she declared, "there are a great many more turnpike gates

on your road than upon Christopher's."

*CHAPTER VI.*

*ANTHEMIS COTULA*

As Myles Stapledon proceeded at the stirrup of his cousin their

conversation became more trifling, for the girl talked and the man was

well content to listen. She entertained him with a humorous commentary

on the life of the Moor-edge and the people who went to compose it. She

pointed to stately roofs bowered in forests and expatiated on the

mushroom folk who dwelt beneath them.

"My Christo is not good enough for these! I'm a mere farmeress, and

wouldn't count, though I do trace my ancestors back to Tudor times. Yet

you might have supposed a Yeoland could dare to breathe the same air as

Brown, Jones, and Robinson. Don't you think so? What are these great

men?"

"Successful," he said, not perceiving that she spoke ironically.

"Ah! the god Success!"

"Don't blame them. Money's the only power in the world now. Birth

can't give splendid entertainments and pose as patron of the local

institutions and be useful generally and scatter gold--if it has no gold

to scatter. The old order changes, because those that represent it are

mostly bankrupt. But money has always been the first power. Now it has

changed hands--that's all the difference. A few generations of idleness

and behold! the red blood has got all the money; the blue blood has

none."

"Poor blue blood!"

"They are nothing to you--these people. They pay proper suit and

service to the god that made them; they know the power of money, the

futility of birth. What is the present use of old families if they

represent nothing but bygone memories and musty parchments? Rank is a

marketable commodity to be bought and sold--a thing as interesting and

desirable to many as old china or any other fad of the wealthy. That

they can understand, but poor commoners!--why, it isn't business. Don't

you see?"

"Christo's ancestors were a power in the land before this sort of people

were invented."

"They _were_ invented. If you look back far enough, you'll see that

plenty of your ancient houses sprang from just this sort of people.

Only their way to power and prosperity was more romantic then. Now they

merely risk their health and eyesight grubbing for half a lifetime at

desks in offices or in a bad climate; then they risked their lives under

some Devon Drake or Raleigh upon unknown seas, or the field of battle.

Our present methods of fortune-making are just as romantic really, only

it will take another age, that looks at this from a bird's-eye point of

view, to see it. Every dog has his day, and romance always means

yesterday. It is summed up in that. I'll wager the neglect of the

wealthy doesn't worry Yeoland."

"No, he laughs."

"They are too sordid to understand a man living his life and content to

do so. It isn't business."

Honor laughed.

"No--they have the advantage of him there. Yet I do wish he wasn't so

lazy."

But Stapledon felt that he could not speak upon that question, so the

subject dropped.

They had now left the Moor and were descending to the valley and the

river below. A magpie, like a great black and white butterfly, passed

with slow flutter before them; there was a drone and gleam of shining

insects in the air; and upon the sunny hedge-banks many oaks dripped

with the fat sweetness of the aphides until the steep way beneath was

darkened in patches as though by rain.

"D'you hear them?" asked Honor. "The twin Teigns! They meet at the

bridge beneath us. They know they are going to meet, and they begin to

purr and sing to one another. They will rush into each other's arms in

a minute. I love to see them do it."

Forward went her surefooted pony, and Myles, striding now on one side,

now upon the other, with his eyes in the rich fabric of the hedges, fell

a little way behind. When he caught his cousin up again she saw that he

had been picking wild flowers. A smile trembled on her lips, for the

little blossoms looked out of place--almost ridiculous--in this stolid

man's great hand. Honor thought there was a pathetic appeal in the eyes

of the summer speedwells and dog-roses, a righteous indignation in the

bristling locks of the ragged-robins that he held; but, assuming that

the bouquet was designed for her, she concealed her amusement. Then her

mind ranged to another aspect of this action, and she found the man's

simplicity appeal to her. He did not offer Honor the flowers, but added

others to them; named each hedge blossom; showed with frank interest how

the seeds of the wood-sorrels sprang away and scattered at a touch;

appeared entirely interested by the unconsidered business and beauty of

a Devon lane. These concerns, so trivial to Honor's eye, clearly

wakened in Stapledon an interest and enthusiasm as keen as any

pertaining to humanity.

They proceeded through the valley woods, past the great beech of the

proposal, whose secret inscription was discreetly turned away from the

high road, and then travelled towards Chagford, hard by the ancient mill

of Holy Street--once a happy haunt of artists, to-day denied to all men.

Here Honor pointed out the broken head of an old religious relic that

formed part of a hedge upon their right hand.

"Market Cross," she said. "It used to be in Chagford until a worthy

clergyman rescued it and set it here."

The fragment was of similar character to the granite round about it and

shared with the component wall a decoration of mosses, fern, nettle,

ivy, and brambles. Upon the stone itself was a rough incised cross, and

the whole appeared to occupy this humble place with peaceful propriety.

Myles viewed the fragment closely, then, moved by an idea, thrust his

bouquet between its arms and passed on.

"I thought they were for me," said Honor.

"No," he answered. "I picked them without a particular object."

They went forward again, traversed Chagford Bridge, and so, by dell and

hamlet, hill and valley, returned towards Little Silver and began to

breast the great acclivity to Bear Down.

At the foot of this steep climb one Doctor Courteney Clack met them. He

was a plump, genial soul of five-and-forty, and love of sport with lack

of ambition combined to anchor him in this remote region. He had little

to do and so much the more leisure for rod and horse. But to-day he was

walking, and his round, clean-shorn face showed him to be remarkably

warm.

"Not at the races, Doctor? How extraordinary!"

"Sheer evil fortune, Miss Endicott. A most inconsiderate young person."

"Mrs. Ford?"

"Exactly so. Nature has no sympathy with sportsmen. Christo is to tell

me everything. He also has charge of a five-pound note. So I enjoy the

sport in spirit."

Hurried footsteps interrupted the conversation, and a boy was seen

running at top speed down the hill.

"It's Tommy Bates from home!" cried Honor. "What on earth does he want

to go at that pace for?"

"Me probably," said Doctor Clack. "Nobody ever runs in Little Silver,

unless it's to my house."

The medical man was right, and Tommy announced that a labourer had

fallen suddenly sick in the hayfield and appeared about to perish.

"Sunstroke for certain," declared the medical man. "If it's not asking

too much, Miss Endicott, I would suggest that I borrowed your pony. It

will take me up the hill a great deal faster than I can walk, and time

may be precious."

Honor immediately dismounted, and Doctor Clack, with great entertainment

to himself, sat side-saddle, and uttering a wild whoop sent the

astounded pony at the hill in a manner both unfamiliar and undignified.

He was soon out of sight; and Tommy, after winning back his breath,

explained the nature of the disaster and gave the name of the sufferer.

An hour earlier in the day, those workers of Bear Down already seen,

were assembled about their dinner beside the majestic bulk of the last

rick. All was now gathered in and the evening would see conclusion of a

most satisfactory hay-harvesting. With their bread and onions, cheese

and cold puddings the labourers speculated upon the worth of the crop.

"I'm thinking 'twill go in part to fat the pocket of a lazy man," said

Henry Collins, who knew of the recent scene between Christopher Yeoland

and Mr. Cramphorn, and had his reasons for ingratiating the latter.

"Lazy an' worse. Look at my eye!" growled Jonah. "If it weren't for

missis, I'd have laid him in clink afore now--vicious rip as he is!

He'll never trouble Satan to find him a job. Born to the gallows like

as not."

He dropped his voice and turned to Churdles Ash.

"I seen Cherry Grepe," he said. "She's took my money to be even with

un. I didn't ax no questions, but 'twill go hard with un afore very

long."

Mr. Ash pursed his lips, which were indeed always pursed from the fact

of there being no teeth to mention behind them. He did not answer

Jonah's dark news, but spoke upon the main question.

"Come to think of it, a honest scarecrow do more work in the world than

him," he declared.

"No more gude than a bowldacious auld dog-fox," said Henry Collins.

"Worse," replied Jonah. "Such things as foxes an' other varmints be the

creation of the Lard to keep the likes of Christopher Yeoland out o'

mischief. But him--the man hisself--what can you say of wan as have got

a sawl to save, an' behaves like a awver-fed beast?"

"A butivul soarin' sawl," assented Samuel Pinsent. "But wheer do it soar

to? To kissin' honest gals on the highways by all accounts."

Mr. Cramphorn's dark visage wrinkled and twisted and contracted.

"Blast the viper! But I gived un a hard stroke here an' theer, I warn

'e. Might have killed un in my gert wrath, but for t'other. Walloped

un to the truth of music I did--philandering beast! 'Tis pearls afore

swine, missis to mate with him."

"Fegs! You'm right theer. I've said afore an' I'll say again that she

should have bided longer an' tried for her cousin. He'm worth ten of

t'other chitterin' magpie; an' ban't feared o' work neither," declared

Mr. Ash.

"Wait!" murmured Jonah darkly and with mystery in his voice. Then he

whispered behind his hand to the ancient. "Cherry Grepe had a gawlden

half-sovereign! I knaw what's in that woman, if she's pleased to let it

out. Bide an' see. An' her didn't burn the chap in a wax image stuffed

with pins for nought! 'That'll do the trick presently,'[#] her said. So

wait an' watch, Churdles, same as I be doin'."

[#] Presently = immediately.

Mr. Ash looked uneasy, but answered nothing. Then came a sudden

interruption.

Sally was serving at the cider barrel and had just poured out a horn of

sweet refreshment for a thirsty man. It was Mr. Libby, who, in working

clothes to-day, had condescended to manual labour once more. Time being

an object with the hay, Mr. Cramphorn offered the youth a week's

employment, so, much to the secret satisfaction of one who loved him,

Mr. Libby became enrolled. Now the supreme moment was at hand, and

while Sally laughed, her heart throbbed in a mighty flutter and beat

painfully against a little bottle in her bosom. It contained the

philtre, now to be exhibited on the cold heart of Gregory. Danger

indeed lurked in this act, but Sally felt steeled to it and well

prepared to hazard any reasonable risk. Only the previous evening she

had seen Mr. Libby and her sister very close together in the gloaming.

Moreover, her father had babbled far and near of the incident on the

moorland road, and certain men and women, to her furious indignation,

had not hesitated to hint that only an unmaidenly and coming-on spirit

could culminate in such tribulation.

Now she passed for one instant behind the rick, drew forth the phial,

took out its cork with her teeth and poured the potion into Mr. Libby's

horn of cider. Gregory, his holiday airs and graces set aside, thanked

the girl, gave a grateful grunt of anticipation, and drained the beaker

at a draught.

"That's better!" he said. Then he smacked his lips and spat. "Theer's

a funny tang to it tu. 'Twas from the cask--eh?"

"Ess, of course; wheer should it be from?" said Sally. Then she

fluttered away, scarcely seeing where she walked.

The boy, Tommy Bates, was sitting beside Libby, and a moment later he

spoke.

"Lard, Greg! what's tuke 'e? You'm starin' like a sheep."

"Doan't knaw, ezacally. I'm--I'm----"

"You'm gone dough-colour, an' theer's perspiration come out 'pon 'e so

big as peas!" cried candid Tommy.

"I'm bad--mortal bad--'struth, I be dyin' I b'lieve! 'Tis here it's took

me."

He clapped his hands to his stomach, rolled over on the ground and

groaned, while his companion hastened to cry the catastrophe.

"Greg Libby's struck down! He'm thrawin' his life up, an' wrigglin' an'

twistin' like a gashly worm!"

"Ah, I seed un wi'out his hat," said Mr. Ash calmly.

"A bit naish an' soft, I reckon; comes o' not standin' to work," spoke

Henry Collins contemptuously.

"Or might be tu much cider," suggested Pinsent.

Without undue haste they strolled over to the sufferer. His head was in

Sally's lap, and she screamed that he was passing away before their

eyes.

"Put the poll of un off your apern, will 'e!" snapped Mr. Cramphorn.

"Give awver hollerin', an' get on your legs, an' run home to Mrs. Loveys

for the brandy. The man's took a fit seemin'ly. An' you, Bates, slip

it down the hill for Doctor Clack. Loose his shirt to the throat,

Collins, and drag un in the shade."

Jonah's orders were complied with, and soon, brandy bottle in hand, Mrs.

Loveys hastened to the hay field with Sally sobbing behind her. But

meantime Nature had assisted Mr. Libby to evade the potion, and a little

brandy soon revived his shattered system. He was sitting up with his

back against the hayrick describing his sensations to an interested

audience when Doctor Clack arrived. The physician, who loved well the

sound of his own voice, lectured on the recumbent Libby as soon as he

had learnt particulars.

"First let me assure you all that he's in no danger--none at all," he

began. "Nature is more skilful, more quick-witted, more resourceful

than the most learned amongst us. Even I, beside Nature, am as nothing.

I should have ordered an emetic. Behold! Nature anticipates me and

takes all the necessary steps. Really one might have suspected a case

of _Colica Damnoniensis_--which doesn't mean a damned stomach-ache, as

you might imagine, having no Latin, but merely 'Devonshire Colic'--an

old-time complaint--old as cider in fact--but long since vanished. It

was caused by the presence of deleterious substances, or, as you would

describe it more simply, dirt, in the apple-juice; and those eminent

men, Doctor John Huxham and Sir George Baker, arrived at the conclusion

some hundred years ago that the ailment arose from presence of lead in

the cider vats. Nowadays such things cannot happen; therefore, to

return to our friend here, we must seek elsewhere for an explanation of

his collapse. Whatever he was unfortunate or unwise enough to partake

of has happily been rejected by that learned organ, the human

stomach--so often wiser than the human head--and my presence ceases to

be longer necessary. A little more brandy and water and our friend will

be quite equal to walking home."

Myles and Honor had now reached the scene, and the mistress of

Endicott's insisted that a cart should convey Gregory to his mother.

The unconscious victim of love therefore departed making the most of his

sufferings.

Sally also withdrew from the toil of the day, retired to her little

bedroom in Mr. Cramphorn's cottage near Bear Down, and wept without

intermission for a space of time not exceeding two hours. She then

cheered up and speculated hopefully upon the future.

To explain these matters it need only be said that, like many a better

botanist before her, the girl had mistaken one herb of the field for

another, and, instead of gathering innocent wild chamomile, collected

good store of mayweed--a plant so exactly like the first to outward

seeming that only most skilled eyes detect the differences between them.

Thus, instead of receiving the beneficent and innocuous _Matricaria

chamomilla_, Mr. Libby's stomach had been stormed by baleful _Anthemis

cotula_, with the results recorded.

*CHAPTER VII.*

*A BADGER'S EARTH*

While Myles Stapledon played a busy part at the farm and found ample

outlet for his small capital, ample occupation for his energies, Honor

roamed dreaming through the August days with Christopher. As for Myles,

he was a practical farmer and soon discovered what Mark Endicott had

anticipated, that no mean possibilities lurked in Bear Down. The place

indeed cried out for spending of money and increase of stock, but it

promised adequate return upon outlay--a return at least reasonable

viewed from the present low estate and reduced capabilities of English

land. Stapledon was not hungry for any immediate or amazing profit, but

Endicott's seemed certain to produce a fair interest upon the two

thousand pounds he embarked there; he liked the farm and he was

satisfied. At his cousin's particular desire, Myles stayed to see the

money spent according to his will. Some of it went in building; and

bygone beauties of old ripe thatches and cob walls that crumbled their

native red through many coats of mellow whitewash, now vanished,

yielding place to bricks, blue slates, and staring iron. A new

atmosphere moved over the stagnation of Endicott's and the blind man

settled into a great content.

The mistress had other matters to fill her thoughts, and, as the autumn

approached, private concerns wholly occupied her. For Honor was more

frank with herself than is possible to a soul that lacks humour; and a

problem now rose ahead of her beyond the solution of days and nights; a

mystery that developed, deepened, heightened, until it became a

distraction and a trouble. Yet there was laughter in it, but of a

sub-acid sort, neither wholesome nor pleasant.

Once in position of proud possessor, Christopher Yeoland exhibited no

further alarm and but little apparent eagerness in the matter of his

united future with Honor. Marriage appeared to be the last thing in his

thought, and the temperament of the man at this crisis became visible

and offered matter of comment for the most cursory observers. The fact

of delay suited Honor well enough in reality, for she had little

intention or desire to marry immediately, but that Christopher should be

of this mind piqued her. His perfect equanimity before the prospect of

an indefinite engagement secretly made Honor somewhat indignant. It did

not become her lover in her eyes. He was not indifferent, that she

knew; he was not cold, that she hoped; but his temper in this perfect

readiness to postpone matrimony showed him to Honor in a new sidelight.

Naturally enough she did not understand the trait, though it was

characteristic; and her discomfort existed in a vague sense that his

attitude, so much the reverse of a compliment to her, must have been

awakened by some deficiency in herself. That the imperfection lay in

him she did not imagine; that his love was a little anaemic in a

positive direction she could not be supposed to suspect. Intellectually

at least Christopher always sufficed, and Honor's uneasiness usually

evaporated when in his company, though it was prone to take shape and

substance again when absent from him. He always spoke of marriage as a

remote goal--wholly desirable indeed--but approached by such pleasant

ways that most rambling and desultory progress thereto was best; and,

though entirely of his mind, it is a fact that the girl felt

fluctuations of absolute annoyance that this should be his mind.

From which cause sprang secret laughter, that was born of fretfulness,

that died in a frown.

Other trouble, of a sort widely different, also appeared upon Honor's

horizon. After a period of supreme command, to find another enjoying

almost like share of obedience and service at Bear Down seemed strange.

But with absolute unconsciousness Myles Stapledon soon blundered into a

prominence at Endicott's second only to her own. Nor was his position

even second in some directions. Labouring folk follow a strong will by

instinct, and Myles was striking such a dominant note of energy,

activity, despatch in affairs, that the little community came presently

to regard him as the new controller of its fortunes. Stapledon's name

was upon the lips of the people more often than Honor's; even Jonah

Cramphorn, whose noblest qualities appeared in a doglike and devout

fidelity to the mistress, found Myles filling his mind as often as the

busy new-comer filled his eye. At such times, in common with Churdles

Ash and any other who might have enough imagination to regret an

impossibility, Jonah mourned that it was Yeoland rather than Stapledon

who had won his mistress's heart.

But the latter, full of business and loving work as only those love it

who have devoted life thereto, overlooked the delicacy of his position

at various minor points; and with sole purpose to save his cousin

trouble he took much upon himself. It was sufficient that she said

nothing and Mark Endicott approved. Once he offered to pay the hands at

the accustomed hour of noon on Saturday; whereupon Honor blushed, and,

becoming aware that he had hurt her, Myles expressed contrition with the

utmost humility and heaped blame upon his blunder.

"It was only to save you trouble," he concluded.

"I know it; you are always doing so," she answered without irony. "But

pay-day--that's the farmer's work."

Her answer, though not intended to do anything of the sort, forcibly

reminded Myles that he had but a limited interest in Bear Down.

"Be frank," he said. "I'm such a thick-skinned fool that I may have

blundered before and hurt you and never known it. Do not suffer me to

do so again, Honor. I'm only very jealous for you and all that is

yours."

"You are a great deal too kind to me, Myles, and have done more than I

can find words to thank you for. You are the good genius here. I don't

like to think of the loneliness we shall feel when you go from us."

"I'm not going yet awhile, I promise you," he answered.

Honor indeed appreciated her cousin's goodness fully, and, after this

incident, had no more occasion to deplore his tact. She only spoke

truth when affirming regret at the possibility of his departure. Her

earliest sensations of oppression in his society had passed upon their

walk over the Moor. From that moment the woman began to understand him

and appreciate the strenuous simplicity of him. Sometimes he looked

almost pathetic in his negations and his lonely and forlorn attitude

towards the things of Hope; at others he rose into a being impressive,

by that loneliness--a rare spirit who, upon "inbred loyalty unto Virtue,

could serve her without a livery," and without a wage. Thus seen he

interested Honor's intellect, and she speculated upon the strength of

his armour if Chance called upon him to prove it. Not seldom she found

herself in moods when a walk and a talk with Myles invigorated her; and

she told her heart that such conversations made her return to

Christopher with the greater zest, as an olive will reveal the delicate

shades of flavour in fine wine. She assured herself of this fact

repeatedly, until the reiteration of the idea caused her conscience to

suspect its truth. She wilfully shut her eyes to its absurdity for a

month, then changed her simile. Now she fancied that Christopher and

Myles must impart an intellectual complement to one another, in that

their qualities differed so extremely.

The result of this attitude was inevitable upon a woman of Honor's

temperament. Comparison being impossible, she began to contrast the two

men. One could be nothing to her; the other she had promised to marry;

and even in the midst of her critical analysis she blamed herself, not

without reason, in that her love for Christopher had no power to blind

her. She asked herself bitterly what an affection was worth that could

thus dwell in cold blood upon a lover's weaknesses. She answered

herself that it was Christopher's own fault. She felt glad that he was

what he was. His defects looked lovable; and only in the rather chilly

daylight thrown by Stapledon's characteristics did Christo's blemishes

appear at all. Then Honor grew very angry with herself, but tried to

believe that her anger was directed against Myles. She flew upon him

savagely to tear him to pieces; she strove furiously, pitilessly to

strip him to his soul; but she was just between the ebullitions of

anger, and, after her hurricane onset, the lacerated figure of her

cousin still stood a man. He was difficult to belittle or disparage by

the nature of him. One may trample a flower-bed into unlovely ruin in a

moment; to rob a lichen-clad rock of its particular beauty is a harder

and a lengthier task. Granted that the man was ponderous and lacking in

laughter, he could yet be kind and gentle to all; granted that he

appeared oppressed with the necessity of setting a good example to the

world, yet he was in earnest, of self-denying and simple habit, one who

apparently practised nothing he did not preach. She turned impatiently

away from the picture of such admirable qualities; she told herself that

he was little better than a savage in some aspects, a prig in all the

rest. Yet Honor Endicott had lived too close to Nature to make the

mistake of any lengthened self-deception. Myles was living a life that

would wear, as against an existence which even her green experience of

the world whispered was irrational; and though the shrewdness of

Stapledon appeared a drab and unlovely compound beside Christopher's

sparkling philosophy, yet Honor knew which stood for the juster views of

life and conduct. One represented a grey twilight, clear and calm if

wholly lacking any splendid height of hue; the other promised wide

contrasts, tropical sunshine, and probable tempests. Not a little in the

sobriety of the first picture attracted her; but she was none the less

well pleased to think that she had already decided for the second.

Herein she followed instinct, for her nature was of the sort that needed

variable weather if intellectual health was to be her portion.

Yet these dissimilar men, as chance willed it, proved excellent friends,

and, from the incident of their first meeting, grew into a sufficiently

warm comradeship. Myles found himself gasping a dozen times a day before

the audacities of Christopher. Sometimes indeed he suspected Yeoland's

jewels of being paste; sometimes he marvelled how a professed Christian

could propound certain theories; sometimes also he suspected that the

Squire of Godleigh spoke truer than he knew. Christopher, for his part,

welcomed the farmer, as he had welcomed any man whose destiny it was to

lighten Honor's anxiety. That the new-comer was putting a couple of

thousand pounds into Endicott's proved passport sufficient to Yeoland's

esteem. Moreover, he liked Myles for other reasons. They met often in

the fields and high places at dawn, and from standpoints widely

different they both approached Nature with love. Christopher took a

telescopic survey, delighted in wide harmonies, great shadows, upheavals

of cloud, storms, sunsets, rivers overflowing and the magic of the mist.

He knew the name of nothing and shrank from scientific approach to

natural objects--to bird or bud or berry; but he affected all the wild

animate and inanimate life of his woods and rivers; he was reluctant to

interfere with anything; he hated the mournful echo of a woodman's axe

in spring, though each dull reverberation promised a guinea for his

empty purse. Stapledon, on the contrary, while not dead to spacious

manifestations of force, was also microscopic. He missed much that the

other was quick to glean, but gained an intimate knowledge of matters

radical, and, being introspective, dug deeper lessons out of Devon

hedgerows and the economy of Dartmoor bogs than Yeoland gathered from

the procession of all the seasons as displayed in pomp and glory under

the banner of the sun.

On a day when as yet no shadow had risen between them; when as yet Myles

contemplated his cousin's engagement without uneasiness, and Christopher

enjoyed the other's ingenuous commentary upon Honor's rare beauty of

mind and body, they walked together at sunset on the high lands of

Godleigh. Above the pine trees that encircled Yeoland's home and rose

behind it, an offshoot from the Moor extended. Deep slopes of fern and

grass, mountain ash and blackthorn, draped the sides of this elevation,

and upon the crown of a little hill, sharing the same with wild ridges

and boulders of stone, spread ruins and lay foundations of a building

that had almost vanished. A single turret still stood, ceiled with the

sky, carpeted with grass; and all round about a glory of purple heather

fledged the granite, the evening scent of the bracken rose, flames of

sunset fire touched stones and tree-tops, and burnt into the huge side

of distant Cosdon Beacon, until that mountain was turned into a mist of

gold.

"There would be a grand sky if we were on the Moor to-night," said

Christopher; "not one of the clear, cloudless sort--as clean and

uneventful as a saint's record--but what I call a human sunset--full of

smudged splendour and gorgeous blots and tottering ruins, with live fire

streaming out of the black abysses and an awful scarlet pall flung out

to cover the great red-hot heart of the sun as he dips and dips."

"A sunset always means to-morrow to me."

"You're a farmer. Nothing ever means to-morrow to me."

"I can't believe that, Yeoland--not now that you've won Honor."

Christopher did not answer, but walked on where many an acre of fern

spread over the southern face of the slope.

"Here you are," he said presently, indicating a burrow and a pile of

mould. "Tommy Bates found it when he was here picking sloes and told me

about it. I won't be sure it isn't a fox myself; though he declares the

earth to be a badger's."

"Yes, I think that dead white grass means a badger. He brought it up

from the valley."

"Then Tommy was right and I'm glad, for any distinguished stranger is

welcome on my ground. What does the brute eat?"

"Roots and beech mast for choice. But he's carnivorous to the extent of

an occasional frog or beetle; and I'm afraid he wouldn't pass a

partridge's nest if there were eggs in it."

"That's a black mark against the beggar, but I'll pretend I don't know

it."

They strolled forward and Myles kept his eyes upon the ground, while

Christopher watched the sunset.

"It's a singular puzzle, the things that make a man melancholy," said

the latter suddenly. "Once I had a theory that any perfect thing, no

matter what, must produce sadness in the human mind, simply out of its

perfection."

"A country life would be a pretty miserable business if that was

so--with the perfect at the door of our eyes and ears all day long."

"Then I discovered that it depended on other considerations. Love of

life is concerned with it. Youth saddens nobody; but age must. Our

love of life wakes our sorrow for the old who are going out of it. 'Tis

the difference between a bud and a withered blossom. Sunrise makes no

man sad. That's why you love it, and love to be in it, as I do. The

blush of dawn is like the warm cheek of a waking child--lovely; but

sunset is a dying thing. There's sadness in that, and the more

beautiful, the more sad."

"I cannot see anything to call sad in one or other."

"No, I suppose you can't; you've got such a devilish well-balanced

mind."

A faint shadow of annoyance if not absolute contempt lurked in the tones

of the speech; but Stapledon failed to see it.

"I wish I had," he answered. "There are plenty of things in Nature that

make a man sad--sounds, sights, glimpses of the eternal battle under the

eternal beauty. But sadness is weakness, say what you will. There's

nothing to be sentimental about really. It's because we apply our rule

of thumb to her; it's because we try to measure her wide methods by our

own opinions on right and justice that we find her unjust. I told Honor

something of this; but she agrees with you that Nature's quite beyond

apology, and won't be convinced."

"You've told her so many things lately--opened her eyes, I'm sure, in so

many directions. She's as solemn as an owl sometimes when I'm with her.

Certainly she doesn't laugh as often as she used to."

Myles was much startled.

"Don't say that; don't say that. She's not meant to take sober

views--not yet--not yet. She's living sunlight--the embodiment of

laughter, and all the world's a funny picture-book to her still. To

think I should have paid for the pleasure she's brought me by lessening

her own! I hope you're utterly wrong, Yeoland. This is a very

unquieting thought."

The man spoke much faster than usual, and with such evident concern that

Christopher endeavoured to diminish the force of his speech.

"Perhaps I'm mistaken, as you say; perhaps the reason is that we are now

definitely engaged. That may have induced gravity. Of course it is a

solemn thing for an intelligent girl to cast in her lot with a pauper."

But Myles would not be distracted from the main issue.

"Her laughter is characteristic--marvellously musical--part of herself,

like bells are part of a fair church. Think of making a belfry dumb by a

deliberate act! Honor should always be smiling. A little sister of the

spring she seems to me, and her laughter goes to my heart like a lark's

song, for there's unconscious praise of God in it."

Yeoland glanced at the other.

"You can be sentimental too, then?"

"Not that, but I can be sad, and I am now. A man may well be so to

think he has bated by one smile the happiness of Honor."

"Sorry I mentioned it."

"I'm glad. It was a great fault in me. I will try desperately to

amend. I'm a dull dog, but I'll----"

"Don't, my dear chap. Don't do anything whatever. Be yourself, or you

won't keep her respect. She hates shams. I would change too if I

could. But she'd be down on me in a second if I attempted any

reformation. The truth is we're both bursting with different good and

brilliant qualities--you and I--and poor Honor is dazzled."

Stapledon did not laugh; he only experienced a great desire to be alone.

"Are you going to wait for the badger?" he asked, as they turned and

retraced their way.

"Good Lord, no! Are you?"

"Certainly. It's only a matter of hours at most. I can sit silent in

the fern with my eyes on the earth. I thought you wanted to see him."

"Not an atom. It's enough for me that he's here in snug quarters. My

lord badger will show at moonrise, I expect. You'd better come down to

the house and have a drink after the manifestation."

He tramped away; his footfall faded to a whisper in the fern; and Myles,

reaching a place from which the aperture below was visible, settled

himself and took a pipe from his pocket from habit, but did not load or

light it. He had an oriental capacity for waiting, and his patience it

was that had won much of his curious knowledge. A few hours more or

less under the stars on a fine summer night were nothing but a pleasure

to him. Rather did he welcome the pending vigil, for he desired to

think, and he knew that a man may do so to best purpose in the air.

Once out of sight Christopher also stopped awhile and sat down upon a

rock with his face uplifted. The rosy sky was paling, and already a

little galaxy of lights afar off marked the village of Chagford, where

it stood upon its own proper elevation under the Moor. Thus placed, in

opposition to the vanished sun, detail appeared most clearly along the

eastern hills and valleys. Cot, hamlet, white winding road stood forth

upon the expanse, and while Christopher Yeoland watched the dwindling

definition on earth there ascended a vast and misty shield of pearl into

the fading sky. Through parallel bands of grey, like a faint ghost, it

stole upwards into a rosy after-glow. Then the clouds faded, and died,

and wakened again at the touch of the moon, as she arose with heightened

glory and diminished girth, to wield a sceptre of silver over sleep.

There descended then the great silence of such places, the silence that

only country dwellers understand, the silence that can fret urban nerves

into absolute suffering. Bedewed fern-fronds gathered light, and flung

it like rain across the gloom, and brought far-reaching peace and

contentment to the mind of Christopher. He dreamed dreams; he rose in

spirit through the moony mist--a dimensionless, imponderable, spirit

thing, ready to lose himself in one drop of diamond dew, hungry to fill

high heaven and hug the round moon to his heart. For a little season he

rejoiced in the trance of that hushed hour; then the moment of

intoxication vanished, and he rose slowly and went his way.

The other man, after long waiting, was also rewarded. From beneath him,

where he sat, there came at last a sound and a snuffling. The badger

appeared, and the moonlight touched his little eyes and gleamed along

his amber side-streaks as he put up his nose, sniffed the air with

suspicion, stretched himself, scratched himself, then paddled silently

away upon his nightly business through the aisles of the fern.

*CHAPTER VIII.*

*OUT OF THE MIST*

The calm awakened of moonlight, as quickly died, and Christopher Yeoland

found himself in some uneasiness when he thought of his love. Whereon

he based this irritation would have been difficult to determine, but a

variety of small annoyances conspired to build it. These trifles,

separately, laughter could blow away at a breath, but combined they grew

into a shadow not easily dispelled. Already the name of Myles had

oftener sounded upon Honor's lips than seemed necessary, even when

Stapledon's position and importance at Bear Down were allowed; and now

her name similarly echoed and re-echoed in the utterances of her cousin.

Still Christopher smiled in thought.

"It's the novelty of him after me. I'm a mere rollicking, irresponsible

brook--only good to drink from or fish in--for ideas; he's a useful,

dreary canal--a most valuable contrivance--smooth, placid, not to say

flat. Well, well, I must shake Honor up; I must----"

He reflected and debated upon various courses though immediate marriage

was not included amongst them. But a fortnight later the situation had

developed.

Honor and Christopher were riding together over the Moor; and, albeit

the physical conditions promised fair enough until sunset-time, when

both man and woman turned homewards very happy, yet each had grown

miserable before the end, and they parted in anger upon the heathery

wastes where northern Teign and Wallabrook wind underneath Scor Hill.

For the weather of the high land and the weather of their minds

simultaneously changed, and across both there passed a cloud. Over

against the sunset, creeping magically as she is wont to creep, from the

bosom of the Moor and the dark ways of unseen water, arose the Mist

Mother. She appeared suddenly against the blue above, spread forth

diaphanous draperies, twined her pearly arms among the stocks and stones

and old, wind-bent bushes of the waste. Catching a radiance from the

westering sun, she draped the grey heads of granite tors in cowls of

gold; she rose and fell; she appeared and vanished; she stole forward

suddenly; she wreathed curly tendrils of vapour over sedge and stone,

green, quaking bog, still waters, and the peat cuttings that burnt

red-hot under the level rays of the sun. Great solitary flakes of the

mist, shining with ineffable lustre of light, lessened the sobriety of

the heath; and upon their dazzling hearts, where they suddenly merged

and spread in opposition to the sun on the slope of western-facing

hills, there trembled out a spectral misty circle--a huge halo of

colourless light drawn upon the glimmering moisture. Within it, a

whitethorn stood bathed in a fiery glow without candescence; and from

beneath the tree some wild creature--hare or fox--moved away silently

and vanished under the curtain, while a curlew cried overhead invisible.

The riders reined up and watched the luminous frolics of the Mist, where

she played thus naked, like an innocent savage thing, before them.

"These are the moments when I seem to glimpse antique life through the

grey--wolf-skins and dark human skins, coarse faces, black hair,

bead-bright eyes, strange speech, the glimmer of tents or rush thatches

through the mist. These, and the bark of dogs, laughter of women,

tinkle of stone on stone, where some Damnonian hunter fabricates his

flints and grunts of the wood-bears and the way to kill them."

"Always dreaming, dearest. I wonder what you would have done in those

days? Did the Damnonians have Christos too?"

"Undoubtedly. I should have been a bard, or a tribal prophet, or

something important and easy. I should have dreamed dreams, and told

fortunes, and imparted a certain cultured flavour to the lodge. I

should have been their oracle very likely--nice easy work being an

oracle. In it you'll find the first dawn of the future art of

criticism."

"Creation is better than criticism."

"That's your cousin, I'll swear! The very ring of him. No doubt he

thinks so. Yet what can be more futile than unskilful creation? For

that matter the awful amount of time that's wasted in all sorts of

futile work."

"You're certainly sincere. You practise the virtues of laziness as well

as preach them," said Honor without amusement.

"I do; but there's not that old note of admiration at my theories in

your voice of late, my angel girl."

"No, Christo; I'm beginning to doubt, in a fleeting sort of way, if your

gospel is quite the inspired thing you fancy it."

"Treason! You live too much in the atmosphere of honest toil,

sweetheart. And there's hardly a butterfly left now to correct your

impressions."

"No; they are all starving under leaves, poor things."

"Exactly--dying game; and the self-righteous ant is counting his

stores--or is it the squirrel, or the dormouse? I know something or

other hoards all the summer through to prolong his useless existence."

Honor did not answer. Then her lover suddenly remembered Myles, and his

forehead wrinkled for a moment.

"Of course I'm not blind, Honor," he proceeded, in an altered tone.

"I've seen the change these many days, and levelled a guess at the

reason. Sobersides makes me look a weakling. Unfortunately he's such a

real good chap I cannot be cross with him."

"Why should you be cross with anybody?"

"That's the question. You're the answer. I'm--I'm not exactly all I

was to you. Don't clamour. It's true, and you know it's true. You're

so exacting, so unrestful, so grave by fits lately. And he--he's always

on your tongue too. You didn't know that, but it's the case. Natural

perhaps--a strong personality, and so forth--yet--yet----"

"What nonsense this is, Christopher!"