Yet she was peacefully happy and quietly alive to the blessing of such a

husband. Her temperament found him a daily meal of bread and

butter--nourishing, pleasant to a healthy appetite, easy to digest.

But, while he had feared for his happiness, she had already asked

herself if his consistent stability would ever pall. She knew him so

thoroughly, and wished that it was not so. It exasperated her in secret

to realise that she could foretell to a nicety his speech and action

under all possible circumstances. There were no unsuspected crannies

and surprises in him. Surprises had ever been the jewels of Honor's

life, and she believed that she might dig into the very heart's core of

this man and never find one.

"He seems to be gold all through," she thought once. "Yet I wish he was

patchy for the sake of the excitement."

But Myles by no means wearied his wife in these halcyon hours. She was

very proud of him and his strength, sobriety, common sense. She enjoyed

testing these qualities, and did so every day of the week, for she was a

creature of surprises herself, and appreciated juxtaposition of moods as

an epicure desires contrary flavours. She never found him wanting. He

was as patient as the high Moor; and she believed that she might as

easily anger Cosdon Beacon as her husband. He ambled by her side along

the pathway of life like a happy elephant. If ever they differed, it

was only upon the question of Honor's own share in the conduct of the

farm. Formerly she had been energetic enough, and even resented the

man's kindly, though clumsy attempts to relieve her; since marriage,

however, she appeared well content to let him do all; and this had not

mattered, in the opinion of Myles, while Honor found fresh interests and

occupations to fill those hours formerly devoted to her affairs. But

she did not do so; she spent much time to poor purpose; she developed a

passing whim for finer feathers than had fledged her pretty body as a

maiden; she began buying dresses that cost a ten-pound note apiece.

These rags and tags Myles cared nothing for, but dutifully accompanied

to church and upon such little visits of ceremony as the present. Then

he grew uncomfortable and mentioned the trifle to Mark Endicott, only to

hear the old man laugh.

"'Tis a whim," he said; "just one blind alley on the road towards

happiness that every woman likes to probe if she can; and some live in

it, and, to their dying day, get no forwarder than frocks. But she

won't. Praise the new frill-de-dills when she dons them. Please God

there's a time coming when she'll spend money to a better end, and fill

her empty time with thoughts of a small thing sprung from her own flesh.

No latest fashions in a baby's first gear, I believe. They don't

change; no more do grave clothes."

Man and wife walked homeward beside tall, tangled hedges, full of

ripeness and the manifold delicate workmanship and wrought filigrane of

seed-vessels that follow upon the flowers. Honor was in worldly vein,

for she had now come from calling upon folks whose purse was deeper than

her own; but Myles found the immediate medley of the hedgerow a familiar

feast, and prattled from his simple heart about what he saw there.

"You hear so often that it's a cheerless hour which sees the summer

flowers dying, but I don't think so, do you, sweetheart? Look at the

harvest of the hedges in its little capsules and goblets and a thousand

quaint things! But you've noticed all this. You notice everything.

Take the dainty cups, with turned rims, of the campions; and the

broadswords or horse-shoes of the peas-blossomed things; and the cones

of the foxgloves and the shining balls of starry stitchworts; and the

daggers of herb Robert; and the bluebell's triple treasure-house; and

the violet's; and the wood-sorrel, that shoots its grain into space; and

the flying seeds of dandelions and clematis. And the scarlet

fruits--the adder's meat, iris, the hips and aglets, bryony and

nightshade; and the dark berries of privets and madders and

wayfaring-tree and dogwood; and then the mast of oak and beech and

chestnut--it is endless; and all such fine finished work!"

She listened or half listened; then spoke, when he stopped to draw

breath.

"Poor Christo used to say that he saw Autumn as a dear, soft,

plump-breasted, brown woman sitting on a throne of sunset

colours--sitting there smiling and counting all the little cones and

purses and pods with her soft hazel eyes, until falling leaves hid her

from his sight in a rain of scarlet and gold and amber, under

crystalline blue hazes. And sometimes he saw her in the corn, with the

round moon shining on her face, while she lingered lovingly in the

silver, and the ripe grain bent to kiss her feet and stay her progress.

And sometimes"--she broke off suddenly. "You have an eye like a lynx

for detail, Myles. Nothing escapes you. It is very wonderful to me."

He was pleased.

"I love detail, I think--detail in work and play. Yet Yeoland taught me

more than he learned from me. The seeds are symbols of everlasting

things, of life being renewed--deathless."

Honor yawned, but bent her head so that he should not see the

involuntary expression of weariness. Believing that he had her

attention, he prosed on.

"For my part I often think of the first sowing, and picture the

Everlasting, like a husbandman, setting forth to scatter the new-born,

mother-naked earth with immortal grain."

"And I suppose the slugs came as a natural consequence; or d'you think

Providence only had the happy thought to torment poor Adam with prickles

and thorns and green flies and caterpillars and clothes after he'd made

that unfortunate effort to enlarge his mind?"

Myles started.

"Don't, Honor love! You should not take these things so. But I'm

sorry; I thought I was interesting you."

"So you were; and those heavy, brick-red curtains of Mrs. Maybridge were

interesting me still more. I don't know whether I liked them or hated

them."

"Well, decide, and I'll write to Exeter for a pair if they please you.

Where you'll put them I don't know."

"More do I, dearest. That's why I think I must have a pair--to puzzle

me. Nothing ever puzzles me now. I've read all the riddles in my

world."

"How wise! Yet I know what you mean. I often feel life's got nothing

left that is better than what it has brought. We want a hard winter to

brace us--with anxiety, too, and perhaps a loss here and there. So much

honey is demoralising."

She looked at him with curiosity.

"Are you really as happy as all that? I didn't know any human being

could be; I didn't think it possible to conscious intelligence. That's

why I never quite grasped the perfect happiness of the angels--unless

they're all grown-up children. Nobody who has trodden this poor, sad

old world will ever be quite happy again even in heaven. To have been a

man or woman once is to know the shadow of sorrow for all eternity."

But he was thinking of her question, and heard no more. It came like a

seed--like some air-borne, invisible, flying spore of the wild

fern--touched his heart, found food there, and promised to rise by

alternative generation to an unrest of like pattern with the

mother-plant in Honor's own heart.

"You're not as happy as I am then?" he asked, with a sudden concern in

his voice. "D'you mean that? You must mean it, for you wonder at the

height of my happiness, as though it was beyond your dreams."

"I'm very, very happy indeed, dear one--happier than I thought I could

be, Myles--happier by far than I deserve to be."

But the seed was sown, and he grew silent. In his egotism the

possibility of any ill at the root of his new world, of a worm in the

bud of his opening rose, had never struck him. His eyes had roamed

around the horizons of life; now there fell a little shadow upon him

from a cloud clean overhead. He banished it resolutely and laughed at

himself. Yet from that time forward it occasionally reappeared.

Henceforth unconsciously he forgot somewhat his own prosperity of mind

in attempting to perfect Honor's. He laboured like a giant to bring her

measure of full peace. Her days of light and laughter were his also;

while when transitory emotions brought a chill to her manner, a cloud to

her eyes, he similarly suffered. The wide distinctions in their nature

he neither allowed for nor appreciated. Concerning women he knew nothing

save this one, and all the obvious, radical differences of essence and

nature, he explained to himself as necessary differences of sex.

Man and wife proceeded together homeward, and Honor, acutely conscious

of having raised a ripple upon the smooth sea of his content, entered

with vigour into her husband's conversation, chimed with his enthusiasm,

and plucked seeds and berries that he might name them. Without

after-showing of the bitter she had set to his lips, Myles serenely

returned to the hedgerow harvests; and so they passed downward together

towards the farm, while the sky darkened and pavilions of the coming

rain loomed large and larger.

"Just in time," said the man. "I heard Teign's cry this morning; but

bad weather is not going to last, I think."

Yet the day closed in drearily, after set of sun. The wind fell at that

hour and backed south of west; the mist increased and merged into the

density of rain; the rain smothered up the gloaming with a steady,

persistent downpour.

*CHAPTER II.*

*CHERRY GREPE'S SINS*

Where Honor's head lay upon her pillow by night, a distance of scarcely

one yard separated it from the famous cherry tree of Endicott's. This

year, owing to a prevalence of cold wind, the crop, though excellent,

had been unusually late, and it happened that the thrushes and

blackbirds paid exceptional attention to the fruit. Once, in a moment

of annoyance at sight of her shining berries mutilated by sharp bills,

and pecked to the purple-stained stones, Honor had issued an impatient

mandate to the first servant who chanced to meet her after discovery of

the birds' theft. Henry Collins it was, and his round eyes grew into

dark moons as she bid him shoot a few of the robbers and hang their

corpses Haman-high as a dreadful lesson to the rest.

For a fortnight after this stern decree Collins, full of private

anxieties, paid no heed to his mistress's command, and Honor herself

dismissed the matter and forgot her order as completely as she forgot

those moments of irritation that were responsible for it; but anon Henry

recollected the circumstance, borrowed Jonah Cramphorn's gun, rose

betimes, and marched into the garden on a morning soon after the

rainstorm. A flutter of wings in the cherry tree attracted him, and

firing against the side of the house he brought down a fine cock

blackbird in a huddled heap of ebony feathers now streaked with crimson,

his orange bill all stained with juice from the last cherry that he

would spoil. The shot echoed and re-echoed through the grey stillness

of dawn, and Myles, already rising, hastened to the window, while Honor

opened her eyes, for the report had roused her.

"It's Collins!" exclaimed her husband, staring into the dusk of day;

"and the brute has shot a blackbird! Is he mad? How did he dare to come

into the private garden with his gun? And now you'll most probably have

a headache--being startled out of sleep like that. Besides, the cruelty

of it."

"What a storm in a teacup, my dear! The man is only doing as I ordered

him. The birds are a nuisance. They've eaten all my cherries again this

year. I bid Collins thin them a little."

"_You_ told him to shoot them? Honor!"

"Oh, don't put on that Sunday-school-story look, my dearest and best.

There are plenty of blackbirds and thrushes. The garden is still my

province, at any rate."

"The birds do more good than harm, and, really, a handful of sour

cherries----"

"They're _not_ sour!" she cried passionately, flaming over a trifle and

glad of any excuse to enjoy an emotion almost forgotten. "My father

loved them; my great-grandfather set the tree there. It's a sacred

thing to me, and I'll have every bird that settles in it shot, if I

please."

"Honor!"

"And hung up afterwards to frighten the rest."

"I'm surprised."

"I don't care if you are. You'll be more surprised yet. 'Sour'!

They're better cherries than ever you tasted at Tavistock, I know."

"Collins----"

"Collins must do what I tell him. You're master--but I'm mistress. If

the house is going to be divided against itself----"

"God forbid! What in heaven's name are you dreaming of? This is

terrible!"

"Then let Collins kill the thrushes and blackbirds. I wish it. I hate

them. If you say a word I'll turn the man off."

But two go to a quarrel. Myles, much alarmed and mystified by this

ebullition, vowed that Collins might shoot every bird in the county for

him; then he departed; and his lady, only regretful that the paltry

little quarrel had endured so short a time, arose much refreshed by it.

The sluggish monotony of well-balanced reciprocal relations made her

spirits stagnant, while pulses of opposition, like sweet breezes, seemed

always a necessity of health to invigorate and brighten it. Stapledon

appeared at breakfast with anxious eye and a wrinkle between his brows;

his attitude towards Honor was almost servile, and his demeanour to the

household more reserved than common; but the mistress had obviously

leapt from her couch into sunshine. She chatted cheerfully to all,

granted Sally a morning away from work, when that maiden begged for some

leisure; and herself, after breakfast, announced a determination to go

afield and see whether the recent rain had improved the fishing. Myles

offered to make holiday also, but, with the old ripple in her voice and

between two kisses, she refused him.

"No, dear heart. 'Tis my whim to go alone. I'm feeling a good girl

to-day, and that's so rare that I don't want to spoil the sensation. So

I mean catching some trout for your supper and Uncle Mark's. Don't come.

A day alone on the Moor will blow away some cobwebs and make me better

company for my dear, good husband."

Presently she tramped off to northern Teign, where it tumbles by slides

and rocky falls through steep valley under Watern's shoulder; and as she

left the men at the garden, Mr. Endicott turned his blind eyes upon

Myles with a sort of inquiry in them.

"What's come over her to-day? Fresh as a daisy seemingly, and happy as

a lark. Got a new ring or bracelet out of you? The old note, that I've

missed of late and sorrowed to miss. But I can name it now, because

it's come back. What's the reason?"

"I can't tell you. You hurt me a good deal when you say you've missed

any indication of happiness in her. As a matter of fact we had a brief

passage of words this morning. Nothing serious of course. That wasn't

it at any rate."

Mr. Endicott chuckled.

"But it was though, for certain! You set a current flowing. You've

done her a power of good by crossing her. I don't want any details, but

a word to the wise is enough. Labour keeps your life sweet; she wants

something else. Some women must have a little healthy opposition. I

wager she loves you better for denying some wish or issuing some order."

"Not at all. Since we're on this incident I may mention that I gave way

completely. But 'twas a paltry thing."

"Then if a breeze that ends tamely, by her getting her will, can shake

her into such brave spirits, think how it would be if you'd forbid her

and had your way! Learn from it--that's all. Some natures can't stand

eternal adoration. They sicken on it. There's no good thing, but

common-sense, you can't have too much of. So don't be--what's the word?"

"Uxorious," said Myles Stapledon drearily.

"Yes. Don't pamper her with love. You're all the world to her and she

to you; but take a lesson from her and hide more than you show. Man and

woman's built for stormy weather, and as calm seas and snug harbours

breed grass and barnacles on a ship's bottom, so you can reckon it with

sheltered souls. I've seen whole families rot away and vanish from this

sort of self-indulgence. It saps strength and sucks the iron out of a

man. There's metal in you both. Don't try and stand between her and

the weather of life."

"I understand you, uncle. I'm only waiting for trouble to come. I know

all this happiness isn't entirely healthy. But it's natural I should

wish to shield her."

"Right, my son. Only remember she's a hardy plant and won't stand

greenhouse coddling. How would you like it yourself?"

They parted, the younger impressed with a new idea; yet, as the day wore

on, he began to think of Honor, and presently strolled up the hill to

meet her. Once he laughed to himself as he tramped to the heights; but

it was a gloomy laugh. This idea of quarrelling as a counter-irritant,

of coming nearer to her by going further off, he little appreciated.

Myles wandered to the circle of Scor Hill and mused there. Here she had

denied him in snow, offered herself to him in springtime. Honor he did

not see, but another woman met his gaze. She was aged and bent, and she

passed painfully along under a weight of sticks gathered in the valley.

He spoke from his seat on a stone.

"I should not carry so much at one load, Cherry; you'll hurt yourself."

Gammer Grepe, thus accosted, flung her sticks to the ground and turned

to Myles eagerly.

"'Tis a gude chance I find 'e alone," she said, "for I'm very much

wantin' to have a tell with 'e if I may make so bold."

"Sit down and rest," he answered.

Then the gammer began with tearful eagerness.

"'Tis this way. For years an' years the folks have been used to look

sideways 'pon me an' spit awver theer shoulders arter I'd passed by.

An' I won't say the dark things my mother knawed be hid from me. But I

never could abear the deeds I've been forced into, an' was allus better

pleased doin' gude than harm. God's my judge of that. But I've so fair

a right to live as my neighbours, an' I've done many an' many a ugly

thing for money, an' I shall again, onless them as can will come forrard

and help me. Eighty-four I be--I'll take my oath of it; an' that's a

age when a lone woman did ought be thinkin' of the next world--not doin'

dark deeds in this."

Myles had seen his wife far off and caught the flutter of her dress in

the valley a mile distant. She was still fishing as her tardy progress

testified, but where she stood the river was hidden under a tumble of

rocky ledges. He turned in some surprise to the old woman.

"D'you mean that here, now, in the year eighteen hundred and

seventy-one, folks still ask you for your help to do right or wrong and

seriously think you can serve them?"

"Ess fay; an' I do serve them; an' 'tis that I'm weary of. But, seein'

theer's nought betwixt me an' the Union Workhouse but theer custom, I go

on. Theer's cures come fust--cures for childern's hurts an' the plagues

of beasts."

"That's not doing harm, though it's not doin' good either."

"Listen, caan't 'e? Ban't all. I killed a man last year for ten

shillin'! An' it do lie heavy upon me yet. An' the mischief is, that my

heart be so hard that I'd do the same to-morrow for the same money. I

must live, an' if I caan't get honest dole at my time of life, I must

make wicked money."

Stapledon inwardly decided that the sooner this old-time survival was

within the sheltering arm of the poor-house the better. He suspected

that she was growing anile.

"You mustn't talk this nonsense, mother. Surely you know it is out of

your power to do any such thing as 'ill-wish,' or 'overlook,' let alone

destroy anybody?"

"That's all you knaw! Us o' the dark side o' life be so auld as

Scripture. The things we'm taught was never in no books, so they'm

livin' still. Print a thing and it dies. We'm like the woman as drawed

up Samuel against Saul. We can do more'n we think we can here an'

theer. I killed a man other end of the world so sure's if I'd shot un

through the heart; for them as seed my deed, which I offered up for ten

shillin' o' money, has ears so long as from here to hell-fire; an' they

sent a snake. I drawed a circle against Christopher Yeoland, an' picked

him, like a bullace, afore he was ripe. An', along o' poverty, I'd do

the same against anybody in the land--'cepting awnly the Lard's anointed

Queen--so theer! That's the black state o' wickedness I be in; an' 'tis

for you at Bear Down to give me gude money an' a regular bit weekly,

else theer'll be more mischief. Yet 'tis a horrible thing as I should

have to say it--me so auld as I be, wi' wan foot in the graave."

"So it is horrible," said Myles sternly, "and if you were not so old I

should say the ancient remedy of a ducking in a horse-pond would be the

best way to treat you. To wish evil to that harmless man! Surely you

are not such a malignant old fool as to think you destroyed him?"

"Me! Gude Lard A'mighty, I wouldn't hurt a long-cripple or a crawling

eft. 'Twas awnly to earn bread. Who paid me I caan't tell 'e, for we

has our pride; but I was awnly the servant. Us larns a deal 'bout the

inner wickedness of unforgiving sawls in my calling."

"It must have been a strange sort of brute who would wish to hurt

Christopher Yeoland; but you needn't be concerned, old woman. Be sure

your tomfoolery didn't send death to him."

Cherry reddened under her wrinkles.

"'Tis you'm the fule!" she cried. "I knaw what I knaw; an' I knaw what

power be in me very well, same as my mother afore me. An' best give

heed or you might be sorry you spoke so scornful. I'm a wise woman; an'

wise I was years an' years afore your faither ever got you. I doan't ax

for no opinions on that. I ax for money, so I shall give up these

things an' die inside the fold of Jesus--not outside it. Because my

manner of life be like to end in an oncomfortable plaace, an' I'd give

it up to-morrow if I could live without it."

"You're a very wicked woman, Charity Grepe!" flamed Stapledon, "and a

disgrace to the countryside and all who allow themselves to have any

dealings with you. I thought you only charmed warts and such nonsense.

But, here at the end of your life, you deal in these disgusting

superstitions and apparently gull intelligent human beings with your

tricks. Be sure a stop shall be put to that if I can bring it about.

The hands at Endicott's at least won't patronise you any more. You

might be locked up if half this was known."

"Then you won't help me to a higher way of living an' regular wages?"

"You must reform first. I can promise nothing."

Cherry, in doubt whether to bless or curse, but disposed towards the

latter expression of her emotions, rose and eyed Stapledon suspiciously.

He too rose, helped her with her bundle, and again assured her that she

must promise reformation before he could undertake any practical

assistance. So she hobbled away, uneasy and angered. Actual wounded

feeling was at the bottom of her resentment. Whatever her real age, she

was human, and therefore not too old to be vain. Since the death of

Christopher Yeoland, Gammer Grepe had taken herself very seriously and

been much impressed with the nature of her own powers.

Ten minutes later husband and wife met, and Stapledon spoke of his

recent experience.

"Scor Hill Circle seems destined to be the theatre of all my strangest

accidents."

"And most terrible, perhaps?"

"And most precious. But this last is grim enough. Just now that old hag

Cherry Grepe was here begging and threatening in a breath. Think of it:

she says she killed Christopher Yeoland!"

Time is like a Moor mist and weaves curtains of a density very

uncertain, very apt to part and vanish in those moments when they look

most impenetrable. Moods will often roll away the years until memory

reveals past days again, and temperaments there are that possess such

unhappy power in this sort that they can rend the curtain, defy time,

and stand face to face at will with the full proportions of a bygone

grief, though kindly years stretch out between to dim vision and soften

the edges of remembrance.

Honor often thought of her old lover, and during this day, alone with

her mind and the face of the Moor, she had occupied herself about him.

She had a rare faculty for leaving the past alone, but, seeing that he

was now dead, and that she believed in eternity, Honor pictured that

state, and wondered if a friendship, impossible between two men and a

woman, would be practicable for the three when all were ghosts. An

existence purely spiritual was a pleasant image in her esteem, and

to-day, while all unknowing she hovered on the brink of incidents

inseparably entwined with flesh and womanhood, she bent her thoughts

upon radiant pictures and dreamed strange dreams of an eternal conscious

existence clothed only with light.

The crude announcement of Gammer Grepe's confession came inharmoniously

upon her thoughts from one direction, yet chimed therewith at the

standpoint of the supernatural. She shivered, yet laughed; she declared

that Cherry and her cottage should be conveyed entirely to Exeter Museum

as a fascinating relic of old times; yet recollected with a sort of

discomfort the old woman's predictions concerning herself when, as a

girl, and in jest, she had sought to hear her fortune.

*CHAPTER III.*

*A SECRET*

Mark Endicott showed not a little interest in the matter of Cherry

Grepe. Such a survival astonished him, and being somewhat of a student

in folk-lore, he held that, far from discouraging the wise woman, she

should be treated with all respect, and an effort made to gather a

little of her occult knowledge.

By a coincidence, soon after Stapledon's conversation with the wise

woman, there came further corroboration of Cherry's powers from the

mouth of one among her steadfast clients. After supper, at that hour

when the hands were wont to utter their opinions or seek for counsel

from those in authority over them, Mr. Cramphorn opened a great question

vital to his own peace of mind and the welfare of his daughters. Jonah

loved them both with a generous measure of paternal regard for one of

his mental restrictions. Next to his mistress in his esteem came Sally

and Margery; and now, with passage of days, there grew in him a great

perplexity, for his daughters were old enough to take husbands and both

apparently desired the same; while, as if that did not present

complication sufficient, the man their ardent hearts were fixed upon by

no means commended himself to Cramphorn's judgment.

As for Mr. Libby, with an impartiality very exasperating, he committed

himself to no definite course. He made it plain that he desired an

alliance with Jonah; yet, under pressure of such monkey brains as

Providence had bestowed upon him, and secretly strong in two strings to

his bow, he held the balance with great diplomacy between these maids

and exercised a patience--easy to one who in reality possessed little

love for either. His aim was to learn whether Sally or her sister had

greatest measure of her father's regard, for he was far-seeing, knew

that Mr. Cramphorn might be considered a snug man, and must in the

course of nature presently pass and leave his cottage and his savings

behind him. The cottage lease had half a hundred years to run, and an

acre of ground went with it. So Gregory, while he leant rather to Sally

Cramphorn by reason of her physical splendours, was in no foolish frenzy

for her, and the possible possession of a house and land had quickly

turned the scale in favour of her sister. Moreover, he was alive to the

fact that the father of the girls held him in open dislike; another

sufficient cause for procrastination.

With indifferent good grace Jonah recorded his anxieties to Myles and

Mark Endicott.

"Both wife-auld, an' be gormed if I knaw what to do 'bout it. A gude

few would have 'em, but not wan's for theer market seemin'ly except that

fantastical chap, Greg Libby, who stands between 'em, like a donkey

between two dachells. I may as well awn up as I seed Cherry Grepe on

it, but for wance seems to me as I thrawed away my money. Two shillin'

I gived her an' got nought."

"What did she say?" asked Mr. Endicott.

"Her took me by a trick like. Fust her said, 'Do 'e reckon your gals

have brains in theer heads?' An' I said, 'Coourse they have, so gude as

any other females in theer station o' life.' Then her said, 'You'm

satisfied with theer intellects?' An' I said, 'Why for shouldn't I be?'

Then said Cherry, 'Very well, Jonah; let 'em bide an' find men for

theerselves. Ban't your business, an' you'll be a fule to make it so.

'Tis awnly royal princesses,' she said, 'an' duchesses an' such like as

have to set other people husband-huntin' for 'em. But us humble folks

of the airth--'tis the will of Providence we may wed wheer we love, like

the birds. Let 'em bide, an' doan't keep such a hell-hard hold awver

'em,' said her to me, 'an' then they'll larn you in theer awn time what

they be gwaine to do 'bout husbands,' she said."

"Don't see who can give you better advice, Jonah. I can't for one.

Looks to me as if old Cherry's got more sense than I was led to believe.

Let them find their own men--only see to it when found that they're

sound in wind and limb. Libby's got a cleft palate, and, likely as not,

his child will have one. 'Tisn't in reason that a lovesick girl should

think for her unborn children; but for his grandchildren a man ought to

think if chance offers. Anyway, never give a flaw any opportunity to

repeat itself, when you can prevent such a thing. Not enough is done

for love of the unborn in this world. 'Tis them we ought to make laws

for."

By no means satisfied, Cramphorn presently went to bed, and Myles

pursued the subject for a while. Then he too retired, taking the lamp

with him, and the blind man knitted on for a space, while a choir of

crickets chirruped and sped about upon the hearth.

But though Stapledon went to his chamber, the day was not yet done for

him, the theme in his thoughts not yet to be extinguished. Since their

trivial quarrel Honor and her husband had been as happy together as man

and woman need pray to be, and that dim, dreary shadow which Myles had

stared at, Honor shut her eyes upon, might be said to have retreated to

a point of absolute disappearance. The ache in the man, that showed at

his eyes, had passed like any other pain; the twinge in the woman,

revealed not at all, though generally followed by a humorous speech,

troubled her no more at this moment. She grew pensive and very

self-absorbed; she stared absently through the faces of those who

addressed her; she dwelt much with her own thoughts and discoveries.

This night she was not in bed when Myles entered her room, but sat

beside the open window, her elbows upon the sill and her face between

her hands.

"Myles," she said, "there's a man down in the meadow. I saw him

distinctly pass between two of the sleeping cows. Then he drifted into

the shadow of the hedge--a man or a ghost."

"A man, sweetheart, though I know you would rather think it something

else and so get a new sensation. Pinsent probably, as a matter of prosy

fact. I bid him get me some rabbits. Shut the window and come to bed.

You'll catch cold."

"No; I'm cold-proof now--so the old wives say when---- Come here a

minute, Myles, and sit here and look at the moon and listen to the dor

beetles. There will not be many more such nights and such silvery mists

this year."

"You can almost see the damp in the air," he said.

"Yes, and down below, with ear to grass, one might hear the soft whisper

of the little mushrooms breaking out of Mother Earth, while the fairies

dance round them and scatter the dew."

"You're not wise to sit there, dear love."

"I must be humoured--we must be."

He threw off his coat and stretched his great arms in pleasant

anticipation of rest and sleep.

"Whatever do you mean, my pretty?"

"I mean that I have a long, tedious, tremendous enterprise in hand. A

most troublesome enterprise. You're always at me not to waste time. Now

I'm really going to be busy."

"You couldn't tell me anything I'd like to hear better."

"Couldn't I? Remember!"

He did remember.

"That--yes--all in good time."

"Not a moment more shall I waste. You'll guess I'm in earnest, for I'm

going to work night and day."

"A fine resolve! But keep your work for working hours, sweetheart. And

how many are to benefit by this great achievement?"

"Who can tell that? It may be for good or for harm. Yet we have a right

to be hopeful."

"You make me most curious. How shall I view it, I wonder?"

"Well, you ought to be rather pleased, if you've told me the truth.

And--look!"

A meteor gleamed across the misty moonlight. It seemed to streak the

sky with radiance, was reflected for an instant in the pond among the

rhododendrons, then vanished.

"D'you know what that means?" asked Honor.

"A wandering atom from some old, ruined world perhaps, now burnt up in

our atmosphere."

"And do new-born souls come wandering from old, ruined worlds, I wonder?

The German folk say that a shooting-star means a new life brought down

from above, Myles. And--and how I do wish next May was come and gone;

and if it's a girl, my dear one, I believe I shall go mad with

disappointment."

So new fires were lighted in the man's deep heart, and blazed aloft like

a signal of great joy and thanksgiving. His first impulse was to cuddle

her to his breast; then he felt her to be a holy thing henceforth,

separated from him by a veil impenetrable.

Long after his wife slept he lay in thought, and his spirit was much

exalted, and his grey mind filled to bursting with sense of unutterable

obligations. Nature was not enough to thank; she alarmed him rather,

for, upon the approach of such experience, men fear the impassive

Earth-Mother as well as love her. But that night he felt with unusual

acuteness the sense of the vague power behind; and it pressed him on to

his knees for a long, silent, wordless hour with his soul--an hour of

petition and thanksgiving, of renewed thanksgiving and renewed petition.

*CHAPTER IV.*

*THE WISDOM OF MANY*

When the news spread to all ears at Endicott's and beyond it, Mr.

Cramphorn, ever generous of his great gift, and always ready to speak in

public if a high theme was forthcoming, proposed to make an official

congratulation in the name of himself and his companions. His love of

his mistress prompted him to the step; yet he designed a graceful

allusion to Myles also.

It was with much difficulty that Churdles Ash prevailed upon Jonah to

postpone this utterance.

"'Tis a seemly thought enough," admitted the ancient, "an' I, as knaws

your power of speech, would be the fust man to hit 'pon the table an'

say 'Hear, hear' arter; but ban't a likely thing for to do just now,

'cause fust theer's the bashfulness of her--an' a woman's that bashful

wi' the fust--that shaame-faaced an' proud all to wance, like a young

hen lookin' round to find a plaace gude enough to lay her fust egg in,

an' not findin' it. Then theer's the laws of Nature, as caan't be

foretold to a hair by the wisest; so, all in all, I'd bide till the

baaby's born if I was you. You'm tu wise to count your awn chickens

'fore they'm hatched out; then why for should 'e count any other

party's? But bide till arter--then you'll give us a braave discoourse

no doubt."

So Jonah delayed his next important declaration as mouthpiece of Bear

Down; but while he thus restrained the warmth of his heart and denied

himself the pleasure of his own voice uplifted in a public capacity,

neither he nor any other adult member of the little community saw reason

to desist from general conversation upon so interesting a subject.

During Sunday evenings, after supper, while the men smoked their pipes

upon departure of Honor and her maids, the welfare of the little

promised one grew to be a favourite theme; and Myles, proud but uneasy

at first, in the frank atmosphere of conjecture, theory, and advice, now

accepted the reiterated congratulations as a matter of course, and

listened to the opinions and experiences of those who might be supposed

to have deeper knowledge than his own in such delicate affairs.

There fell a Sunday evening hour towards Christmas, when Mr. Ash, full

of an opinion awakened in him at church, began to utter advice

concerning Honor; and the rest, chiming in, fell to recording scraps of

sense and nonsense upon the great subject in all its relations.

"Seed missis down-along to worship's marnin'," said Mr. Ash; "an' fegs!

but she was a deal tu peart an' spry 'pon her feet if you ax me. She

did ought to keep her seat through the psalms an' hymns an' spiritual

songs; an' theer's another thought, as rose up in sermon: Onless you

want for your son--come a bwoy--to be a minister, 'tis time missis gived

up church altogether till arter."

"Why for not a parson?" inquired Cramphorn. "'Tis a larned, necessary

trade, though other folk, tu, may knaw a little 'bout principalities

here an' there. Still, seein' all they do--why they'm so strong as Lard

Bishops come to think of it, 'cept for laying on of hands--though why

that calls for a bigger gun than a marryin' I never yet heard set out.

You'd say a weddin' was the stiffest job--the worst or the best as man

can do for his fellow-man. However, a larned trade 'twill be no

doubt--not farmin', of course," he concluded.

"As to that, it depends," said Stapledon quite seriously, "if he showed

a strong taste."

"We'll hope he'll be ambitious," declared Mark. "Yes, ambitious and

eager to excel in a good direction. Then he'll be all right."

"But he might be blowed away from his ambition by the things as look

gude to young gen'lemen, so I should keep un short of money if I was

you," advised Mr. Ash.

"Blown away! Not he--not if his ambition is a live thing. If he lets

pleasure--dangerous or harmless--come between him and his goal--then

'twill be mere vanity, only wind, nothing. But let me see a lad with a

big, clean ambition. Nought keeps him so straight or makes his life a

happier thing to himself and others."

"You never do see it," declared Myles. "A fine idea, but it hardly ever

happens."

"Not lawyering," begged Jonah, drawing down his eyebrows. "Doan't 'e

let un go for a lawyer, maister. 'Tis a damn dismal trade, full of

obstructions and insurrections between man an' man, an' man an' woman."

"So it is then!" ejaculated Mr. Endicott heartily. "A damn dismal trade!

You never said a truer word, Jonah. They live in a cobweb world of

musty, dusty, buried troubles, and they rake justice out of stuff set

down by dead men for dead men. 'Tis precedent they call it; and it

strangles justice like dogma strangles religion. Myles understands me."

"They'm a solemn spectacle--the bettermost of 'em be--savin' your

honor's pardon," ventured Pinsent. "The fur an' robes an' wigs of 'em do

look terrible enough to a common man."

"Terrible tomfoolery! Terrible science of escaping through the

trap-doors of precedent from common-sense!"

"But I seed a high judge to Exeter," persisted Pinsent. "An' 'twas at

the 'Sizes; an' he told a man for hangin'; an' his eyes was like

gimlets; an' his lean face was so grey as his wig; an' a black cap he

had; an', what's worse, left no room for hope of any sort."

"Rogues, rogues," growled the blind man. "I'd sooner see son of mine

fighting with the deep sea or building honest houses with moor-stone. A

vile trade, I tell you; a trade to give any young mind a small, cunning

twist from the outset!"

To hear and see Mr. Endicott show heat upon any subject, and now lapse

from his own judicial attitude upon this judicial theme, provoked a

moment of silence and surprise. Then Mr. Ash returned to his practical

starting-point.

"Gospel truth and the case against law put in a parable," he declared;

"but theer's a gude few things to fall out afore the cheel's future

performances call for minding. Fegs! He've got to be born fust, come

to think of it. 'Tis the mother as you must be busy for, not the cheel;

an' I'd warn 'e to fill her mind with gude, salted sense; an' also let

her bide in the sunshine so much as her can these dark days. An' doan't

let her read no newspapers, for the world's a bloody business by all

accounts, with battles an' murders an' sudden deaths every weekday,

despite the Litany Sundays--as doan't make a ha'porth o' differ'nce

seemin'ly. Keep her off of it; an' never talk 'bout churchyards, nor

ghostes, nor butcher's meat, nor any such gory objects."

"I won't--in fact I never do," answered Myles, who was as childlike as

the rest of the company upon this subject. "No doubt a calm and

reposeful manner of living is the thing."

"Ess," concluded Mr. Ash; "just Bible subjects, an' airly hours, an'

such food as she fancies in reason. 'Seek peace and ensue it,' in

Scripture phrase. An' leave the rest to Providence. Though in a

general way 'tis a gude rule to leave nought to Providence as you can

look arter yourself."

"Shall 'e lift your hand to un, maister?" inquired Mr. Collins. "They

tell me I was lathered proper by my faither afore I'd grawed two year

auld. Do seem a gentle age to wallop a bwoy; yet here I be."

"'Tis a very needful thing indeed," declared Cramphorn--"male an' female

for that matter. A bwoy's built to larn through his hide fust, his head

arterwards. Hammer 'em! I sez. Better the cheel should holler than the

man groan; better the li'l things should kick agin theer faither's shins

than kick agin his heart, come they graw."

"If we could only be as wise as our words," said Myles. "I'm sure I

gather good advice enough of nights for a king's son to begin life with.

So many sensible men I never saw together before. You're likely to kill

him with kindness, I think."

The boy Tommy Bates returned home from a walk to Chagford at this

moment, with his mouth so full of news that he could not get it out with

coherence.

"A poacher to Godleigh last night! Ess fay! An' keeper runned miles

an' miles arter un, if he's tellin' truth; an' 'twas Sam Bonus--that

anointed rascal from Chaggyford by all accounts. Not that keeper can

swear to un, though he's very near positive. Catched un so near as damn

it--slippery varmint! An' his pockets all plummed out wi' gert game

birds! But theer 'tis--the law ban't strong enough to do nought till

the chap's catched red-handed an' brought for trial."

Thus the advent of a precious new life at Endicott's was discussed most

gravely and seriously. Mark Endicott indeed not seldom burst a shell of

laughter upon so much wisdom, but Stapledon saw nothing to be amused at.

To him the subject was more important and fascinating than any upon

which thought could be employed, and he permitted no utterance or canon

of old custom to escape unweighed. At first he repeated to his wife a

little of all that eloquence set flowing when she retired; but Honor

always met the subject with a silver-tongued torrent of irreverent

laughter, and treated the ripest principles of Mr. Ash and his friends

with such contemptuous criticisms that her husband soon held his peace.

Yet he erred in forgetting the blind man's warning under this added

provocation of a little one in the bud; he spent all his leisure with

his wife; he tried hard to catch her flitting humours, and even

succeeded sometimes; but oftener he won a smile and a look of love for

the frank failure of his transparent endeavours.

"Don't be entertaining, sweetheart," she said to him. "I cannot tell how

it is, but if you are serious, I am happy; if you jest and try to make

me laugh, my spirits cloud and come to zero in a moment. That's a

confession of weakness, you see; for women so seldom have humour.

Everybody says that. So be grave, if you want me to be gay. I love you

so; and gravity is proper to you. It makes me feel how big and strong

you are--how fortunate I am to have you to fight the battle of life for

me."

"I wish I could," he said. "But you're right. I'm not much of a joker.

It's not that you have a weak sense of humour that makes me miss fire;

it's because you have a strong one."

Sometimes the veil between them seemed to thicken from his standpoint.

Even a little formality crept into his love; and this Honor felt and

honestly blamed herself for. Mark Endicott also perceived this in the

voice of the man; and once he spoke concerning it, when the two walked

together during a January noon.

It was a grey and amber day of moisture, gentle southern wind and watery

sunlight--a day of heightened temperature, yet of no real promise that

the earth was waking. Ephemera were hatched, and flew and warped in

little companies, seen against dark backgrounds. Hazardous bud and bird

put forth petal and music, and man's heart longed for spring; but his

reason told him that the desire was vain.

"No lily's purple spike breaking ground as yet, I doubt?" said Mark

Endicott, as he paced his favourite walk in the garden.

"Not yet. But the red japonica buds already make a gleam of colour

against the house.

"What good things this coming springtime has hidden under her girdle for

you, Myles! Leastways, one's a right to hope so. That reminds me. Is

Honor happy with you alone? Not my business, and you'll say I'm an old

cotquean; but I'm blind, and, having no affairs of my own, pry into

other people's. Yet Honor--why, she's part of my life, and the best

part. She seems more silent than formerly--more and more as the days

pass. Natural, of course. I hear her thread, and the click of her

needle, and her lips as she bites the cotton; but her work I can't

follow with my ears now, for it's all soft wool, I suppose. She said

yesterday that she much wished I could see her new garb--'morning gown'

she called it. She's pleased with it, so I suppose you've praised it."

"Yes, uncle, and was sorry that I had. I don't know how it is, but I

contradict myself in small things, and she never forgets, and reminds

me, and makes me look foolish and feel so. This gown--a brown, soft,

shiny thing, all lined with silky stuff the colour of peach-blossom,

warm and comfortable--I admired it heartily, and said it was a fine

thing, and suited her well."

"You could do no more."

"But somehow I was clumsy--I am clumsy, worse luck. And she said,

'Don't praise my clothes, sweetheart; that's the last straw.' 'Last

straw' she certainly said, yet probably didn't guess how grave that made

the sentence sound. Then she went on, 'You know my gowns don't match

earth and sky one bit; and you love better the drabs and duns of the

folk. You've told me so, and I quite understand. You'd rather have

Sally's apron and sun-bonnet, and see her milking, with her apple cheeks

pressed against a red cow, than all my most precious frippery. And, of

course, you're right, and that makes it so much the more trying.' Now

that was uncalled for. Don't you think so? I say this from no sorrow

at it, God bless her! but because you may help read the puzzle. I don't

understand her absolutely, yet. Very nearly, but not absolutely."

"No, you don't, that's certain. The mistake is to try to. You're wise

in what you let alone, as a rule. But her nature you can't suffer to

grow without fuss. There's a sound in your voice to her--afore the

hands, too--like a servant to his mistress."

"I am her servant."

"Yes, I know; so am I also; but--well, no call to tramp the old ground.

You might guess she'd look for gentleness and petting, yet----"

"She asks for it one moment, and grows impatient at it the next."

"Well, you'll learn a bit some day; but you've not got the build of mind

to know much about women."

Myles sighed, and drummed his leg with a whip.

"It's all so small and petty and paltry--these shades and moods and

niceties and subtleties."

"Women will have 'em."

"Well, I try."

"Go on trying. The world's full of these small things, speaking

generally. You're built for big, heavy game. Yet it's your lot to

catch gnats just now--for her. And she knows how hard you try. It'll

come right when she's herself again. Life brims with such homespun,

everyday fidgets. They meet a man at every turn."

"I long to be heart and heart with her; and I am; but not always."

"Well, don't addle your brains about it. Your large kindness with dogs

and beasts, and love of them, and discipline would please her best. If

you could only treat her as you treat them."

"Treat her so! She's my wife."

"I know; and lucky for her. But remember she can't change any more than

you can. The only difference is that she doesn't try to, and you do.

All this brooding and morbidness and chewing over her light words is not

worthy of a man. Be satisfied. You'll wear--you can take that to your

comfort. You'll wear all through, and the pattern of you is like to be

brighter in her eyes ten years hence than now. No call to go in such a

fog of your own breeding. Wood and iron are different enough in their

fashion as any two creatures in the world; but that doesn't prevent 'em

from cleaving exceeding tight together. She knows all this well enough;

she's a woman with rather more sense of justice than is common to them;

and your future's sure, if you'll only be patient and content; for she

loves you better far than she's ever told you, or is ever likely to."

*CHAPTER V.*

*IN SPRING MOONLIGHT*

Another springtime gladdened the heart of man and set the sap of trees,

the blood of beasts, the ichor of the wild wood gods a-flowing. A green

veil spread again, a harmony of new-born music, colour, scent, all won

of sunshine, rose from feathered throats, from primroses, from censers

of the fragrant furze; and there was whisper of vernal rains, ceaseless

hurtle of wings, and murmur of bees; while upon new harps of golden

green, soft west winds sang to the blue-eyed, busy young Earth-Mother,

their immemorial song.

Honor Endicott moved amid the translucent verdure; and her eyes shadowed

mystery, and her heart longed for her baby's coming, as a sick man longs

for light of day. She found an awakening interest in her own sex--a

thing strange to her, for few women had ever peeped within the portals

of her life; but now she talked much with Mrs. Loveys and the matrons of

Little Silver. She listened to their lore and observed how, when a

woman's eyes do dwell upon her child, there comes a look into them that

shall never be seen at any other time. She noticed the little children,

and discovered with some surprise how many small, bright lives even one

hamlet held. Black and brown-eyed, blue-eyed and grey; with white skins

and red; with soft voices and shrill; rough and gentle; brave and

fearful--she watched them all, and thought she loved them all, for the

sake of one precious baby that would come with the first June roses.

The little life quickened to the love-songs of the thrushes; it answered

the throbbing music of river and wood; its sudden messages filled her

eyes with tears; her heart with ineffable, solemn thrills of mother-joy.

Great calm had spread its wings about Honor. She approached her ordeal

in a high spirit, as of old-time mothers of heroes. She abstracted

herself from all daily routine, but walked abroad with her husband in

the long green twilights, or sat beside Mark Endicott and watched his

wooden needles tapping as he talked. A recent pettiness of whim and

fancy had almost vanished, though now and again she did express a desire

and rested not until the fulfilment. Fear she had none, for the season

of fear was passed, if it had ever clouded her thoughts. To Myles her

attitude insensibly grew softer, and she found his wealth of affection

not unpleasant as her time approached. She accepted his worship,

received his gifts, even pretended to occasional fancies that he might

have the pleasure of gratifying them.

There came an evening of most lustrous beauty. Mild rain had fallen

during the day, but the sky cleared at nightfall, when the clouds

gleamed and parted in flakes of pearl for the pageant of a full May

moon. Silently she swam out from the rack of the rain; spread light into

the heart of the spring leaves; woke light along the glimmering grass

blades; meshed and sprinkled and kissed with light each raindrop of them

all, until the whole soaking world was bediamonded and robed in

silver-grey.

Honor turned from beholding her dim grass lands, the time then being

nine.

"I must go out," she said. "The night is alive and beckoning with its

lovely fingers. The peace of it! Think of this night in the woods! I

must go out, and you must take me, Myles."

"Not now, dearest one. It is much too late, and everything soaking wet

after the rain."

"I can wrap up. I feel something that tells me this is the very last

time I shall go out till--afterwards. Just an hour--a little hour; and

you can drive me. I've got to go whether you will or not."

"Let us wait for the sun to-morrow."

"No, no--to-night. I want to go and feel the peace of the valley. I

want to hear the Teign sisters kissing and cuddling each other under the

moon. I'll put on those tremendous furs you got me at Christmas, and do

anything you like if you'll only take me."

"Doctor Mathers would be extremely angry!" murmured her husband.

"He need know nothing about it. Don't frown. Please, please! It would

hearten me and cheer me; and I promise to drink a full dose of the red

wine when I come in. You shall pour it out. There--who could do more?"

She was gone to make ready before he answered, and Mark spoke.

"She cannot take hurt in this weather if she's wrapped up in the furs.

The air feels like milk after the rain."

Stapledon therefore made no ado about it, but marched meekly forth, and

himself harnessed a pony to the little low carriage purchased specially

for his wife's pleasure.

Soon they set off through the new-born and moon-lit green, under shadows

that lacked that opacity proper to high summer, under trees which still

showed their frameworks through the foliage. Inflorescence of great

oaks hung in tassels of chastened gold, and a million translucent leaves

diffused rather than shut off the ambient light. Unutterable peace

marked their progress; no shard-borne things made organ music; no

night-bird cried; only the rivers called under the moon, the mist wound

upon the water-meadows, and the silver of remote streamlets twinkled

here and there from the hazes of the low-lying grass land or the shadows

of the woods--twinkled and vanished, twinkled and vanished again beyond

the confines of the night-hidden valley.

"A fairy hour," said Honor; "and all things awake and alive with a

strange, strange moon-life that they hide by day."

"The rabbits are awake at any rate. Too many for my peace of mind if

this was my land."

"Don't call them rabbits. I'm pretending that their little white scuts

are the pixy people. And there's Godleigh under the fir trees--peeping

out with huge yellow eyes--like the dragon of an old legend."

"Yes, that's Godleigh."

"Drive me now to Lee Bridge. It was very good of you to come. I

appreciate your love and self-denial so much--so much more than I can

find words to tell you, Myles."

"God be good to you, my heart! I wish I deserved half your love. You

make me young again to hear you speak so kindly--young and happy

too--happy as I can be until afterwards."

"It won't be many more weeks. The days that seemed so long in winter

time are quite short now, though it is May. That is how a woman's heart

defies the seasons and reverses the order of Nature on no greater

pretext than a paltry personal one."

"Not paltry!"

"Why, everything that's personal is paltry, I suppose, even to the

bearing of your first baby."

"I should be sorry if you thought so, Honor."

"Of course, I don't really. Hush now; let me watch all these dear,

soft, moony things and be happy, and suffer them to work their will on

my mind. I'm very near my reformation, remember. I'm going to be so

different afterwards. Just a staid, self-possessed, sensible

matron--and as conservative as a cow. Won't there be a peace about the

home?"

"Honor!"

"Honour bright. Look at Forde's new thatch! I hate new thatch under

the sun, but in the moonlight it is different. His cot looks like some

golden-haired, goblin thing that's seen a ghost. How pale the whitewash

glares; and the windows throw up the whites of their eyes!"

"Don't talk so much. I'm sure you'll catch cold or something. Now

we're going down to valley-level. Lean against me--that's it. This hill

grows steeper every time I drive down it, I think."

They crossed Chagford Bridge, where a giant ash fretted the moonlight

with tardy foliage still unexpanded; then Myles drove beyond a ruined

wool factory, turned to the right, passed Holy Street and the cross in

the wall, and finally reached the neighbourhood of Lee Bridge. Here the

air above them was dark with many trees and the silence broken by fitful

patter of raindrops still falling from young foliage. The green dingles

and open spaces glittered with moisture, where the light fell and wove

upon them a fabric of frosted radiance touched with jewels, to the crest

of the uncurling fern-fronds, and the wide shimmer of the bluebell

folk--moon-kissed, as Endymion of old. Pale and wan their purple

stretched and floated away and faded dimly, rippling into the darkness;

but their scent hung upon the air, like the very breath of sleeping

spring.

"Stop here, my love," said Honor. "What a bed for the great light to

lie upon! What a silence for the tiny patter of the raindrops to make

music in! And thoughts that hide by day--sad-eyed thoughts--peep out

now upon all this perfection--hurry from their hiding-places in one's

heart and look through one's eyes into these aisles of silver and ebony;

and so go back again a little comforted. The glory of it! And if you

gaze and listen closer, surely you will see Diana's own white self

stealing over the mist of the bluebells, and hear perhaps her unearthly

music. Nay, I must talk, Myles, or I shall cry."

"I'm only thinking of all this ice-cold damp dropping upon you out of

the trees," he said.

They proceeded, then stopped once again at Honor's urgent desire. The

great beech of the proposal stood before her, and she remembered the

resting-place between its roots, the words carved upon its trunk. Its

arms were fledged with trembling and shining foliage; its upper peaks

and crown were full of diaphanous light; its huge bole gleamed like a

silver pillar; and spread under the sweep of the lower branches there

glimmered a pale sheen of amber where myriads of little leaf-sheafs had

fallen and covered the earth as with spun silk.

Great longing to be for one moment alone with the old tree seized upon

Honor. Suddenly she yearned to gaze at the throne of her promise to

Christopher, to see again those letters his hand had graven upon the

bark above. The desire descended in a storm upon her, and shook her so

strongly that her voice came, tremulously as bells upon a wind, to utter

the quick plan of her imagination.

"I wish you'd go to the bridge yonder and get me some water to drink.

Your tobacco pouch will do if you rinse it well, as you often have upon

the Moor. I'm frantically thirsty."

"My dear child--wait until we get home. Then you've promised me to

drink some wine."

"No, I can't wait; I'm parched and I want the river water. To please

me, Myles. It won't take you a moment--straight between the trees

there, to that old bridge of ash poles. That's the nearest way. I must

drink--really I must. It's unkind to refuse."

He grumbled a little and declared what with the dropping trees, she

might have enough water; but then he saw her face in the moonlight, and

she kissed him, and he departed to do her bidding.

The rustic bridge, crossed by Honor at the outset of this record, was a

structure but seldom used save by gamekeepers. It spanned Teign some

seventy yards away from the great tree; but Myles, who did not know the

spot well, found that he must now cross a tangled underwood to reach the

river. The place was difficult by night, and he proceeded with caution,

emptying the tobacco out of his pouch into his pocket as he did so. One

fall, got from a treacherous briar, he had; then he arrived beside the

bridge and noted where faint indication of a woodland path led from it.

By following this his return journey promised to be the easier. Myles

knelt and scrambled to the brink, sweetened the rubber pouch and filled

it as well as he could with water. He had, however, scarcely regained

his feet when a shrill scream of fear twice repeated frightened the

dreaming forests from their sleep, rang and reverberated to the depths

of the woods, and revealed a sudden echo close at hand that threw back

upon its starting-point the deep horror of the cry. For a second

Stapledon made no movement, then he charged into the woods and tore his

way back to the road. There he arrived a minute later, torn and

bleeding. The pony stood unmoved, but Honor had disappeared. As Myles

looked wildly about him, it seemed that in her fearful expression of

sudden terror his wife had vanished away. Then, amid the dark spaces of

shadow and the silver interspaces of light he found her, lying with the

moon upon her white face and one small hand still clutching a few

bluebells. She had fallen midway between the carriage and the great

beech; she had been stricken senseless by some physical catastrophe or

mental shock.

The man groaned aloud before what he saw, dropped down on his knees

beside her, gathered her up gently, and uttered a thousand endearing

words; but her head fell forward without life towards him, and setting

her down, he gathered the wet, shining moss and pressed it about her

forehead and neck and unfastened the buttons at her throat. Great

terror came upon him as she still remained unconscious, and he picked

her up to carry her back to the carriage. Then she moved and opened her

eyes and stretched her hands to him; whereupon, in his turn, he cried

aloud and thanked God.

As she began to apprehend, to order the broken tangles of thought and

take up again the threads so suddenly let fall, he feared that she would

faint once more, for with return of memory there came a great wave of

terror over her eyes; but she only clung to him and breathed with long,

deep gasps of fear, yet said no word. Then it seemed that a physical

pang distracted her mind from the immediate past; a strange, bewildered

look crossed her upturned face, and she bowed herself and pressed her

hand into her side and moaned.

"Oh, I was a mad fool to do this!" he cried. "I am to blame for it all.

Let me drive--back through Godleigh. That's nearest. We've the right,

though we never use it. Say you're better now."

But she could not answer yet, and he made the pony gallop forward until

it crossed the bridge over Teign, then turned into the private

park-lands beyond.

Presently Honor spoke.

"I'm so sorry I screamed out. I frightened you and made you hurry from

the river and tear your face. It's bleeding very badly still. Take my

handkerchief--poor Myles!"

"What happened? What were you doing?"

"I had a sudden longing to gather some of the bluebells with the

moonlight and dew on them. Nothing happened--at least----"

"Something must have nearly frightened you to death from your terrible

shriek."

"I don't know. I can't remember. A tree moved, I think--moved and

seemed alive--it was some dream or trick of the light."

"All my fault. Why am I thus weak with you?"

"Oh, it was so grey, Myles. You saw nothing?"

"Nothing but you. I had eyes for nothing else."

She shivered and nestled close to him.

"But I'm so sorry I cried out like that."

"Don't think more about it. Half the terror was in your mind, and half

in the pranks of the moonlight among the trees. They look enough like

ghosts. I only hope to heaven no harm will come of this. The fall has

not hurt you, has it?"

"No, no, no; I shall be all right. I was only----"

Then suffering overtook her again, and she shrank into herself and said

no more. But as they left the gates of Godleigh and prepared to mount

the hill homewards, Honor spoke in a small, faint voice.

"While we are here in Little Silver, dearest, perhaps--Doctor Mathers--I

don't know whether it's anything, but I'm not very well, dear Myles.

I'm--indeed I think baby's going to be born to-night. Perhaps we had

better call and tell him before going home."

Her husband was overcome with concern. He ran to the physician's little

dwelling, distant two hundred yards off in the village, delivered his

message, and then, returning, put the astounded pony at the hill in a

manner that caused it to snort viciously and utter a sort of surprised

vocal remonstrance almost human. The sound made Honor laugh even at her

present crisis; but the laugh proved short, and in three minutes Myles

was carrying her to her room and bawling loudly for women.

Soon the household knew what had happened; Doctor Mathers arrived; and

Tommy Bates, hurled out of sleep, was despatched at high pressure for

Mrs. Brimblecombe, the sexton's wife--a woman of significance at such

times.

Very faintly through the silence a noise of voices came to the ear of

Collins where he slept in a spacious attic chamber with Churdles Ash.

Thereupon Henry left his bed and wakened the elder man.

"Theer's the douce of a upstore down house 'bout somethin'. Please God

we ban't afire!"

Mr. Ash grunted, but the last word reached his understanding; so he

awoke, and bid the other see what was amiss. Collins thereupon tumbled

into his trousers and proceeded to make inquiries. In three minutes he

returned.

"'Tis missus took bad," he said. "A proper tantara, I can tell 'e, an'

doctor in the house tu. Ought us to rise up? Might be more respectful

in such a rare event."

"Rise up be damned!" said Mr. Ash bluntly. "Not that I wouldn't rise up

to the moon if I could take the leastest twinge off of her; but 'tis

woman's work to-night. The sacred dooty of child-bearin' be now gwaine

on, an' at such times even the faither hisself awnly looks a fule. Go

to sleep."

"The dear lady be afore her date seemin'ly," remarked Collins, returning

to his bed.

"'Tis allus so wi' the fustborn. The twoads be mostly tu forrard or tu

back'ard. An' they do say as them born late be late ever after, an' do

take a humble back plaace all theer days; while them born airly gets

ahead of or'nary folks, an' may even graw up to be gert men. I've seed

the thing fall out so for that matter."

"An' how might it have been wi' you, I wonder, if theer's no offence?

How was you with regards to the reckoning?"

"'Tis a gude bit back-along when I was rather a small bwoy," answered

Churdles, laughing sleepily at his own humour; "but, so far as I knaw, I

comed 'pon the appointed day to a hour."

"Just what us might have counted upon in such a orderly man as you,"

mused Collins.

"'Tis my boast, if I've got wan, that I never made my faither swear, nor

my mother shed a tear, from the day that I was tucked-up.[#] No fegs!

Never. Now you best go to sleep, or you might hear what would hurt your

tender 'eart."

[#] Short-coated.

*CHAPTER VI.*

*SORROW'S FACE*

Throughout that short summer night the young successor of Doctor

Courteney Clack was torn in two between a birth-bed and a death-bed. For

the old mother of Gregory Libby was now to depart, and it chanced that

the hour of her final journey fell upon a moment of great peace before

the dawn. Then, when she had passed, while her son yet stared in fear

from the foot of the bed, Doctor Mathers dragged his weary limbs up the

hill again to Bear Down. Now he rendered the household happy by his

announcement that he had come to stop until all was concluded.

He sat and smoked cigarettes and soothed Myles, who tramped the parlour

like a caged animal. He spoke cheerily, noted the other's mangled face,

and congratulated him upon a narrow escape, for his left cheek was torn

by a briar to the lid of the eye. Presently he yawned behind his hand,

gladly partook of a cup of tea, and prayed that the expected summons

from the dame above might not be long delayed. And when the sun was

flaming over the hills and the air one chant of birds, there came a

woman with a kind face, full of history, and spoke to Doctor Mathers.

"Now, sir, us would like to see you."

Myles turned at the voice, but his companion was already gone. Then the

terrific significance of these next few moments surged into the

husband's mind, and he asked himself where he should go, what he should

do. To go anywhere or do anything was impossible; so he hardened his

heart and tramped the carpet steadily. There was a vague joy in him

that his child should be born at the dawn hour.

A moment later Mark Endicott entered. He, too, had not slept but he had

spent the night in his own chamber and none knew of his vigil. Now he

came forward and put out his hand.

"Be of good heart, lad! She's going on very well with great store of

strength and spirit, Mrs. Loveys tells me."

"If I could only--"

"Yes, every man talks that nonsense. You can't; so just walk out upon

the hill along with me an' look at the first sun ever your child's eyes

will blink at. A fitting time for his advent. A son of the morning you

are; and so will he or she be."

"Last night it is that makes me so fearful for Honor."

"A shock--but time enough to fret if there's any harm done. Wait for

the news quiet and sensible."

They walked a little way from the house, Myles scarcely daring to look

upward towards a window where the cherry-blossom reigned again; but when

they stood two hundred yards distant, a cry reached them and Tommy Bates

approached hurriedly.

"Maister! Maister Stapledon, sir! You'm wanted to wance!"

"Go!" said Mark, "and tell Tom to come and lead me back."

So, for the second time in twenty-four hours, Myles Stapledon ran with

heavy and laborious stride. In a few moments he reached the house, and

finding nobody visible, entered the kitchen and made the china ring

again with his loud summons. Then Mrs. Loveys entered, and her apron

was held up to her eyes. Behind her moved Cramphorn and his daughter

Margery, with faces of deep-set gloom.

"What's this? In God's name speak, somebody. Why are you crying,

woman?"

"She's doin' cleverly--missis. Be easy, sir. No call to fret for her.

All went butivul---but--but--the dear li'l tiny bwoy--he'm dead--born

dead--axin' pardon for such black news."

"Honor knows?"

"Ess--'pears she knawed it 'fore us did. The dark whisper o' God--as

broke it to her in a way no human could. 'Twas last night's fright an'

fall as killed un, doctor reckons."

The man stared, and sorrow set his face in a semblance more than common

stonelike.

"Bear up, dear sir," ventured Jonah. "She'm doin' braave herself, an'

that's more'n a barrel-load o' baabies to 'e, if you think of it aright.

An' gude comes out o' evil even in such a case sometimes, for he might

have been born a poor moonstruck gaby, as would have been a knife in his

mother's heart for all time."

But Stapledon did not answer. He walked past them, returned to the

parlour and resumed his slow tramp up and down. What of the great event

waited for, hoped for, dreamed about through near nine months--each a

century long? He felt that all the past was true, but this last

half-hour a dream. He saw the chair that Doctor Mathers had occupied,

observed his empty cup, his litter of cigarette-ends about the hearth.

It seemed hard to believe that the climax was come and passed; and for

one brief and bitter moment the man's own suffering dominated his heart.

But then he swept all personal tribulation out of mind, and went upon

his knees and thanked the Unknown for His blessings, in that it had

pleased Him to bring Honor safely through her ordeal. He prayed for her

sorrow to be softened, her pain forgotten, and that her husband might be

inspired in this trial to lighten his wife's supreme grief. He begged

also for wisdom and understanding to support her and lift her burden and

bear it himself as far as that was possible.

He still knelt when Doctor Mathers suddenly entered, coughed, and

plunged a hand into his pocket fiercely for more cigarettes. Then Myles

rose, without visible emotion, to find the young physician red and

angry. Indeed he now relieved his mingled feelings by swearing a little.

"Your wife's all right, and of course I'm infernally sorry about this.

You know it's not my fault. The shock quite settled the matter, humanly

speaking. A most unlucky chance. What in the name of God were you

doing in the middle of the night in the woods? It's enough to make any

doctor get savage. I'm heartily sorry for you both--heartily; but I'm

mighty sorry for myself too. As a man with his way to make--but, of

course, you don't know what all the fools on the countryside will say,

though I well do. It's always the doctor's fault when this happens.

However, I can't expect you to be sorry for me, I know."

"I am, Mathers. The blame of this sad thing is mine--all. I should

have been firm, and not yielded to an unwise idea. And if you've no

objection, I should like to see my wife and tell her how entirely I

blame myself."

"It's no good talking like that, my dear sir; but, fault or no fault,

let it be a lesson to you next time. Be firm. Mrs. Stapledon was

frightened by the ghost of the devil apparently. Anyway, I can't learn

what the nature of the shock was. 'Something grey--suddenly close to

me,' is all she will say. That might be a wandering donkey. It's all

very cruel and hard for you both--a jolly fine little boy he would have

been. Better luck next time. I'll be back again in a few hours."

"I may see Honor?"

"Yes, certainly; but cut it short, and don't talk about fault or blame

on anybody. Let her think you're glad--eh?"

"She wouldn't believe it."

"Well, well, don't make a fuss. Just say the right thing and then clear

out. I want her to sleep before I come back. You know how sorry I am;

but we must look ahead. Good morning."

A little later Stapledon, his heart beating hard and a sort of fear upon

him, knocked at the door of his wife's room and was allowed to enter.

In the half light he saw Mark sitting by Honor, and heard the old man

speak in a voice so soft and womanly that Myles could scarce believe it

was his uncle.

"Why, your good, brave heart will tide you over for all our sakes.

'Twas part of the great web of woman's sorrow spun in the beginning,

dearie. It had to be. You thought how life was going to change for you;

but it hasn't changed--not yet--that's all the matter. Take your life

up again where you set it down; and just go on with it, like a brave

girl. Here's Myles come. I hear his breathing. He'll say the same, in

better words than mine. We must all live through the cloud, my Honor,

and see it sink before the good sunshine that will follow. 'Twasn't

Nature's will this should happen so, but God's own. There's comfort in

that for you. And we'll have God and Nature both to fight on our side

come next time."

He departed, and husband and wife were left alone. For a moment he could

only hold her hand and press it and marvel to see how young she appeared

again. Her eyes were very bright--like stars in the dim room. She

looked at him and pressed back on his hand. Then a flicker of a

whimsical smile woke at the corner of her lips and she spoke in a little

voice.

"I'm so--so sorry, dear heart. I did my very best--I----"

"Don't," he said; and the old nurse in the next room frowned at his

loud, hoarse tones.

"You'll say that I've been wasting my time again--I know you will."

"Please, please, Honor. For God's sake not at a minute like

this--I----"

Then he stopped. Where was the answer to his prayer? Here he stood

ranting and raving like a lunatic, while she, who had endured all,

appeared calm and wholly self-possessed.

"The fault was all mine--every bit of it," he began again quietly. "If

I had not let my headstrong little love go into the woods, the

child----"

"Don't blame yourself. The past is past, and I'll never return to it in

word or in thought, if I can help doing so. Only there are things we

don't guess at, Myles--terrible things hidden and not believed in. Our

little son had to die. It is cruel--cruel. I cannot explain--not now.

Perhaps some day I will if I am ever brave enough."

"Don't talk wildly like this, my darling Honor. You are overwrought;

you will be better very soon. Uncle Mark was right. Life has not

changed for us."

"It never will. Things hidden--active things say 'No'! Oh, the grey

horror of it there!"

She shivered and put her arms round Myles, but Mrs. Brimblecombe had

heard her patient's voice lifted in terror, and this was more than any

professional nurse could be expected to stand. As the medical man

before her, she considered her own great reputation, and, entering now,

bade Myles take his leave at once.

"Please to go, sir," she said aside to him. "You really mustn't bide no

longer; an' 'tis very ill-convenient this loud talking; an' your voice,

axin' your pardon, be lifted a deal tu high for a sick chamber."

"I'll go," he answered; "but don't leave her. The cursed accident of

light or shade, or whatever it was that frightened her overnight, is in

her mind still. She's wandering about it now. Soothe her all you

can--all you can. And if she wants me, let me know."

In the passage red-eyed women of the farm met him, and Mrs. Loveys

spoke.

"We'm all broken-hearted for 'e, I'm sure; an'--an' would 'e like just

to see the dear, li'l perfect bwoy? Her wouldn't--missis. But p'raps

you would, seein' 'tis your awn. An' the mother of un may be glad to

knaw what he 'peared like later on, when she can bear to think on it."

Myles hesitated, then nodded without words and followed Mrs. Loveys into

an empty room. There he looked down, among primroses and lilac that

Sally had picked, upon what might have been his son; and he marvelled in

dull pain at the dainty beauty of the work; and he stared with a sort of

special blank wonder at the exquisite little hands and tiny nails.

Presently he bent and kissed this marred mite, then departed, somehow

the happier, to plan that it should lie within the churchyard for

Honor's sake.

He broke his fast soon after midday, and, upon learning that his wife

slept peacefully, sought for his own comfort the granite counsellors of

the high hills. There was an emptiness in life before this stroke; it

left him helpless, not knowing what to turn to. His great edifice of

many plans and hopes was all a ruin.

Much to their own regret, Cramphorn and Churdles Ash met Stapledon as he

climbed alone to the Moor. They were very sorry for him in their way,

and they felt that to touch their hats and pass him by without words at

such a moment would not be fitting.

"Sure, we'm grievous grieved, all the lot of us," said Jonah

grimly--"more for her than you, because, bein' an Endicott, she'm more

to me an' Ash than ever you can be. But 'tis a sad evil. Us had

thought 'twould be osiers as you li'l wan would rock in--soft an' gentle

by his mother's side; but 'tis elm instead--so all's ended, an' nought

left but to bend afore the stroke."

Mr. Ash was also philosophical.

"'Tweern't death ezacally as comed 'pon the house, neither; nor yet

life, you see. 'Cause you can't say as a babe be dead what never drawed

breath, can 'e?"

"An' theer's another cheerful thought for 'e," added Cramphorn, "for

though 'tis as painful for a woman to bear a wise man as a fool, no

doubt, yet so it might have failed out, an' the pain ends in wan case

and turns to joy; an' in t'other case it never ends. An' as 'twas odds

he'd have been a poor antic, 'tis better as her should mourn a month for

un dead than for all the days of his life, as Scripture sez somewheers."

"Well spoke," commented Churdles. "Never heard nothin' wiser from 'e,

Jonah. An', beggin' your pardon, theer's a gert lesson to such a

trouble, if a body ban't tu stiff-necked to see it. It do teach us

worms o' the airth as even God A'mighty have got a pinch of somethin'

human in the nature of Un--as I've allus said for that matter. This

here shows how even He can alter His purpose arter a thing be well

begun, an' ban't shamed to change His Everlasting Mind now an' again,

more'n the wisest of us. Theer's gert comfort in that, if you please."

Stapledon thanked both old men for their consolation, and set his face

to the Moor.

*CHAPTER VII.*

*PLOTS AGAINST AN ORPHAN*

The departure of Mrs. Libby and its probable effect upon her son became

a matter of local interest, because she had toiled with her old bones

for him to the end, and he had taken all her service as a matter of

course, but would now feel the loss of his home comforts exceedingly.

"He'll have to get a wife," said the man Pinsent at Sunday supper. All

were assembled save Honor, who had now been in her room for three weeks,

and still kept it.

"If 'tis awnly for somebody to cook his victuals, the man must marry,"

declared Collins. Then with some craft he added, "And the question in

Little Silver is who's to be the gal."

"He'm a comical tempered chap, to my thinking; an' they do say a man wi'

a tie in his speech----" began Pinsent. But he found himself sharply

taken to task from the quarter he had secretly aimed at.

"You'd best to mind your awn business, Samuel!" flamed out Sally, then

blushed rose-red to the roots of her hair at the laughter her confession

won. Her relations alone did not laugh. Margery bent over her plate

and grew white rather than red; and Mr. Cramphorn roundly rated the

speaker for such a lapse of manners.

"'Fore the whole world, would 'e? I blush for 'e--though you can for

yourself still, it seems. An' him never so much as opened his lips on

it! 'Tis a most unmaidenly thing, an' never to have been looked for in

no darter o' mine."

"Sorry I drawed it from her, notwithstanding," said Pinsent. "I'm sure

I'd rather have bit my tongue out than bring red to any gal's cheeks."

"Nobody would hurt her for gold," added Collins.

But Sally was now in tears. She left her supper, and withdrew weeping;

her sister gave vent to a little hard laugh; while a moment later

Cramphorn, in some discomfort, followed his elder daughter. Then,

familiar with Jonah's estimate of Libby, and having no desire to breed

further storm, Mark Endicott spoke to Ash.

"What's your opinion of the man, Churdles?"

"A poor creation, your honour," answered the patriarch promptly. "Not a

penn'orth o' nature in un, else he'd have had some gal squeezed to his

heart so soon as ever he comed by enough money to marry. He'm cold

clay, an' awnly waitin' to see which of Jonah's maids be in highest

favour--which is most like to have the cottage left to her. His faither

was another most calculating chap. The woman what's just gone had awnly

half a score short of a hunderd pound saved when he offered hisself.

Married for money, in fact; an' that's a 'mazin' thing to happen except

among respectable people."

"What d'you say to that, Margery?" asked Myles Stapledon bluntly. He

did not like Margery, and her attitude at her sister's discomfiture had

not escaped him.

"Ban't for me to speak against my elders," she answered slowly, with a

malignant look at the placid veteran. "Mr. Ash--auld as he is--do find

it so hard to mind his awn business as other people seemin'ly. He ban't

paid for pokin' his ancient nose into Gregory Libby's consarns, I

s'pose. But he'm past larnin' manners now, no doubt."

The boyish features of Mr. Ash flushed suddenly and his head shook a

little.

"Theer's a sour speech--an' her so young! Worse'n any vinegar you'll be

in the marriage cruet, woman, whoever 'tis that's daft enough to take

'e! Fegs! I pity un; an' I pity the Dowl when it's his turn--as it

will be some day. To talk to a auld man so!"

Unwonted wrinkles appeared in Mr. Ash's apple-face, and he showed a

great disinclination to let the matter drop, though Stapledon bid him be

silent. He chattered and growled and demanded an apology, which Margery

declined to offer. Then she instantly left the kitchen, so that no

argument should rise upon her refusal. She glowered sullenly about her,

restrained a strong desire to scream, and then withdrew.

Yet Churdles, though he knew it not, and must have much deplored the

fact if it had come to his understanding, was responsible for a

practical and valuable lesson to Margery. His words, though they

angered her, had not fallen upon deaf ears. She sulked away now in the

corner of an empty room and set her wits to work. Mr. Libby was in one

respect like heaven; he had to be taken by storm, and Churdles Ash

unwittingly indicated the direction of attack.

Margery indeed loved this shifty youth; she adored his cane-coloured

hair cut straight across his low forehead, like a child's fringe, his

uncertain eyes, his moustache--with a most "gentleman-like droop to it,"

as she had discovered. She loved him--not for his money but for

himself, and her sister's infatuation was of a similar genuine quality.

They were primitive maidens both and had seen little of the other sex,

owing to their father's suspicions that every man on the eastern side of

Dartmoor would run away with them, given the opportunity. Now passion

worthy of a better cause burnt in their young hearts, and each raged

against the other--inwardly for the most part. Their weapons were

different, and whereas Margery's sarcasms proved wholly wasted on her

sister, Sally's anger, when roused, generally took the shape of a

swinging box on the ear--a retort contemptible enough, no doubt, yet not

easy to be ignored. Margery's waspish tongue was no match for her

sister's right arm, therefore open quarrels seldom happened; yet each

daily strained every nerve, and since Gregory had come to be a mere

womanless, desolate orphan, the efforts of both girls were redoubled.

It had, however, been left to the sensation of that evening to quicken

their wits; and now each, by ways remote, set about a new and more

pressing investment of Mr. Libby's lonely heart.

Margery took the word of Mr. Ash to herself, and realised that if her

loved one was really waiting to get a hint of Jonah Cramphorn's

intentions, her own course must be modified. She knew that her father,

despite his surly and overbearing disposition, might be influenced

without difficulty; and she possessed the tact and discretion proper to

such a task. She had never desired any influence over him until the

present, and had indeed thought but little of the future, excepting with

reference to herself and Gregory. Now, however, the danger of allowing

Sally even an indirect ascendency was made manifest, and Margery

determined that her sister must be put out of court at home, by fair

means if possible, by foul if necessary.

In a most cold-blooded and calculating spirit she approached the problem

of making herself so indispensable to her father that he should come to

regard her as his better and more deserving child. That situation once

established, no doubt Gregory Libby would be the first to perceive it.

If he was backward in doing so, then might she delicately aid his

perception; indeed she doubted not that this course would be necessary,

for the control she now set herself to maintain over her parent must be

more real than apparent at first. She hoped that within a month at the

latest it would be safe to hint to Gregory that such supremacy existed.

And meanwhile, hanging over a gate out of doors, so that her

tear-stained cheeks might cool, Sally also meditated some definite

action whereby the halting regard of the desired object should grow

established and affirmed. To a determination she also came, but it fell

far short of her sister's in subtlety. She merely fell back upon the

trite conceit of a _tertium quid_, and hoped how, once reminded of the

fact that other men also found her pleasant in their eyes, Mr. Libby

would awaken into jealousy and so take action. Her father she did not

consider, because his opinions had long since ceased to weigh with her,

when it was possible to disregard them. Sally approached the future in

a sanguine spirit, for within the secret places of her heart there

lurked an honest belief that Gregory loved her to desperation. Why he

delayed to mention the fact, under these distracting circumstances, was

not easy to explain; but now, upon his mother's death, there had come a

climax in the young man's life; and Sally felt that in the present

forlorn circumstances she ought to be, and probably was, his paramount

object of reflection.

So she determined to precipitate the imminent declaration by parading

another possible husband; and that point established it remained only to

decide upon whom this thankless part should fall. Henry Collins

naturally offered himself to her mind. His emotions were perfectly

familiar to her, though in that he had scrupulously obeyed Jonah and

never dared to offer marriage, Sally regarded him with some natural

derision. But he loved her very well, and would come when she whistled,

and frisk at her side with great content and joy. Whereupon, driven

frantic before the spectacle of Collins lifted to this giddy fortune,

she doubted not but that Gregory would declare himself and make a

definite offer. His words once spoken, she felt no fear for the future.

She held herself in some esteem, and was satisfied of her powers to keep

Libby, or any other man, to a bargain.

Thus both maids, within the space of an hour, had braced their minds to

a course of vital action; and it remained for time to show which, if

either, was to succeed in the result.

*CHAPTER VIII.*

*A NECKLACE OF BIRDS' EGGS*

There came a Sunday, yet not so soon as Doctor Mathers hoped, when Honor

declared herself able and desirous to take the air again. She chose the

Moor as the scene of this return to life; and, as Stapledon had departed

for the day to see an acquaintance at Okehampton before his wife decided

to go forth, her uncle, and not her husband, accompanied her--to the

deep chagrin of the latter when he returned home.

Through the long hours of a weary and empty convalescence, Honor said

little concerning the incident responsible for wreck of hope; but her

loss had grown into an abiding grief nevertheless; and while the man was

stricken most sorely at first, but had now become resigned, devoting

only leisure thought to his private sorrow, the woman took this trial to

her heart with increasing bitterness through those lonely hours that

followed upon it. There was, moreover, an added element of terror and a

superstitious despair bred of her alarm in the woods. This died but

slowly, for she would not share the experience with any other; yet, as

physical health increased, all lesser emotion dwindled before the

ever-present sense of loss. From Myles she hid the heavy misery of it,

that his own sorrow might not be increased; but she liked to speak with

her uncle of the little flower lost in the bud, and he was patient and

never weary of comforting her to the best of his power.

It is to be noted, however, that Myles somewhat misunderstood Honor's

extreme reticence, and her assumed air of brightness and good hope

misled him perhaps more completely than Honor designed. He was secretly

surprised that this matter had not left a deeper mark; he did not guess

at a scar out of his sight; but he marvelled that his wife could still

laugh and even jest upon occasion. Under her tranquillity and humour he

failed to probe, but he bade the inner wonder in his mind be dumb. Not

until long afterwards did he learn the truth and realise the depth of

the sorrow she had masked for love of him.

The little open carriage crept up over Scor Hill, then proceeded by a

steep way to Charity Grepe's cottage. There Honor left half-a-crown in

person, for since certain rumours that poor Cherry must go to the

work-house, the mistress of Bear Down had become her active champion.

Then the pony was turned, climbed the hill again, and presently stood

above Teign valley, at a point on the hillside where a little lakelet

reflected the blue sky above it, and shone framed in rushes and verdant

sphagnum, in rosy sundews all frosted and agleam, in small scattered

flames of the bog asphodel, and in many lesser things that love a marsh.

Away on the wide front of Watern, great gloomy tracts, still dark from

fire, spread forth over many an acre. There a "swaling" had freed the

land of heath and furze, and provided light and air for grass; but the

spot seen from this distance was naked as yet.

"There's a great scar over against us on the hill--black--black against

the green and the grey and the blue overhead--all charred and desolate.

That's how my heart feels, Uncle Mark--so dreary and forlorn--like an

empty nest."

"Look again," he said; "look at what seems so black upon the hill, and

think as you look, and you'll remember the ash and ruin are all full of

young, sweet blades, sprouting strong, brimming with sap to hide the

rack of dead char. 'Twill be so with you, my dear; for there's the bend

and spring of youth in your heart still. Wait till the heather's out

again, and the foxgloves are nodding along the low ridges over the

Teign, and the whortle bells be turned to purple berries once more."

"How you remember!" she said, "despite all the long years of darkness."

"Yes; I remember, thank God. I smell the damp near where you've pulled

up; and I see the marsh, down to the little bluebell flower that creeps

in the grass, and the spotted leaves of orchis, and the white wisps of

the cotton grass in summer, and all the rest, that I never thought upon

when I had my eyes. But there's a quiet, unknown mercy that works

through the morning hours of a man's life if he lives in the lap of

Nature and is true to her. Keen sight stores the memory unbeknown to

us; and none can tell how deep that unconscious, unguessed gathering-up

may be but those who fall upon blindness. No credit to me at all; yet

the pictures come as the seasons come--at bud-break; at the sound of the

west wind and the call of the river; at the music of rain on the leaves;

at the whirr of the cutter in the hay; at the touch of snow on my face

and in my eyebrows. I know--I know it all, for my eyes reaped and my

brain garnered at the merciful will of God. Without those mind

picture-books I should be blind indeed."

"You're so brave. I wish that I had more of you in me. I'm not a true

Endicott."