CHAPTER I

CHILDREN OF THE MIST

BY

EDEN PHILLPOTTS

Author of "Down Dartmoor Way," "Some Everyday Folks," "My Laughing

Philosopher," "Lying Prophets," etc.

1898

BOOK I--THE BOY'S ROMANCE

I THE PIXIES' PARLOUR

II A CLEAR UNDERSTANDING

III EXIT WILL

IV BY THE RIVER

V THE INCIDENT OF MR. JOEL FORD

VI AN UNHAPPY POET

VII LIBATION TO POMONA

VIII A BROTHERS' QUARREL

IX OUTSIDE EXETER GAOL

X THE BRINGING OF THE NEWS

XI LOVE AND GREY GRANITE

XII A STORY-BOOK

XIII THE MILLER'S OFFER

XIV LOGIC

BOOK II--THE ENTERPRISE

I SPRINGTIME

II NEWTAKE FARM

III OVER A RIDING-WHIP

IV DEFEATED HOPES

V THE ZEAL OF SAM BONUS

VI A SWARM OF BEES

VII AN OFFER OF MARRIAGE

VIII MR. BLEE FORGETS HIMSELF

IX A DIFFERENCE WITH THE DUCHY

X CONNECTING LINKS

XI TOGETHER

XII THROUGH ONE GREAT DAY

XIII THE WILL

XIV A HUNDRED POUNDS

XV "THE ANGEL OF THE DARKER DRINK"

XVI BEFORE THE DAWN

XVII MISSING

BOOK III--HIS GRANITE CROSS

I BABY

II THE KNIGHT OF FORLORN HOPES

III CONCERNING THE GATE-POST

IV MARTIN'S RAID

V WINTER

VI THE CROSS UPREARED

VII GREY TWILIGHT

BOOK IV--HIS SECRET

I A WANDERER RETURNS

II HOPE RENEWED

III ANSWERED

IV THE END OF THE FIGHT

V TWO MIGHTY SURPRISES

VI THE SECRET OUT

VII SMALL TIMOTHY

VIII FLIGHT

IX UNDER COSDON BEACON

X BAD NEWS FOR BLANCHARD

XI PHOEBE TAKES THOUGHT

XII NEW YEAR'S EVE AND NEW YEAR'S DAY

XIII MR. LYDDON'S TACTICS

XIV ACTION

XV A BATTLE

XVI A PAIR OF HANDCUFFS

XVII SUSPENSE

XVIII THE NIGHT OF JUBILEE

CHILDREN OF THE MIST

BOOK I

THE BOY'S ROMANCE

CHAPTER I

THE PIXIES' PARLOUR

Phoebe Lyddon frowned, and, as an instant protest, twin dimples peeped

into life at the left corner of her bonny mouth. In regarding that

attractive ripple the down-drawn eyebrows were forgotten until they rose

again into their natural arches. A sweet, childish contour of face

chimed with her expression; her full lips were bright as the bunch of

ripe wood-strawberries at the breast of her cotton gown; her eyes as

grey as Dartmoor mists; while, for the rest, a little round chin, a

small, straight nose, and a high forehead, which Phoebe mourned and kept

carefully concealed under masses of curly brown hair, were the sole

features to be specially noted about her. She was a trifle below the

standard of height proper to a girl of nineteen, but all compact, of

soft, rounded lines, plump, fresh of colour, healthy, happy, sweet as a

ripe apple.

From a position upon swelling hillsides above the valley of a river, she

scanned the scene beneath, made small her eyes to focus the distance,

and so pursued a survey of meadow and woodland, yet without seeing what

she sought. Beneath and beyond, separated from her standpoint by

grasslands and a hedge of hazel, tangled thickets of blackthorn, of

bracken, and of briar sank to the valley bottom. Therein wound tinkling

Teign through the gorges of Fingle to the sea; and above it, where the

land climbed upward on the other side, spread the Park of Whiddou, with

expanses of sweet, stone-scattered herbage, with tracts of deep fern,

coverts of oak, and occasional habitations for the deer.

This spectacle, through a grey veil of fine rain, Phoebe noted at

mid-afternoon of a day in early August; and, as she watched, there

widened a rift under the sun's hidden throne, and a mighty, fan-shaped

pencil of brightness straggled downwards, proceeded in solemn sweep

across the valley, and lighted the depths of the gorge beyond with a

radiance of misty silver. The music of jackdaws welcomed this first

indication of improved weather; then Phoebe's sharp eyes beheld a

phenomenon afar off through the momentary cessation of the rain. Three

parts of a mile away, on a distant hillside, like the successive

discharges of a dozen fowling-pieces, little blotches of smoke or mist

suddenly appeared. Rapidly they followed each other, and sometimes the

puffs of vapour were exploded together, sometimes separately. For a

moment the girl felt puzzled; then she comprehended and laughed.

"'Tis the silly auld sheep!" she said to herself. "They 'm shakin 'theer

fleeces 'cause they knaw the rain's over-past. Bellwether did begin, I

warrant, then all the rest done the same."

Each remote member of the flock thus freed its coat from the accumulated

moisture of a long rainfall; then the huddled heap, in which they had

combined to withstand the weather and show tail to the western storm,

began to scatter. With coughs and sneezes the beasts wandered forward

again, and pursued their business of grazing.

Steadily the promises of the sky multiplied and Phoebe's impatience

increased. Her position did not, however, depend for comfort upon the

return of sunshine, for she stood out of the weather, where sundry giant

rocks to the number of five arose in a fantastic pile. Nature's primal

architects were responsible for the Pixies' Parlour, and upon the awful

morning of Dartmoor's creation these enormous masses had first been

hurled to their present position--outposts of the eternal granite,

though themselves widely removed from the central waste of the Moor.

This particular and gigantic monument of the past stands with its feet

in land long cultivated. Plough and harrow yearly skirt the Pixies'

Parlour; it rises to-day above yellow corn, to-morrow amid ripening

roots; it crowns the succeeding generations of man's industry, and

watches a ceaseless cycle of human toil. The rocks of which it is

composed form a sort of rude chamber, sacred to fairy folk since a time

before the memory of the living; briars and ivy-tods conceal a part of

the fabric; a blackthorn, brushed at this season with purple fruit,

rises above it; one shadowed ledge reveals the nightly roosting place of

hawk or raven; and marks of steel on the stone show clearly where some

great or small fragment of granite has been blasted from the parent pile

for the need of man. Multi-coloured, massive, and picturesque, the

Parlour, upon Phoebe Lyddon's visit to it, stood forth against the red

bosom of naked land; for a fierce summer had early ripened the vanished

harvest, and now its place was already ploughed again, while ashes of

dead fire scattered upon the earth showed where weed and waste had been

consumed after ingathering of the grain.

Patches of August blue now lightened the aerial grey; then sunshine set

a million gems twinkling on the great bejewelled bosom of the valley.

Under this magic heat an almost instantaneous shadowy ghost of fresh

vapour rose upon the riparian meadows, and out of it, swinging along

with the energy of youth and high spirits, came a lad. Phoebe smiled and

twinkled a white handkerchief to him, and he waved his hat and bettered

his pace for answer.

Soon Will Blanchard reached his sweetheart, and showed himself a brown,

straight youngster, with curly hair, pugnacious nose, good shoulders,

and a figure so well put together that his height was not apparent until

he stood alongside another man. Will's eyes were grey as Phoebe's, but

of a different expression; soft and unsettled, cloudy as the recent

weather, full of the alternate mist and flash of a precious stone, one

moment all a-dreaming, the next aglow. His natural look was at first

sight a little stern until a man came to know it, then this impression

waned and left a critic puzzled. The square cut of his face and abrupt

angle of his jaw did not indeed belie Will Blanchard, but the man's

smile magically dissipated this austerity of aspect, and no sudden

sunshine ever brightened a dark day quicker than pleasure made bright

his features. It was a sulky, sleepy, sweet, changeable face--very

fascinating in the eyes of women. His musical laugh once fluttered

sundry young bosoms, brightened many pretty eyes and cheeks, but Will's

heart was Phoebe Lyddon's now--had been for six full months--and albeit

a mere country boy in knowledge of the world, younger far than his

one-and-twenty years of life, and wholly unskilled in those arts whose

practice enables men to dwell together with friendship and harmony, yet

Will Blanchard was quite old enough and wise enough and rich enough to

wed, and make a husband of more than common quality at that--in his own

opinion.

Fortified by this conviction, and determined to wait no longer, he now

came to see Phoebe. Within the sheltering arms of the Pixies' Parlour he

kissed her, pressed her against his wet velveteen jacket, then sat down

under the rocks beside her.

"You 'm comed wi' the sun, dear Will."

"Ay--the weather breaks. I hope theer'll be a drop more water down the

river bimebye. You got my letter all right?"

"Ess fay, else I shouldn't be here. And this tremendous matter in

hand?"

"I thought you'd guess what 't was. I be weary o' waitin' for 'e. An' as

I comed of age last month, I'm a man in law so well as larnin', and I'm

gwaine to speak to Miller Lyddon this very night."

Phoebe looked blank. There was a moment's silence while Will picked and

ate the wood-strawberries in his sweetheart's dress.

"Caan't 'e think o' nothin' wiser than to see faither?" she said at

last.

"Theer ban't nothin' wiser. He knaws we 'm tokened, and it's no manner

o' use him gwaine on pretendin' to himself 't isn't so. You 'm

wife-old, and you've made choice o' me; and I'm a ripe man, as have

thought a lot in my time, and be earnin' gude money and all. Besides, 't

is a dead-sure fact I'll have auld Morgan's place as head waterkeeper,

an' the cottage along with it, in fair time."

"Ban't for me to lift up no hindrances, but you knaw faither."

"Ess, I do--for a very stiff-necked man."

"Maybe 't is so; but a gude faither to me."

"An' a gude friend to me, for that matter. He aint got nothing 'gainst

me, anyway--no more 's any man living."

"Awnly the youth and fieriness of 'e."

"Me fiery! I lay you wouldn't find a cooler chap in Chagford."

"You 'm a dinky bit comical-tempered now and again, dear heart."

He flushed, and the corners of his jaw thickened.

"If a man was to say that, I'd knock his words down his throat."

"I knaw you would, my awn Will; an' that's bein' comical-tempered,

ban't it?"

"Then perhaps I'd best not to see your faither arter all, if you 'm that

way o' thinkin'," he answered shortly.

Then Phoebe purred to him and rubbed her cheek against his chin, whereon

the glint vanished from his eyes, and they were soft again.

"Mother's the awnly livin' sawl what understands me," he said slowly.

"And I--I too, Will!" cried Phoebe. "Ess fay. I'll call you a holy angel

if you please, an' God knaws theer 's not an angel in heaven I'd have

stead of 'e."

"I ban't no angel," said Will gravely, "and never set up for no such

thing; but I've thought a lot 'bout the world in general, and I'm purty

wise for a home-stayin' chap, come to think on it; and it's borne in

'pon me of late days that the married state 's a gude wan, and the

sooner the better."

"But a leap in the dark even for the wisest, Will?"

"So's every other step us takes for that matter. Look at them

grasshoppers. Off they goes to glory and doan't knaw no more 'n the dead

wheer they'll fetch up. I've seed 'em by the river jump slap in the

water, almost on to a trout's back. So us hops along and caan't say

what's comin' next. We 'm built to see just beyond our awn nose-ends and

no further. That's philosophy."

"Ban't comfortin' if 't is," said Phoebe.

"Whether or no, I'll see your faither 'fore night and have a plain

answer. I'm a straight, square man, so's the miller."

"You'll speed poorly, I'm fearin', but 't is a honest thing; and I'll

tell faither you 'm all the world to me. He doan't seem to knaw what it

is for a gal to be nineteen year old somehow."

Solemnly Will rose, almost overweighted with the consciousness of what

lay before him.

"We'll go home-along now. Doan't 'e tell him I'm coming. I'll take him

unbeknawnst. And you keep out the way till I be gone again."

"Does your mother knaw, Will?"

"Ess, she an' Chris both knaw I be gwaine to have it out this night.

Mother sez I be right, but that Miller will send me packing wi' a flea

in my ear; Chris sez I be wrong to ax yet awhile."

"You can see why that is; 'she 's got to wait herself," said Phoebe,

rather spitefully.

"Waitin' 's well enough when it caan't be helped. But in my case, as a

man of assured work and position in the plaace, I doan't hold it needful

no more."

Together the young couple marched down over the meadows, gained the side

of the river, and followed its windings to the west. Through a dip in

the woods presently peeped the ancient stannary town of Chagford, from

the summit of its own little eminence on the eastern confines of

Dartmoor. Both Will and Phoebe dwelt within the parish, but some

distance from the place itself. She lived at Monks Barton, a farm and

mill beside the stream; he shared an adjacent cottage with his mother

and sister. Only a bend of the river separated the dwellings of the

lovers--where Rushford Bridge spanned the Teign and beech and fir rose

above it.

In a great glory of clearness after rain, boy and girl moved along

together under the trees. The fisherman's path which they followed wound

where wet granite shone and ivy glimmered beneath the forest; and the

leaves still dripped briskly, making a patter of sound through the

underwood, and marking a thousand circles and splashes in the smooth

water beneath the banks of the stream. Against a purple-grey background

of past rain the green of high summer shone bright and fresh, and each

moss-clad rock and fern-fringed branch of the forest oaks sent forth its

own incense of slender steam where the sunlight sparkled and sucked up

the moisture. Scarce half a mile from Phoebe's home a shining yellow

twig bent and flashed against the green, and a broad back appeared

through a screen of alder by the water's edge.

"'T is a rod," said Will. "Bide a moment, and I'll take the number of

his ticket. He 'm the first fisherman I've seen to-day."

As under-keeper or water-bailiff to the Fishing Association, young

Blanchard's work consisted in endless perambulation of the river's bank,

in sharp outlook for poacher and trespasser, and in the survey of

fishermen's bridges, and other contrivances for anglers that occurred

along the winding course of the waters. His also was the duty of noting

the license numbers, and of surprising those immoral anglers who sought

to kill fish illegally on distant reaches of the river. His keen eyes,

great activity, and approved pluck well fitted Will for such duties. He

often walked twenty miles a day, and fishermen said that he knew every

big trout in the Teign from Fingle Bridge to the dark pools and rippling

steps under Sittaford Tor, near the river's twin birthplaces. He also

knew where the great peel rested, on their annual migration from sea to

moor; where the kingfisher's nest of fish-bones lay hidden; where the

otter had her home beneath the bank, and its inland vent-hole behind a

silver birch.

Will bid the angler "good afternoon," and made a few general remarks on

sport and the present unfavourable condition of the water, shrunk to

mere ribbons of silver by a long summer drought. The fisherman was a

stranger to Will--a handsome, stalwart man, with a heavy amber

moustache, hard blue eyes, and a skin tanned red by hotter suns than

English Augusts know. His disposition, also, as it seemed, reflected

years of a tropic or subtropic existence, for this trivial meeting and

momentary intrusion upon his solitude resulted in an explosion as sudden

as unreasonable and unexpected.

"Keep back, can't you?" he exclaimed, while the young keeper approached

his side; "who 's going to catch fish with your lanky shadow across the

water?"

Will was up in arms instantly.

"Do 'e think I doan't knaw my business? Theer 's my shadder 'pon the

bank a mile behind you; an' I didn't ope my mouth till you'd fished the

stickle to the bottom and missed two rises."

This criticism angered the elder man, and he freed his tailfly fiercely

from the rush-head that held it.

"Mind your own affairs and get out of my sight, whoever you are. This

river's not what it used to be by a good deal. Over-fished and poached,

and not looked after, I'll swear."

Thus, in ignorance, the sportsman uttered words of all most like to set

Will Blanchard's temper loose--a task sufficiently easy at the best of

times.

"What the hell d' you knaw 'bout the river?" he flamed out. "And as to

'my affairs,' 't is my affairs, an' I be water-bailiff, an' I'll thank

you for the number of your ticket--so now then!"

"What's become of Morgan?" asked the other.

"He 'm fust, I be second; and 't is my job to take the license numbers."

"Pity you're such an uncivil young cub, then."

"Gimme your ticket directly minute!"

"I'm not going to."

The keeper looked wicked enough by this time, but he made a great effort

to hold himself in.

"Why for not?"

"Because I didn't take one."

"That ban't gwaine to do for me."

"Ban't it? Then you'll have to go without any reason. Now run away and

don't bleat so loud."

"Look here," retorted Will, going straight up to the fisherman, and

taking his measure with a flashing eye, "You gimme your ticket number or

your name an' address, else I'll make 'e."

They counted nearly the same inches, but the angler was the elder, and a

man of more powerful build and massive frame than his younger opponent.

His blue eyes and full, broad face spoke a pugnacity not less pronounced

than the keeper's own finer features indicated; and thus these two,

destined for long years to bulk largely each upon the life of the other,

stood eye to eye for the first time. Will's temper was nearly gone, and

now another sneer set it loose with sudden and startling result.

"Make me, my young moorcock? Two more words and I'll throw you across

the river!"

The two words were not forthcoming, but Will dropped his stick and shot

forward straight and strong as an angry dog. He closed before the

stranger could dispose of his rod, gripped him with a strong wrestling

hold, and cross-buttocked him heavily in the twinkling of an eye. The

big man happily fell without hurt upon soft sand at the river's brink;

but the indignity of this defeat roused his temper effectually. He

grinned nevertheless as he rose again, shook the sand off his face, and

licked his hands.

"Good Devon, sure enough, my son; now I'll teach _you_ something you

never heard tell of, and break your damned fool's neck for you into the

bargain!"

But Phoebe, who had wandered slowly on, returned quickly at the sound of

the scuffle and high words. Now she fluttered between the combatants and

rendered any further encounter for the time impossible. They could not

close again with the girl between them, and the stranger, his anger

holding its breath, glanced at her with sudden interest, stayed his

angry growl, suffered rage to wane out of his eyes and frank admiration

to appear in them.

"Doan't be fighting!" cried Phoebe. "Whatever's the mischief, Will? Do

bate your speed of hand! You've thrawed the gentleman down, seemin'ly."

"Wheer 's his ticket to then?"

"Why, it isn't Miller Lyddon's young maid, surely!" burst out the

fisherman; "not Phoebe grown to woman!"

A Devon accent marked the speech, suddenly dragged from him by surprise.

"Ess, I be Phoebe Lyddon; but don't 'e fall 'pon each other again, for

the Lard's sake," she said.

"The boy 's as tetchy in temper as a broody hen. I was only joking all

the time, and see how he made me pay for my joke. But to think I should

remember you! Grown from bud to pretty blossom, by God! And I danced you

on my knee last time I saw you!"

"Then you 'm wan of they two Grimbal brothers as was to be home again in

Chagford to-day!" exclaimed Will.

"That's so; Martin and I landed at Plymouth yesterday. We got to

Chagford early this morning."

Will laughed.

"I never!" he said. "Why, you be lodging with my awn mother at the

cottage above Rushford Bridge! You was expected this marnin', but I

couldn't wait for 'e. You 'm Jan Grimbal--eh?"

"Right! And you're a nice host, to be sure!"

"'T is solemn truth, you 'm biding under our roof, the 'Three Crowns'

bein' full just now. And I'm sorry I thrawed 'e; but you was that

glumpy, and of course I didn't know 'e from Adam. I'm Will Blanchard."

"Never mind, Will, we'll try again some day. I could wrestle a bit once,

and learned a new trick or two from a Yankee in Africa."

"You've come back 'mazin' rich they say, Jan Grimbal?"

"So, so. Not millionaires, but all right--both of us, though I'm the

snug man of the two. We got to Africa at the right moment, before 1867,

you know, the year that O'Reilly saw a nigger-child playing with the

first Kimberley diamond ever found. Up we went, the pair of us. Things

have hummed since then, and claims and half-claims and quarter-claims

are coming to be worth a Jew's eye. We're all right, anyway, and I've

got a stake out there yet."

"You 'm well pleased to come back to dear li'l Chagford after so many

years of foreign paarts, I should think, Mr. Grimbal?" said Phoebe.

"Ay, that I am. There's no place like Devon, in all the earth, and no

spot like Chagford in Devon. I'm too hard grit to wink an eyelid at

sight of the old scenes again myself; but Martin, when he caught first

sight of great rolling Cosdon crowning the land--why, his eyes were

wetted, if you'll believe it."

"And you comed right off to fish the river fust thing," said Will

admiringly.

"Ay, couldn't help it. When I heard the water calling, it was more than

my power to keep away. But you're cruel short of rain, seemingly, and

of course the season 's nearly over."

"I'll shaw you dark hovers, wheer braave feesh be lying yet," promised

Will; and the angler thanked him, foretelling a great friendship. Yet

his eyes rarely roamed from Phoebe, and anon, as all three proceeded,

John Grimbal stopped at the gate of Monks Barton and held the girl in

conversation awhile. But first he despatched Will homewards with a

message for his mother. "Let Mrs. Blanchard know we'll feed at seven

o'clock off the best that she can get," he said; "and tell her not to

bother about the liquor. I'll see to that myself."

CHAPTER II

A CLEAR UNDERSTANDING

Monks Barton, or Barton Monachorum, as the farm was called in a Tudor

perambulation of Chagford, owed its name to traditions that holy men

aforetime dwelt there, performed saintly deeds, and blessed a spring in

the adjacent woods, whose waters from that date ever proved a magical

medicament for "striking" of sore eyes. That the lands of the valley had

once been in monastic possession was, however, probable enough; and some

portions of the old farm did in truth rise upon the ruins of a still

more ancient habitation long vanished. Monks Barton stood, a picturesque

agglomeration of buildings, beside the river. The mill-wheel, fed by a

stream taken from the Teign some distance up the valley and here

returned again to the parent water, thundered on its solemn round in an

eternal twinkling twilight of dripping ferns and green mosses; while

hard by the dwelling-house stood and offered small diamond panes and one

dormer-window to the south. Upon its whitewashed face three fruit-trees

grew--a black plum, a cherry, a winter pear; and before the farmhouse

stretched a yard sloping to the river ford, where a line of massive

stepping-stones for foot-passengers crossed the water. On either side of

this space, walled up from the edge of the stream, little gardens of

raspberry and gooseberry bushes spread; and here, too, appeared a few

apple-trees, a bed of herbs, a patch of onions, purple cabbages, and a

giant hollyhock with sulphur-coloured blossoms that thrust his proud

head upwards, a gentleman at large, and the practical countrymen of the

kitchen-garden. The mill and outbuildings, the homestead and wood-stacks

embraced a whole gamut of fine colour, ranging from the tawny and

crimson of fretted brick and tile to varied greys of drying timber; from

the cushions and pillows of moss and embroidery of houseleeks and

valerian, that had flourished for fifty years on a ruined shippen, to

the silver gleam of old thatches and the shining gold of new. Nor was

the white face of the dwelling-house amiss. Only one cold, crude eye

stared out from this time-tinctured scene; only one raw pentroof of

corrugated iron blotted it, made poets sigh, artists swear, and Miller

Lyddon contemplate more of the same upon his land.

A clucking and grunting concourse of fowls and pigs shared the farmyard;

blue pigeons claimed the roof; and now, in the westering light, with

slow foot, sweet breath, and swelling udder, many kine, red as the ripe

horse-chestnut, followed each other across the ford, assembled

themselves together and lowed musically to the milkers. Phoebe Lyddon

and John Grimbal still stood at the farm-gate, and they watched, as a

boy and an aged man came forward with buckets and stools. Then, to the

muffled thud of the water-wheel and the drone and murmur of the river,

was added a purr of milk, foaming into tin pails, and sharp, thin

monitions from the ancient, as he called the cows by their names and bid

them be still.

In John Grimbal, newly come from South Africa, this scene awakened a

lively satisfaction and delight. It told him that he was home again; and

so did the girl, though it seemed absurd to think that Phoebe had ever

sat upon his knee and heard his big stories, when as yet he himself was

a boy and the world still spread before him unconquered. He mused at the

change and looked forward to bringing himself and his success in life

before those who had known him in the past. He very well remembered who

had encouraged his ambitions and spoken words of kindness and of hope;

who also had sneered, criticised his designs unfavourably, and thrown

cold water upon his projects. John Grimbal meant to make certain souls

smart as he had smarted; but he feared his brother a little in this

connection, and suspected that Martin would not assert himself among the

friends of his youth, would not assume a position his riches warranted,

would be content with too humble a manner of life.

As a matter of fact, the ambition of neither extended much beyond a life

of peace among the scenes of his childhood; but while the younger

traveller returned with unuttered thanksgivings in his heart that he was

privileged again to see the land he loved and henceforth dwell amid its

cherished scenes, the greater energy and wider ambition of his brother

planned a position of some prominence if not power. John was above all

else a sportsman, and his programme embraced land, a stout new

dwelling-house, preserves of game in a small way, some fishing, and the

formation of a new rifle-corps at Chagford. This last enterprise he

intended to be the serious business of life; but his mind was open to

any new, agreeable impressions and, indeed, it received them at every

turn. Phoebe Lyddon awoke a very vital train of thoughts, and when he

left her, promising to come with his brother on the following day to see

the miller, John Grimbal's impressionable heart was stamped with her

pretty image, his ear still held the melody of her voice.

He crossed the stepping-stones, sat down upon the bank to change his

flies, and looked at the home of Phoebe without sentiment, yet not

without pleasure. It lay all cuddled on the bosom of a green hill; to

the west stretched meadows and orchard along the winding valley of the

river; to the east extended more grass-land that emerged into ferny

coombs and glades and river dells, all alive with the light of wild

flowers and the music of birds, with the play of dusky sunshine in the

still water, and of shadows on the shore.

A little procession of white ducks sailed slowly up the river, and each

as it passed twisted its head to peer up at the spectator. Presently the

drake who led them touched bottom, and his red-gold webs appeared. Then

he paddled ashore, lifted up his voice, waggled his tail, and with a

crescendo of quacking conducted his harem into the farmyard. One lone

Muscovy duck, perchance emulating the holy men of old in their

self-communion, or else constrained by circumstance to a solitary life,

appeared apart on a little island under the alders. A stranger in a

strange land, he sat with bent head and red-rimmed, philosophic eyes,

regarding his own breast while sunset lights fired the metallic lustre

of his motley. Quite close to him a dead branch thrust upwards from the

water, and the river swirled in oily play of wrinkles and dimples beyond

it. Here, with some approach to his old skill, the angler presently cast

a small brown moth. It fell lightly and neatly, cocked for a second,

then turned helplessly over, wrecked in the sudden eddy as a natural

insect had been. A fearless rise followed, and in less than half a

minute a small trout was in the angler's net. John Grimbal landed this

little fish carefully and regarded it with huge satisfaction before

returning it to the river. Then, having accomplished the task set by

sudden desire,--to catch a Teign trout again, feel it, smell it, see

the ebony and crimson, the silver belly warming to gold on its sides and

darkening to brown and olive above,--having by this act renewed

sensations that had slept for fifteen years, he put up his rod and

returned to his temporary quarters at the dwelling of Mrs. Blanchard.

His brother was waiting in the little garden to welcome him. Martin

walked up and down, smelled the flowers, and gazed with sober delight

upon the surrounding scene. Already sunset fires had waned; but the high

top of the fir that crowned Rushford Bridge still glowed with a great

light on its red bark; an uprising Whiddon, where it lay afar off under

the crown of Cranbrook, likewise shone out above the shadowed valley.

Martin Grimbal approached his brother and laid his hand upon the

fisherman's arm. He stood the smaller in stature, though of strong

build. His clean-shaved face had burned much darker than John's; he was

indeed coffee-brown and might have been mistaken for an Indian but for

his eyes of ordinary slate-grey. Without any pretension to good looks,

Martin Grimbal displayed what was better--an expression of such frank

benignity and goodness that his kind trusted him and relied upon him by

intuition. Honest and true to the verge of quixotism was this man in all

dealings with his fellows, yet he proved a faulty student of character.

First he was in a measure blinded by his own amiable qualities to acute

knowledge of human nature; secondly, he was drawn away from humanity

rather than not, for no cynic reason, but by the character of his

personal predilections and pursuits.

"I've seen father's grave, John," were his first words to his brother.

"It's beside the mother's, but that old stone he put up to her must be

moved and--"

"All right, all right, old chap. Stones are in your line, not mine.

Where's dinner? I want bread, not a stone, eh?"

Martin did not laugh, but shrugged his shoulders in good-tempered

fashion. His face had a measure of distinction his brother's lacked, and

indeed, while wanting John's tremendous physical energy and robust

determination, he possessed a finer intellect and instinct less animal.

Even abroad, during their earlier enterprises, Martin had first provided

brains sufficient for himself and John; but an accident of fortune

suddenly favoured the elder; and while John took full care that Martin

should benefit with himself, he was pleased henceforth to read into his

superior luck a revelation of superior intelligence, and from that

moment followed his own inclinations and judgment. He liked Martin no

less, but never turned to him for counsel again after his own accidental

good fortune; and henceforward assumed an elder brother's manner and a

show of superior wisdom. In matters of the world and in knowledge of

such human character as shall be found to congregate in civilisation's

van, or where precious metals and precious stones have been discovered

to abound, John Grimbal was undoubtedly the shrewder, more experienced

man; and Martin felt very well content that his elder brother should

take the lead. Since the advent of their prosperity a lively gratitude

had animated his mind. The twain shared nothing save bonds of blood,

love of their native land, and parity of ambition, first manifested in

early desires to become independent. Together they had gone abroad,

together they returned; and now each according to his genius designed to

seek happiness where he expected to find it. John still held interests

in South Africa, but Martin, content with less fortune, and mighty

anxious to be free of all further business, realised his wealth and now

knew the limits of his income.

The brothers supped in good spirits and Will Blanchard's sister waited

upon them. Chris was her "brother in petticoats," people said, and

indeed she resembled him greatly in face and disposition. But her eyes

were brown, like her dead father's, and a gypsy splendour of black hair

crowned her head. She was a year younger than Will, wholly wrapped up in

him and one other.

A familiarity, shy on Martin's side and patronising in John, obtained

between the brothers and their pretty attendant, for she knew all about

them and the very cottage in which their parents had dwelt and died. The

girl came and went, answered John Grimbal's jests readily, and

ministered to them as one not inferior to those she served. The elder

man's blue eyes were full of earthy admiration. He picked his teeth

between the courses and admired aloud, while Chris was from the room.

"'Tis wonderful how pretty all the women look, coming back to them after

ten years of nigger girls. Roses and cream isn't in it with their skins,

though this one's dark as a clear night--Spanish fashion."

"Miss Blanchard seems very beautiful to me certainly," admitted Martin.

"I've seen only two maids--since setting foot in Chagford," continued

his brother, "and it would puzzle the devil to say which was best to

look at."

"Your heart will soon be lost, I'll wager--to a Chagford girl, I hope. I

know you talked about flying high, but you might be happier to take a

mate from--well, you understand."

"It's all very well to build theories on board ship about bettering

myself socially and all that, but it's rot; I'll be knocked over by one

of the country witches, I know I shall,--I feel it. I love the sound of

the Devon on their lips, and the clear eyes of them, and the bright

skin. 'Tis all I can do to keep from hugging the women, and that's a

fact. But you, you cold-blooded beggar, your heart's still for the grey

granite and the old ghostly stones, and creepy, lonely places on the

Moor! We're that different, you and me."

Martin nodded thoughtfully, and, the meal being now ended, both men

strolled out of doors, then wandered down to smoke a pipe on Rushford

Bridge and listen to the nightly murmur of the river. Darkness moved on

the face of land and water; twilight had sucked all the colour away from

the valley; and through the deepening monochrome of the murk there

passed white mists with shadowy hands, and peeped blind pale eyes along

the winding water, where its surface reflected the faded west. Nocturnal

magic conjured the least meadow into an unmeasured sea of vapour; awoke

naiads in the waters and dryads in the woods; transformed the solemn

organ music of great beetles into songs of a roaming spirit; set unseen

shapes stirring in the starlight; whispered of invisible, enchanted

things, happy and unhappy, behind the silence.

A man moved from the bridge as the brothers reached it. Then Will

Blanchard, knocking out his pipe and taking a big inspiration, set his

face steadily toward Monks Barton and that vital interview with Miller

Lyddon now standing in the pathway of his life.

He rapped at the farm door and a step came slowly down the stone-paved

passage. Then Billy Blee, the miller's right-hand man, opened to him.

Bent he was from the small of the back, with a highly coloured, much

wrinkled visage, and ginger hair, bleached by time to a paler shade. His

poll was bald and shining, and thick yellow whiskers met beneath a

clean-shorn chin. Billy's shaggy eyebrows, little bright eyes, and long

upper lip, taken with the tawny fringe under his chops, gave him the

look of an ancient and gigantic lion-monkey; and indeed there was not

lacking in him an ape-like twist, as shall appear.

"Hullo! boy Blanchard! An' what might you want?" he asked.

"To see Miller."

"Come in then; we'm all alone in kitchen, him and me, awver our grog and

game. What's the matter now?"

"A private word for Miller's ear," said Will cautiously.

"Come you in then. Us'll do what we may for 'e. Auld heads be the best

stepping-stones young folks can have, understood right; awnly the likes

of you mostly chooses to splash through life on your awn damn silly

roads."

Mr. Blee, whose friendship and familiarity with his master was of the

closest, led on, and Will soon stood before Mr. Lyddon.

The man who owned Monks Barton, and who there prosperously combined the

callings of farmer and miller, had long enjoyed the esteem of the

neighbourhood in which he dwelt, as had his ancestors before him,

through many generations. He had won reputation for a sort of silent

wisdom. He never advised any man ill, never hesitated to do a kindly

action, and himself contrived to prosper year in, year out, no matter

what period of depression might be passing over Chagford. Vincent Lyddon

was a widower of sixty-five--a grey, thin, tall man, slow of speech and

sleepy of eye. A weak mouth, and a high, round forehead, far smoother

than his age had promised, were distinguishing physical features of him.

His wife had been dead eighteen years, and of his two children one only

survived. The elder, a boy toddling in early childhood at the water's

edge, was unmissed until too late, and found drowned next day after a

terrible night of agony for both parents. Indeed, Mrs. Lyddon never

recovered from the shock, and Phoebe was but a year old when her mother

died. Further, it need only be mentioned that the miller had heard of

Will's courting more than once, but absolutely refused to allow the

matter serious consideration. The romance was no more than philandering

of children in his eyes.

"Will--eh? Well, my son, and how can I serve you?" asked the master of

Monks Barton, kindly enough. He recrossed his legs, settled in his

leather chair, and continued the smoking of a long clay pipe.

"Just this, Mr. Lyddon," began Will abruptly. "You calls me your 'son'

as a manner o' speech, but I wants to be no less in fact."

"You ban't here on that fool's errand, bwoy, surely? I thought I'd made

my mind clear enough to Phoebe six months ago."

"Look you here now. I be earnin' eighteen shillings a week an' a bit

awver; an' I be sure of Morgan's berth as head-keeper presently; an' I'm

a man as thinks."

"That's brave talk, but what have 'e saved, lad?" inquired Mr. Blee.

The lover looked round at him sharply.

"I thought you was out the room," he said. "I be come to talk to Miller,

not you."

"Nay, nay, Billy can stay and see I'm not tu hard 'pon 'e," declared Mr.

Lyddon. "He axed a proper question. What's put by to goody in the

savings' bank, Will?"

"Well--five pounds; and 't will be rose to ten by Christmas, I assure

'e."

"Fi' puns! an' how far 's that gwaine?"

"So far as us can make it, in coourse."

"Doan't you see, sonny, this ban't a fair bargain? I'm not a hard man--"

"By gor! not hard enough by a powerful deal," said Billy.

"Not hard on youth; but this match, so to call it, looks like mere

moonshine. Theer 's nought _to_ it I can see--both childer, and neither

with as much sense as might sink a floatin' straw."

"We love each other wi' all our hearts and have done more 'n half a

year. Ban't that nothing?"

"I married when I was forty-two," remarked the miller, reflectively,

looking down at his fox-head slippers, the work of Phoebe's fingers.

"An' a purty marryin' time tu!" declared Mr. Blee. "Look at me," he

continued, "parlous near seventy, and a bacherlor-man yet."

"Not but Widow Comstock will have 'e if you ax her a bit oftener. Us all

knows that," said the young lover, with great stratagem.

Billy chuckled, and rubbed his wrinkles.

"Time enough, time enough," he answered, "but you--scarce out o'

clouts--why, 't is playin' at a holy thing, that's what 't is--same as

Miss Phoebe, when she was a li'l wee cheel, played at bein' parson in

her night-gownd, and got welted for it, tu, by her gude faither."

"We 'm both in earnest anyway--me and Phoebe."

"So am I," replied the miller, sitting up and putting down his pipe; "so

am I in earnest, and wan word 's gude as a hunderd in a pass like this.

You must hear the truth, an' that never broke no bones. You 'm no more

fitted to have a wife than that tobacco-jar--a hot-headed, wild-fire of

a bwoy--"

"A right Jack-o'-Lantern, as everybody knaws," suggested Mr. Blee.

"Ess fay, 'tis truth. Shifting and oncertain as the marsh gallopers on

the moor bogs of a summer night. Awnly a youth's faults, you mind; but

still faults. No, no, my lad, you've got to fight your life's battle and

win it, 'fore you'm a mate for any gal; an' you've got to begin by

fightin' yourself, an' breaking an' taming yourself, an' getting

yourself well in hand. That's a matter of more than months for the best

of us."

"And then?" said Will, "after 'tis done? though I'm not allowin' I'm

anything but a ripe man as I stand here afore you now."

"Then I'd say, 'I'm glad to see you grawed into a credit to us all, Will

Blanchard, and worth your place in the order o' things; but you doan't

marry Phoebe Lyddon--never, never, never, not while I'm above ground.'"

His slow eyes looked calmly and kindly at Will, and he smiled into the

hot, young, furious face.

"That's your last word then?"

"It is, my lad."

"And you won't give a reason?"

"The reason is, 'what's bred in the bone comes out in the flesh.' I

knawed your faither. You'm as volatile as him wi'out his better paarts."

"Leave him wheer he lies--underground. If he'd lived 'stead of bein' cut

off from life, you'd 'a' bin proud to knaw him."

"A gypsy-man and no better, Will," said Mr. Blee. "Not but what he made

a gude end, I allow."

"Then I'll be up and away. I've spoke 'e fair, Miller--fair an'

straight--an' so you to me. You won't allow this match. Then we'll wed

wi'out your blessin', an' sorry I shall be."

"If that's your tune, my young rascal, I'll speak again! Phoebe's under

age, remember that, and so sure as you dare take her a yard from her awn

door you'll suffer for it. 'Tis a clink job, you mind--a prison

business; and what's more, you 'm pleased to speak so plain that I will

tu, and tell 'e this. If you dare to lift up your eyes to my child

again, or stop her in the way, or have speech with her, I'll set

p'liceman 'pon 'e! For a year and more she 'm not her awn mistress; and,

at the end of that time, if she doan't get better sense than to tinker

arter a harum-scarum young jackanapes like you, she ban't a true Lyddon.

Now be off with 'e an' doan't dare to look same way Phoebe 's walkin',

no more, else theer'll be trouble for 'e."

"Wonnerful language, an' in a nutshell," commented Billy, as, blowing

rather hard, the miller made an end of his warning.

"Us'll leave it theer, then, Mr. Lyddon; and you'll live to be sorry

ever you said them words to me. Ess fay, you'll live to sing different;

for when two 's set 'pon a matter o' marryin', ban't fathers nor

mothers, nor yet angels, be gwaine to part 'em. Phoebe an' me will be

man an' wife some day, sure 's the sun 's brighter 'n the mune. So now

you knaw. Gude night to 'e."

He took up his hat and departed; Billy held up his hands in mute

amazement; but the miller showed no emotion and relighted his pipe.

"The rising generation do take my breath away twenty times a day," said

Mr. Blee. "To think o' that bwoy, in li'l frocks awnly yesterday,

standin' theer frontin' two aged men wi' such bouldacious language!"

"What would you do, Billy, if the gal was yourn?"

"Same as you, to a hair. Bid her drop the chap for gude 'n all. But

theer 's devil's pepper in that Blanchard. He ain't done with yet."

"Well, well, he won't shorten my sleep, I promise you. Near two years is

a long time to the young. Lord knaws wheer a light thing like him will

be blawed to, come two years. Time 's on my side for certain. And Phoebe

's like to change also."

"Why, a woman's mind 's no more 'n a feather in a gale of wind at her

time o' life; though to tell her so 's the sure way to make her

steadfast."

A moment later Phoebe herself entered. She had heard Will depart and

now, in a fever of impatience, crept with bright, questioning eyes to

her father's chair. Whereupon Mr. Blee withdrew in a violent hurry. No

one audibly desired him to do so, but a side-look from the girl was

enough.

CHAPTER III

EXIT WILL

Phoebe's conversation with her father occupied a space of time extending

over just two minutes. He met her eager eyes with a smile, patted her

head, pinched her ear, and by his manner awakened a delicious flutter of

hope in the girl before he spoke. When, therefore, Phoebe learned that

Will was sent about his business for ever, and must henceforth be wholly

dismissed from her mind, the shock and disappointment of such

intelligence came as a cruel blow. She stood silent and thunderstruck

before Miller Lyddon, a world of reproaches in her frightened eyes; then

mutely the corners of her little mouth sank as she turned away and

departed with her first great sorrow.

Phoebe's earliest frantic thought had been to fly to Will, but she knew

such a thing was impossible. There would surely be a letter from him on

the following morning hidden within their secret pillar-box between two

bricks of the mill wall. For that she must wait, and even in her misery

she was glad that with Will, not herself, lay decision as to future

action. She had expected some delay; she had believed that her father

would impose stern restrictions of time and make a variety of conditions

with her sweetheart; she had even hoped that Miller Lyddon might command

lengthened patience for the sake of her headstrong, erratic Will's

temper and character; but that he was to be banished in this crushing

and summary fashion overwhelmed Phoebe, and that utterly. Her nature,

however, was not one nourished from any very deep wells of character.

She belonged to a class who suffer bitterly enough under sorrow, but the

storm of it while tearing like a tropical tornado over heart and soul,

leaves no traces that lapse of time cannot wholly and speedily

obliterate. On them it may be said that fortune's sharpest strokes

inflict no lasting scars; their dispositions are happily powerless to

harbour the sustained agony that burrows and gnaws, poisons man's

estimate of all human affairs, wrecks the stores of his experience, and

stamps the cicatrix of a live, burning grief on brow and brain for ever.

They find their own misery sufficiently exalted; but their temperament

is unable to sustain a lifelong tribulation or elevate sorrow into

tragedy. And their state is the more blessed. So Phoebe watered her

couch with tears, prayed to God to hear her solemn promises of eternal

fidelity, then slept and passed into a brief dreamland beyond sorrow's

reach.

Meantime young Blanchard took his stormy heart into a night of stars.

The moon had risen; the sky was clear; the silvery silence remained

unbroken save for the sound of the river, where it flowed under the

shadows of great trees and beneath aerial bridges and banners of the

meadow mists. Will strode through this scene, past his mother's cottage,

and up a hill behind it, into the village. His mind presented in turn a

dozen courses of action, and each was built upon the abiding foundation

of Phoebe's sure faithfulness. That she would cling to him for ever the

young man knew right well; no thought of a rival, therefore, entered

into his calculations. The sole problem was how quickest to make Mr.

Lyddon change his mind; how best to order his future that the miller

should regard him as a responsible person, and one of weight in affairs.

Not that Will held himself a slight man by any means; but he felt that

he must straightway assert his individuality and convince the world in

general and Miller Lyddon in particular of faulty judgment. He was very

angry still as he retraced the recent conversation. Then, among those

various fancies and projects in his mind, the wildest and most foolish

stood out before him as both expedient and to be desired. His purpose in

Chagford was to get advice from another man; but before he reached the

village his own mind was established.

Slated and thatched roofs glimmered under moonlight, and already the

hamlet slept. A few cats crept like shadows through the deserted

streets, from darkness into light, from light back to darkness; and one

cottage window, before which Will Blanchard stood, still showed a candle

behind a white blind. Most quaint and ancient was this habitation--of

picturesque build, with tiny granite porch, small entrance, and

venerable thatches that hung low above the upper windows. A few tall

balsams quite served to fill the garden; indeed so small was it that

from the roadway young Blanchard, by bending over the wooden fence,

could easily reach the cottage window. This he did, tapped lightly, and

then waited for the door to be opened.

A man presently appeared and showed some surprise at the sight of his

late visitor.

"Let me in, Clem," said Will. "I knawed you'd be up, sitting readin'

and dreamin'. 'T is no dreamin' time for me though, by God! I be corned

straight from seeing Miller 'bout Phoebe."

"Then I can very well guess what was last in your ears."

Clement Hicks spoke in an educated voice. He was smaller than Will but

evidently older. Somewhat narrow of build and thin, he looked delicate,

though in reality wiry and sound. He was dark of complexion, wore his

hair long for a cottager, and kept both moustache and beard, though the

latter was very scant and showed the outline of his small chin through

it. A forehead remarkably lofty but not broad, mounted almost

perpendicularly above the man's eyes; and these were large and dark and

full of fire, though marred by a discontented expression. His mouth was

full-lipped, his other features huddled rather meanly together under the

high brow: but his face, while admittedly plain even to ugliness, was

not commonplace; for its eyes were remarkable, and the cast of thought

ennobled it as a whole.

Will entered the cottage kitchen and began instantly to unfold his

experiences.

"You knaw me--a man with a level head, as leaps after looking, not

afore. I put nothing but plain reason to him and he flouted me like you

might a cheel. An' I be gwaine to make him eat his words--such hard

words as they was tu! Think of it! Me an' Phoebe never to meet no more!

The folly of sayin' such a thing! Wouldn't 'e reckon that grey hairs

knawed better than to fancy words can keep lovers apart?"

"Grey hairs cover old brains; and old brains forget what it feels like

to have a body full o' young blood. The best memory can't keep the

feeling of youth fresh in a man."

"Well, I ban't the hot-headed twoad Miller Lyddon thinks, or pretends he

thinks, anyway. I'll shaw un! I can wait, an' Phoebe can wait, an' now

she'll have to. I'm gwaine away."

"Going away. Why?"

"To shaw what 's in me. I ban't sorry for this for some things. Now no

man shall say that I'm a home-stayin' gaby, tramping up an' down Teign

Vale for a living. I'll step out into the wide world, same as them

Grimbals done. They 'm back again made of money, the pair of 'em."

"It took them fifteen years and more, and they were marvellously lucky."

"What then? I'm as like to fare well as they. I've worked out a

far-reaching plan, but the first step I've thought on 's terrible

coorious, an' I reckon nobody but you'd see how it led to better things.

But you 'm book-larned and wise in your way, though I wish your wisdom

had done more for yourself than it has. Anyway, you 'm tokened to Chris

and will be one of the family some day perhaps when Mother Coomstock

dies, so I'll leave my secret with you. But not a soul else--not mother

even. So you must swear you'll never tell to man or woman or cheel what

I've done and wheer I be gone."

"I'll swear if you like."

"By the livin' God."

"By any God you believe is alive."

"Say it, then."

"By the living God, I, Clement Hicks, bee-master of Chagford, Devon,

swear to keep the secret of my friend and neighbour, William Blanchard,

whatever it is."

"And may He tear the life out of you if you so much as think to tell."

Hicks laughed and shook his hair from his forehead.

"You're suspicious of the best friend you've got in the world."

"Not a spark. But I want you to see what an awful solemn thing I reckon

it."

"Then may God rot me, and plague me, and let me roast in hell-fire with

the rogues for ever and a day, if I so much as whisper your news to man

or mouse! There, will that do?"

"No call to drag in hell fire, 'cause I knaw you doan't set no count on

it. More doan't I. Hell's cold ashes now if all what you ve said is

true. But you've sworn all right and now I'll tell 'e."

He bent forward and whispered in the other's ear, whereon Hicks started

in evident amazement and showed himself much concerned.

"Good Heavens! Man alive, are you mad?"

"You doan't 'zactly look on ahead enough, Clem," said Will loftily.

"Ban't the thing itself's gwaine to make a fortune, but what comes of

it. 'Tis a tidy stepping-stone lead-in' to gert matters very often, as

your books tell, I dare say."

"It can't lead to anything whatever in your case but wasted years."

"I'm best judge of that. I've planned the road, and if I ban't home

again inside ten year as good a man as Grimbal or any other I'll say I

was wrong."

"You're a bigger fool than even I thought, Blanchard."

Will's eye flashed.

"You 'm a tidy judge of a fule, I grant," he said angrily, "or should

be. But you 'm awnly wan more against me. You'll see you 'm wrong like

the rest. Anyway, you've got to mind what you've sweared. An' when

mother an' Chris ax 'e wheer I be, I'll thank you to say I'm out in the

world doin' braave, an' no more."

"As you like. It 's idle, I know, trying to make you change your mind."

A thin voice from an upper chamber of the cottage here interrupted their

colloquy, and the mother of the bee-keeper reminded him that he was due

early on the following day at Okehampton with honey, and that he ought

long since to be asleep.

"If that's Will Blanchard," she concluded, "tell un to be off home to

bed. What 's the wisdom o' turning night hours into day like this here?"

"All right, mother," shouted Will. "Gude-night to 'e. I be off this

moment."

Then bidding his friend farewell, he departed.

"Doan't think twice o' what I said a minute since. I was hot 'cause you

couldn't see no wisdom in my plan. But that's the way of folks. They

belittle a chap's best thoughts and acts till the time comes for luck to

turn an' bring the fruit; then them as scoffed be the first to turn

round smilin' an' handshaking and sayin', 'What did us say? Didn't us

tell 'e so from the very beginning?'"

Away went the youthful water-keeper, inspired with the prospect of his

contemplated flight. He strode home at a rapid pace, to find all lights

out and the household in bed. Then he drank half a pint of cider, ate

some bread and cheese, and set about a letter to Phoebe.

A little desk on a side-table, the common property of himself, his

mother, and sister, was soon opened, and materials found. Then, in his

own uncial characters, that always tended hopefully upward, and thus

left a triangle of untouched paper at the bottom of every sheet, Will

wrote a letter of two folios, or eight complete pages. In this he

repeated the points of his conversation with Phoebe's father, told her

to be patient, and announced that, satisfied of her unfailing love and

steadfastness through all, he was about to pass into the wider world,

and carve his way to prosperity and fortune. He hid particulars from

her, but mentioned that Clement Hicks would forward any communications.

Finally he bid her keep a stout heart and live contented in the

certainty of ultimate happiness. He also advised Phoebe to forgive her

father. "I have already done it, honor bright," he wrote; "'t is a wise

man's part to bear no malice, especially against an old grey body whose

judgment 'pears to be gone bad for some reason." He also assured Phoebe

that he was hers until death should separate them; in a postscript he

desired her to break his departure softly to his mother if opportunity

to do so occurred; and, finally, he was not ashamed to fill the empty

triangles on each page with kisses, represented by triangles closely

packed. Bearing this important communication, Will walked out again into

the night, and soon his letter awaited Phoebe in the usual receptacle.

He felt therein himself, half suspecting a note might await him, but

there was nothing. He hesitated for a moment, then climbed the gate into

Monks Barton farmyard, went softly and stood in the dark shadow of the

mill-house. The moon shone full upon the face of the dwelling, and its

three fruit-trees looked as though painted in profound black against the

pale whitewash; while Phoebe's dormer-window framed the splendour of the

reflected sky, and shone very brightly. The blind was down, and the

maiden behind it had been asleep an hour or two; but Will pictured her

as sobbing her heart out still. Perhaps he would never see her again.

The path he had chosen to follow might take him over seas and through

vast perils; indeed, it must do so if the success he desired was to be

won. He felt something almost like a catch in his throat as he turned

away and crossed the sleeping river. He glanced down through dreaming

glades and saw one motionless silver spot on the dark waters beneath the

alders. Sentiment was at its flood just then, and he spoke a few words

under his breath. "'Tis thicky auld Muscovy duck, roostin' on his li'l

island; poor lone devil wi' never a mate to fight for nor friend to swim

along with. Worse case than mine, come to think on it!" Then an emotion,

rare enough with him, vanished, and he sniffed the night air and felt

his heart beat high at thoughts of what lay ahead.

Will returned home, made fast the outer door, took off his boots, and

went softly up a creaking stair. Loud and steady music came from the

room where John Grimbal lay, and Blanchard smiled when he heard it.

"'Tis the snore of a happy man with money in his purse," he thought.

Then he stood by his mother's door, which she always kept ajar at night,

and peeped in upon her. Damaris Blanchard slumbered with one arm on the

coverlet, the other behind her head. She was a handsome woman still, and

looked younger than her eight-and-forty years in the soft ambient light.

"Muneshine do make dear mother so purty as a queen," said Will to

himself. And he would never wish her "good-by," perhaps never see her

again. He hastened with light, impulsive step into the room, thinking

just to kiss the hand on the bed, but his mother stirred instantly and

cried, "Who's theer?" with sleepy voice. Then she sat up and listened--a

fair, grey-eyed woman in an old-fashioned night-cap. Her son had

vanished before her eyes were opened, and now she turned and yawned and

slept again.

Will entered his own chamber near at hand, doffed for ever the velveteen

uniform of water-keeper, and brought from a drawer an old suit of

corduroy. Next he counted his slight store of money, set his 'alarum'

for four o'clock, and, fifteen minutes later, was in bed and asleep, the

time then being a little after midnight.

CHAPTER IV

BY THE RIVER

Clement Hicks paid an early visit to Will's home upon the following

morning. He had already set out to Okehampton with ten pounds of honey

in the comb, and at Mrs. Blanchard's cottage he stopped the little

public vehicle which ran on market-days to the distant town. That the

son of the house was up and away at dawn told his family nothing, for

his movements were at all times erratic, and part of his duty consisted

in appearing on the river at uncertain times and in unexpected

localities. Clement Hicks often called for a moment upon his way to

market, and Chris, who now greeted her lover, felt puzzled at the

unusual gravity of his face. She turned pale when she heard his

tremendous news; but the mother was of more Spartan temperament and

received intelligence of Will's achievement without changing colour or

ceasing from her occupation.

Between Damaris Blanchard and her boy had always existed a perfect

harmony of understanding, rare even in their beautiful relationship. The

thoughts of son and mother chimed; not seldom they anticipated each

other's words. The woman saw much of her dead husband reflected in Will

and felt a moral conviction that through the storms of youth, high

temper, and inexperience, he would surely pass to good things, by reason

of the strenuous honesty and singleness of purpose that actuated him;

he, on his side, admired the great calmness and self-possession of his

mother. She was so steadfast, so strong, and wiser than any woman he had

ever seen. With a fierce, volcanic affection Will Blanchard loved her.

She and Phoebe alike shared his whole heart.

"It is a manly way of life he has chosen, and that is all I may say. He

is ambitious and strong, and I should be the last to think he has not

done well to go into the world for a while," said Clement.

"When is he coming back again?" asked Chris.

"He spoke of ten years or so."

"Then 'twill be more or less," declared Mrs. Blanchard, calmly. "Maybe a

month, maybe five years, or fifteen, not ten, if he said ten. He'll shaw

the gude gold he's made of, whether or no. I'm happy in this and not

surprised. 'Twas very like to come arter last night, if things went

crooked."

"'Tis much as faither might have done," said Chris.

"'Tis much what he did do. Thank you for calling, Clem Hicks. Now best

be away, else they'll drive off to Okehampton without 'e."

Clement departed, Chris wept as the full extent of her loss was

impressed upon her, and Mrs. Blanchard went up to her son's room. There

she discovered the velveteen suit with a card upon them: "Hand over to

Mr. Morgan, Head Water-keeper, Sandypark." She looked through his

things, and found that he had taken nothing but his money, one suit of

working clothes, and a red tie--her present to him on his birthday

during the previous month. All his other possessions remained in their

usual places. With none to see, the woman's eye moistened; then she sat

down on Will's bed and her heart grew weak for one brief moment as she

pictured him fighting the battle. It hurt her a little that he had told

Clement Hicks his intention and hid it from his mother. Yet as a son, at

least, he had never failed. However, all affairs of life were a matter

of waiting, more or less, she told herself; and patience was easier to

Damaris Blanchard than to most people. Under her highest uneasiness,

maternal pride throbbed at thought of the manly independence indicated

by her son's action. She returned to the duties of the day, but found

herself restless, while continually admonishing Chris not to be so. Her

thoughts drifted to Monks Barton and Will's meeting with his

sweetheart's father. Presently, when her daughter went up to the

village, Mrs. Blanchard put off her apron, donned the cotton sunbonnet

that she always wore from choice, and walked over to see Mr. Lyddon.

They were old friends, and presently Damaris listened sedately to the

miller without taking offence at his directness of speech. He told the

story of his decision and Will's final reply, while she nodded and even

smiled once or twice in the course of the narrative.

"You was both right, I reckon," she said placidly, looking into Mr.

Lyddon's face. "You was wise to mistrust, not knawin' what's at the root

of him; and he, being as he is, was in the right to tell 'e the race

goes to the young. Wheer two hearts is bent on joining, 'tis join they

will--if both keeps of a mind long enough."

"That's it, Damaris Blanchard; who's gwaine to b'lieve that a bwoy an'

gal, like Will an' Phoebe, do knaw theer minds? Mark me, they'll both

chaange sweethearts a score of times yet 'fore they come to mate."

"Caan't speak for your darter, Lyddon; but I knaw my son. A masterful

bwoy, like his faither before him, wild sometimes an' wayward tu, but

not with women-folk. His faither loved in wan plaace awnly. He'll be

true to your cheel whatever betides, or I'm a fule."

"What's the use of that if he ban't true to himself? No, no, I caan't

see a happy ending to the tale however you look at it. Wish I could. I

fear't was a ugly star twinkled awver his birthplace, ma'am."

"'Twas all the stars of heaven, Miller," said the mother, frankly, "for

he was born in my husband's caravan in the auld days. We was camped up

on the Moor, drawn into one of them roundy-poundies o' grey granite

stones set up by Phoenicians at the beginning of the world. Ess fay, a

braave shiny night, wi' the li'l windows thrawed open to give me air.

An' 'pon Will's come-of-age birthday, last month, if us didn't all drive

up theer an' light a fire an' drink a dish of tea in the identical spot!

'Tis out Newtake' way."

"Like a story-book."

"'Twas Clem Hicks, his thought, being a fanciful man. But I'll bid you

gude-marnin' now. Awnly mind this, as between friends and without a

spark of malice: Will Blanchard means to marry your maid, sure as you'm

born, if awnly she keeps strong for him. It rests with her, Miller, not

you."

"Much what your son said in sharper words. Well, you'm out o' reckoning

for once, wise though you be most times; for if a maiden's happiness

doan't rest with her faither, blamed if I see wheer it should. And to

think such a man as me doan't knaw wiser 'n two childern who caan't

number forty year between 'em is flat fulishness, surely?"

"I knaw Will," said Mrs. Blanchard, slowly and emphatically; "I knaw un

to the core, and that's to say more than you or anybody else can. A

mother may read her son like print, but no faither can see to the bottom

of a wife-old daughter--not if he was Solomon's self. So us'll wait an'

watch wi'out being worse friends."

She went home again the happier for her conversation; but any thought

that Mr. Lyddon might have been disposed to devote to her prophecy was

for the time banished by the advent of John Grimbal and his brother.

Like boys home from school, they dwelt in the present delight of their

return, and postponed the varied duties awaiting them, to revel again in

the old sights, sounds, and scents. To-day they were about an angling

excursion, and the fishers' road to Fingle lying through Monks Barton,

both brothers stopped a while and waited upon their old friend of the

mill, according to John's promise of the previous afternoon. Martin

carried the creel and the ample luncheon it contained; John smoked a

strong cigar and was only encumbered with his light fly-rod; the younger

designed to accompany his brother through Fingle Valley; then leave him

there, about his sport, and proceed alone to various places of natural

and antiquarian interest. But John meant fishing and nothing else. To

him great woods were no more than cover for fur and feathers; rivers and

streams meant a vehicle for the display of a fly to trout, and only

attracted him or the reverse, according to the fish they harboured. When

the moorland waters spouted and churned, cherry red from their springs

in the peat, he deemed them a noble spectacle; when, as at present,

Teign herself had shrunk to a mere silver thread, and the fingerling

trout splashed and wriggled half out of water in the shallows, he freely

criticised its scanty volume and meagre depths.

Miller Lyddon welcomed the men very heartily. He had been amongst those

who dismissed them with hope to their battle against the world, and now

he reminded them of his sanguine predictions. Will Blanchard's

disappearance amused John Grimbal and he laughed when Billy Blee

appeared red-hot with the news. Mr. Lyddon made no secret of his

personal opinion of Blanchard, and all debated the probable design of

the wanderer.

"Maybe he's 'listed," said John, "an' a good thing too if he has. It

makes a man of a young fellow. I'm for conscription myself--always have

been."

"I be minded to think he've joined the riders," declared Billy. "Theer

comed a circus here last month, with braave doin's in the way of

horsemanship and Merry Andrews, and such like devilries. Us all goes to

see it from miles round every year; an' Will was theer. Circus folk do

see the world in a way denied to most, and theer manner of life takes

'em even as far as Russia and the Indies I've heard."

"Then there's the gypsy blood in him--" declared Mr. Lyddon, "that might

send him roaming oversea, if nothing else did."

"Or my great doings are like to have fired him," said John. "How's

Phoebe?" he continued, dismissing Will. "I saw her yesterday--a bowerly

maiden she's grown--a prize for a better man that this wild youngster,

now bolted God knaws where."

"So I think," agreed the miller, "an' I hope she'll soon forget the

searching grey eyes of un and his high-handed way o' speech. Gals like

such things. Dear, dear! though he made me so darned angry last night, I

could have laughed in his faace more 'n wance."

"Missy's under the weather this marnin'," declared Billy. "Who tawld her

I ban't able to say, but she knawed he'd gone just arter feedin' the

fowls, and she went down valley alone, so slow, wi' her purty head that

bent it looked as if her sunbonnet might be hiding an auld gran'mother's

poll."

"She'll come round," said Martin; "she's only a young girl yet."

"And there 's fish as good in the sea as ever came out, and better,"

declared his brother. "She must wait for a man who is a man,--somebody

of good sense and good standing, with property to his name."

Miller Lyddon noted with surprise and satisfaction John Grimbal's warmth

of manner upon this question; he observed also the stout, hearty body of

him, and the handsome face that crowned it. Then the brothers proceeded

down-stream, and the master of Monks Barton looked after them and caught

himself hoping that they might meet Phoebe.

At a point where the river runs between a giant shoulder of heather-clad

hill on one side and the ragged expanses of Whiddon Park upon the other,

John clambered down to the streamside and began to fish, while Martin

dawdled at hand and watched the sport. A pearly clearness, caught from

the clouds, characterised earth as well as air, and proved that every

world-picture depends for atmosphere and colour upon the sky-picture

extended above it. Again there was movement and some music, for the

magic of the wind in a landscape's nearer planes is responsible for

both. The wooded valley lay under a grey and breezy forenoon; swaying

alders marked each intermittent gust with a silver ripple of upturned

foliage, and still reaches of the river similarly answered the wind with

hurrying flickers and furrows of dimpled light. Through its transparent

flood, where the waters ran in shadow and escaped reflections, the river

revealed a bed of ruddy brown and rich amber. This harmonious colouring

proceeded from the pebbly bottom, where a medley of warm agate tones

spread and shimmered, like some far-reaching mosaic beneath the crystal.

Above Teign's shrunken current extended oak and ash, while her banks

bore splendid concourse of the wild water-loving dwellers in that happy

valley. Meadowsweet nodded creamy crests; hemlock and fool's parsley and

seeding willow-herb crowded together beneath far-scattered filigree of

honeysuckles and brambles with berries, some ripe, some red; while the

scarlet corals of briar and white bryony gemmed every riotous trailing

thicket, dene, and dingle along the river's brink; and in the grassy

spaces between rose little chrysoprase steeples of wood sage all set in

shining fern. Upon the boulders in midstream subaqueous mosses, now

revealed and starved by the drought, died hard, and the seeds of

grasses, figworts, and persicarias thrust up flower and foliage,

flourishing in unwonted spots from which the next freshet would rudely

tear them. Insect life did not abundantly manifest itself, for the day

was sunless; but now and again, with crisp rattle of his gauze wings, a

dragon-fly flashed along the river. Through these scenes the Teign

rolled drowsily and with feeble pulses. Upon one bank rose the confines

of Whiddon; on the other, abrupt and interspersed with gulleys of

shattered shale, ascended huge slopes whereon a whole summer of sunshine

had scorched the heather to dry death. But fading purple still gleamed

here and there in points and splashes, and the lesser furze, mingling

therewith, scattered gold upon the tremendous acclivities even to the

crown of fir-trees that towered remote and very blue upon the uplifted

sky-line. Swallows, with white breasts flashing, circled over the river,

and while their elevation above the water appeared at times tremendous,

the abrupt steepness of the gorge was such that the birds almost brushed

the hillside with their wings. A sledge, laden with the timber of barked

sapling oaks, creaked and jingled over the rough road beside the stream;

a man called to his horses and a dog barked beside him; then they

disappeared and the spacious scene was again empty, save for its

manifold wild life and music.

John Grimbal fished, failed, and cursed the poor water and the lush

wealth of the riverside that caught his fly at every critical moment. A

few small trout he captured and returned; then, flinging down rod and

net, he called to his brother for the luncheon-basket. Together they sat

in the fern beside the river and ate heartily of the fare that Mrs.

Blanchard had provided; then, as John was about to light a pipe, his

brother, with a smile, produced a little wicker globe and handed it to

him. This unexpected sight awoke sudden and keen appetite on the elder's

face. He smacked his lips, swore a hearty oath of rejoicing, and held

out an eager hand for the thing.

"My God! to think I'll suck the smoke of that again,--the best baccy in

the wide world!"

The little receptacle contained a rough sort of sun-dried Kaffir

tobacco, such as John and Martin had both smoked for the past fifteen

years.

"I thought it would be a treat. I brought home a few pounds," said the

younger, smiling again at his brother's hungry delight. John cut into

the case, loaded his pipe, and lighted it with a contented sign. Then he

handed the rest back to its owner.

"No, no," said Martin. "I'll just have one fill, that's all. I brought

this for you. 'T will atone for the poor sport. The creel I shall leave

with you now, for I'm away to Fingle Bridge and Prestonbury. We'll meet

at nightfall."

Thereupon he set off down the valley, his mind full of early British

encampments, while John sat and smoked and pondered upon his future. He

built no castles in the air, but a solid country house of red brick,

destined to stand in its own grounds near Chagford, and to have a snug

game-cover or two about it, with a few good acres of arable land

bordering on forest. Roots meant cover for partridges in John Grimbal's

mind; beech and oak in autumn represented desirable food for pheasants;

and corn, once garnered and out of the way, left stubble for all manner

of game.

Meantime, whilst he reviewed his future with his eyes on a blue cloud of

tobacco smoke, Martin passed Phoebe Lyddon farther down the valley. Him

she recognised as a stranger; but he, with his eyes engaged in no more

than unconscious guarding of his footsteps, his mind buried in the

fascinating problems of early British castramentation, did not look at

her or mark a sorrowful young face still stained with tears.

Into the gorge Phoebe had wandered after reading her sweetheart's

letter. There, to the secret ear of the great Mother, instinct had drawn

her and her grief; and now the earliest shock was over; a dull, numb

pain of mind followed the first sorrow; unwonted exercise had made her

weary; and physical hunger, not to be stayed by mental suffering, forced

her to turn homewards. Red-eyed and unhappy she passed beside the river,

a very picture of a woful lover.

The sound of Phoebe's steps fell on John Grimbal's ear as he lay upon

his back with crossed knees and his hands behind his head. He partly

rose therefore, thrust his face above the fern, saw the wayfarer, and

then sprang to his feet. The cause of her tearful expression and

listless demeanour was known to him, but he ignored them and greeted her

cheerily.

"Can't catch anything big enough to keep, and sha'n't until the rain

comes," he said; "so I'll walk along with you, if you're going home."

He offered his hand; then, after Phoebe had shaken it, moved beside her

and put up his rod as he went.

"Saw your father this morning, and mighty glad I was to find him so

blooming. To my eye he looks younger than my memory picture of him. But

that's because I've grown from boy to man, as you have from child to

woman."

"So I have, and 't is a pity my faither doan't knaw it," answered

Phoebe, smarting under her wrongs, and willing to chronicle them in a

friendly ear. "If I ban't full woman, who is? Yet I'm treated like a

baaby, as if I'd got no 'pinions an' feelings, and wasn't--wasn't auld

enough to knaw what love meant."

Grimbal's eyes glowed at the picture of the girl's indignation, and he

longed to put his arms round her and comfort her.

"You must be wise and dutiful, Phoebe," he said. "Will Blauchard's a

plucky fellow to go off and face the world. And perhaps he'll be one of

the lucky ones, like I was."

"He will be, for certain, and so you'd say if you knawed him same as I

do. But the cruel waitin'--years and years and years--'t is enough to

break a body's heart."

Her voice fluttered like bells in a wild wind; she trembled on the brink

of tears; and he saw by little convulsive movements and the lump in her

round throat that she could not yet regard her lot with patience. She

brought out her pocket-handkerchief again, and the man noticed it was

all wet and rolled into a ball.

"Life's a blank thing at lovers' parting," he said; "but time rubs the

rough edges off matters that fret our minds the worst. Days and nights,

and plenty of 'em, are the best cure for all ills."

"An' the best cure for life tu! The awnly cure. Think of years an' years

without him. Yesterday us met up in Pixies' Parlour yonder, an' I was

peart an' proud as need be; to-day he's gone, and I feel auld and wisht

and all full of weary wonder how I'm gwaine to fare and if I'llever see

him again. 'T is cruel--bitter cruel for me."

That she could thus pity herself so soon argued a mind incapable of

harbouring great sorrow for many years; and the man at her side, without

appreciating this fact, yet, by a sort of intuition, suspected that

Phoebe's grief, perhaps even her steadfastness of purpose, would suffer

diminution before very great lapse of time. Without knowing why, he

hoped it might be so. Her voice fell melodiously upon an ear long tuned

to the whine of native women. It came from the lungs, was full and

sweet, with a shy suddenness about it, like the cooing of wood doves.

She half slipped at a stile, and he put out his hand and touched her

waist and felt his heart throb. But Phoebe's eyes rarely met her new

friend's. The girl looked with troubled brows ahead into the future,

while she walked beside him; and he, upon her left hand, saw only the

soft cheek, the pouting lips, and the dimples that came and went.

Sometimes she looked up, however, and Grimbal noted how the flutter of

past tears shook her round young breast, marked the spring of her step,

the freedom of her gait, and the trim turn of her feet and ankles. After

the flat-footed Kaffir girls, Phoebe's instep had a right noble arch in

his estimation.

"To think that I, as never wronged faither in thought or deed, should be

treated so hard! I've been all the world to him since mother died, for

he's said as much to many; yet he's risen up an' done this, contrary to

justice and right and Scripture, tu."

"You must be patient, Phoebe, and respect his age, and let the matter

rest till the time grows ripe. I can't advise you better than that."

"'Patient!' My life's empty, I tell 'e--empty, hollow, tasteless wi'out

my Will."

"Well, well, we'll see. I'm going to build a big red-brick house

presently, and buy land, and make a bit of a stir in my small way.

You've a pretty fancy in such things, I'll bet a dollar. You shall give

me a helping hand--eh? You must tell me best way of setting up house.

And you might help me as to furniture and suchlike if you had time for

it. Will you, for an old friend?"

Phoebe was slightly interested. She promised to do anything in her power

that might cause Mr. Grimbal satisfaction; and he, very wisely, assured

her that there was no salve for sorrow like unselfish labours on behalf

of other people. He left her at the farm-gate, and tramped back to the

Blanchard cottage with his mind busy enough. Presently he changed his

clothes, and set a diamond in his necktie. Then he strolled away into

the village, to see the well-remembered names above the little shop

windows; to note curiously how Chagford market-place had shrunk and the

houses dwindled since last he saw them; to call with hearty voice and

rough greeting at this habitation and that; to introduce himself again

among men and women who had known him of yore, and who, for the most

part, quite failed to recognise in their bluff and burly visitor the lad

who set forth from his father's cottage by the church so many years

before.

CHAPTER V

THE INCIDENT OF MR. JOEL FORD

Of Blanchard family history a little more must be said. Timothy

Blanchard, the husband of Damaris and father of Will and Chris, was in

truth of the nomads, though not a right gypsy. As a lad, and at a time

when the Romany folk enjoyed somewhat more importance and prosperity

than of late years, he joined them, and by sheer force of character and

mother wit succeeded in rising to power amongst the wanderers. The

community with which he was connected for the most part confined its

peregrinations to the West; and time saw Timothy Blanchard achieve

success in his native country, acquire two caravans, develop trade on a

regular "circuit," and steadily save money in a small way; while his

camp of some five-and-twenty souls--men, women, and numerous

children--shared in their leader's prosperity. These earlier stages of

the man's career embraced some strange circumstances, chief amongst them

being his marriage. Damaris Ford was the daughter of a Moor farmer. Her

girlhood had been spent in the dreary little homestead of "Newtake,"

above Chagford, within the fringe of the great primeval wastes; and

here, on his repeated journeys across the Moor, Tim Blanchard came to

know her and love her well.

Farmer Ford swore round oaths, and sent Blanchard and his caravans

packing when the man approached him for his daughter's hand; but the

girl herself was already won, and week after her lover's repulse Damaris

vanished. She journeyed with her future husband to Exeter, wedded him,

and became mistress of his house on wheels; then, for the space of four

years, she lived the gypsy life, brought a son and daughter into the

world, and tried without avail to obtain her father's forgiveness. That,

however, she never had, though her mother communicated with her in fear

and trembling; and when, by strange chance, on Will's advent, Damaris

Blanchard was brought to bed near her old home, and became a mother in

one of the venerable hut circles which plentifully scatter that lonely

region, Mrs. Ford, apprised of the fact in secret, actually stole to her

daughter's side by night and wept over her grandchild. Now the farmer

and his wife were dead; Newtake at present stood without a tenant; and

Mrs. Blanchard possessed no near relations save her children and one

elder brother, Joel, to whom had passed their parent's small savings.

Timothy Blanchard continued a wandering existence for the space of five

years after his marriage; then he sold his caravans, settled in

Chagford, bought the cottage by the river, rented some market-garden

land, and pursued his busy and industrious way. Thus he prospered

through ten more years, saving money, developing a variety of schemes,

letting out on hire a steam thresher, and in various other ways adding

to his store. The man was on the high road to genuine prosperity when

death overtook him and put a period to his ambitions. He was snatched

from mundane affairs leaving numerous schemes half developed and most of

his money embarked in various enterprises. Unhappily Will was too young

to continue his father's work, and though Mrs. Blanchard's brother, Joel

Ford, administered the little estate to the best of his power, much had

to be sacrificed. In the sequel Damaris found herself with a cottage, a

garden, and an annual income of about fifty pounds a year. Her son was

then twelve years of age, her daughter eighteen months younger. So she

lived quietly and not without happiness, after the first sorrow of her

husband's loss was in a measure softened by time.

Of Mr. Joel Ford it now becomes necessary to speak. Combining the duties

of attorney, house-agent, registrar of deaths, births, and marriages,

and receiver of taxes and debts, the man lived a dingy life at Newton

Abbot. Acid, cynical, and bald he was, very dry of mind and body, and

but ten years older than Mrs. Blanchard, though he looked nearer seventy

than sixty. To the Newton mind Mr. Ford was associated only with Quarter

Day--that black, recurrent cloud on the horizon of every poor man's

life. He dwelt with an elderly housekeeper--a widow of genial

disposition; and indeed the attorney himself was not lacking in some

urbanity of character, though few guessed it, for he kept all that was

best in himself hidden under an unlovely crust. His better instincts

took the shape of family affection. Damaris Blanchard and he were the

last branches of one of the innumerable families of Ford to be found in

Devon, and he had no small regard for his only living sister. His annual

holiday from business--a period of a fortnight, sometimes extended to

three weeks if the weather was more than commonly fair--he spent

habitually at Chagford; and Will on these occasions devoted his leisure

to his uncle, drove him on the Moor, and made him welcome. Will, indeed,

was a favourite with Mr. Ford, and the lad's high spirits, real

ignorance of the world, and eternal grave assumption of wisdom even

tickled the man of business into a sort of dry cricket laughter upon

occasions. When, therefore, a fortnight after young Blanchard's

mysterious disappearance, Joel Ford arrived at his sister's cottage for

the annual visit, he was as much concerned as his nature had power to

make him at the news.

For three weeks he stayed, missing the company of his nephew not a

little; and his residence in Chagford had needed no special comment save

for an important incident resulting therefrom.

Phoebe Lyddon it was who in all innocence and ignorance set rolling a

pebble that finally fell in thundering avalanches; and her chance word

was uttered at her father's table on an occasion when John and Martin

Grimbal were supping at Monks Barton.

The returned natives, and more especially the elder, had been much at

the mill since their reappearance. John, indeed, upon one pretext or

another, scarcely spent a day without calling. His rough kindness

appealed to Phoebe, who at first suspected no danger from it, while Mr.

Lyddon encouraged the man and made him and his brother welcome at all

times.

John Grimbal, upon the morning that preceded the present supper party,

had at last found a property to his taste. It might, indeed, have been

designed for him. Near Whiddon it lay, in the valley of the Moreton

Road, and consisted of a farm and the ruin of a Tudor mansion. The

latter had been tenanted until the dawn of this century, but was since

then fallen into decay. The farm lands stretched beneath the crown of

Cranbrook, hard by the historic "Bloody Meadow," a spot assigned to that

skirmish between Royalist and Parliamentary forces during 1642 which

cost brilliant young Sidney Godolphin his life. Here, or near at hand,

the young man probably fell, with a musket-bullet in his leg, and

subsequently expired at Chagford[1] leaving the "misfortune of his death

upon a place which could never otherwise have had a mention to the

world," according to caustic Chancellor Clarendon.

[1] _At Chagford._ The place of the poet's passing is believed

to have been an ancient dwelling-house adjacent to St. Michael's Church.

At that date it was a private residence of the Whiddon family; but

during later times it became known as the "Black Swan Inn," or tavern (a

black swan being the crest of Sir John Whiddon, Judge of Queen's Bench

in the first Mary's reign); while to-day this restored Mansion appears

as the hostelry of the "Three Crowns."

Upon the aforesaid ruins, fashioned after the form of a great E, out of

compliment to the sovereign who occupied the throne at the period of the

decayed fabric's erection, John Grimbal proposed to build his habitation

of red brick and tile. The pertaining farm already had a tenant, and

represented four hundred acres of arable land, with possibilities of

development; snug woods wound along the boundaries of the estate and

mingled their branches with others not more stately though sprung from

the nobler domain of Whiddon; and Chagford was distant but a mile, or

five minutes' ride.

Tongues wagged that evening concerning the Red House, as the ruin was

called, and a question arose as to whom John Grimbal must apply for

information respecting the property.

"I noted on the board two names--one in London, one handy at Newton

Abbot--a Mr. Joel Ford, of Wolborough Street."

Phoebe blushed where she sat and very nearly said, "My Will's uncle!"

but thought better of it and kept silent. Meanwhile her father answered.

"Ford's an attorney, Mrs. Blanchard's brother, a maker of agreements

between man and man, and a dusty, dry sort of chip, from all I've heard

tell. His father and mine were friends forty years and more agone. Old

Ford had Newtake Farm on the Moor, and wore his fingers to the bone that

his son might have good schooling and a learned profession."

"He's in Chagford this very minute," said Phoebe.

Then Mr. Blee spoke. On the occasion of any entertainment at Monks

Barton he waited at table instead of eating with the family as usual.

Now he addressed the company from his station behind Mr. Lyddon's chair.

"Joel Ford's biding with his sister. A wonderful deep man, to my certain

knowledge, an' wears a merchant-like coat an' shiny hat working days an'

Sabbaths alike. A snug man, I'll wager, if 't is awnly by the token of

broadcloth on week-days."

"He looks for all the world like a yellow, shrivelled parchment himself.

Regular gimlet eyes, too, and a very fitch for sharpness, though younger

than his appearance might make you fancy," said the miller.

"Then I'll pay him a visit and see how things stand," declared John.

"Not that I'd employ any but my own London lawyer, of course," he added,

"but this old chap can give me the information I require; no doubt."

"Ess fay! an' draw you a dockyment in all the cautiousness of the law's

language," promised Billy Blee. "'T is a fact makes me mazed every time

I think of it," he continued, "that mere fleeting ink on the skin tored

off a calf can be so set out to last to the trump of doom. Theer be

parchments that laugh at the Queen's awn Privy Council and make the

Court of Parliament look a mere fule afore 'em. But it doan't do to be

'feared o' far-reachin' oaths when you 'm signing such a matter, for 't

is in the essence of 'em that the parties should swear deep."

"I'll mind what you say, Billy," promised Grimbal; "I'll pump old Ford

as dry as I can, then be off to London and get such a good, binding deed

of purchase as you suggest."

And it was this determination that presently led to a violent breach

between the young man and his elder.

John waited upon Mr. Ford, at Mrs. Blanchard's cottage, where he had

first lodged with his brother on their return from abroad, and found the

lawyer exceedingly pleasant when he learned the object of Grimbal's

visit. Together they drove over to the Red House, and its intending

tenant soon heard all there was to tell respecting price and the

provisions under which the estate was to be disposed of. For this

information he expressed proper gratitude, but gave no hint of his

future actions.

Mr. Ford heard nothing more for a fortnight. Then he ascertained that

John Grimbal was in the metropolis, that the sale of the Red House and

its lands had been conducted by the London agent, and that no penny of

the handsome commission involved would accrue to him. This position of

affairs greatly (and to some extent reasonably) angered the local man,

and he did not forgive what he considered a very flagrant slight.

Extreme acerbity was bred in him, and his mind, vindictive by nature,

cherished from that hour a hearty detestation of John Grimbal. The old

man, his annual holiday ruined by the circumstance, went home to Newton,

vowing vague vengeance and little dreaming how soon opportunity would

offer to deal his enemy a return blow; while the purchaser of the Red

House laughed at Ford's angry letters, told him to his face that he was

a greedy old rascal, and went on his way well pleased with himself and

fully occupied with his affairs.

Necessary preliminaries were hastened; an architect visited the

crumbling fabric of the old Red House and set about his plans. Soon,

upon the ancient foundations, a new dwelling began to rise. The ancient

name was retained at Martin's entreaty and the surrounding property

developed. A stir and hum crept through the domain. Here was planting of

young birch and larch; here clearing of land; here mounds of manure

steamed on neglected fallows. John Grimbal took up temporary quarters in

the home farm that he might be upon the spot at all hours; and what with

these great personal interests, good news of his property in Africa, and

the growing distraction of one soft-voiced, grey-eyed girl, the man

found his life a full and splendid thing.

That he should admit Phoebe into his thoughts and ambitions was not

unreasonable for two reasons: he knew himself to be heartily in love

with her by this time, and he had heard from her father a definite

statement upon the subject of Will Blanchard. Indeed, the miller, from

motives of worldly wisdom, took an opportunity to let John Grimbal know

the situation.

"No shadow of any engagement at all," he said. "I made it plain as a

pikestaff to them both. It mustn't be thought I countenanced their

crack-brained troth-plighting. 'T was by reason of my final 'Nay' that

Will went off. He 's gone out of her life, and she 'm free as the air. I

tell you this because you may have heard different, and you mix with the

countryside and can contradict any man who gives out otherwise. And,

mind you, I say it from no ill-will to the bwoy, but out of justice to

my cheel."

Thus, to gain private ends, Mr. Lyddon spoke, and his information

greatly heartened the listener. John had more than once sounded Phoebe

on the subject of Will during the past few months, and was bound to

confess that any chance he might possess appeared small; but he was

deeply in love and a man accustomed to have his own way. Increasing

portions of his time and thought were devoted to this ambition, and when

Phoebe's father spoke as recorded, Grimbal jumped at the announcement

and pushed for his own hand.

"If a man that was a man, with a bit of land and a bit of stuff behind

him, came along and asked to court her, 't would be different, I

suppose?" he inquired.

"I'd wish just such a man might come, for her sake."

"Supposing I asked if I might try to win Phoebe?"

"I'd desire your gude speed, my son. Nothing could please, me better."

"Then I've got you on my side?"

"You really mean it? Well, well! Gert news to be sure, an' I be pleased

as Punch to hear 'e. But take my word, for I'm richer than you by many

years in knawledge of the world, though I haven't seen so much of it.

Go slow. Wait a while till that brown bwoy graws a bit dim in Phoebe's

eyes. Your life 's afore you, and the gal 's scarce marriageable, to my

thinking. Build your house and bide your time."

"So be it; and if I don't win her presently, I sha'n't deserve to."

"Ess, but taake time, lad. She 'm a dutiful, gude maiden, and I'd be

sore to think my awn words won't carry their weight when the right

moment comes for speaking 'em. Blanchard's business pulled down the

corners of her purty mouth a bit; but young hearts caan't keep mournful

for ever."

Billy Blee then took his turn on the argument. Thus far he had listened,

and now, according to his custom, argued on the popular side and bent

his sail to the prevalent wind of opinion.

"You say right, Miller. 'T is out of nature that a maid should fret her

innards to fiddlestrings 'bout a green bwoy when theer's ripe men

waitin' for her."

"Never heard better sense," declared John Grimbal, in high good-humour;

and from the red-letter hour of that conversation he let his love grow

into a giant. A man of old-fashioned convictions, he honestly believed

the parent wise who exercised all possible control over a child; and in

this case personal interest prompted him the more strongly to that

opinion. Common sense the world over was on his side, and no man with

the facts before him had been likely to criticise Miller Lyddon on the

course of action he thought proper to pursue for his daughter's ultimate

happiness. That he reckoned without his host naturally escaped the

father's thought at this juncture. Will Blanchard had dwindled in his

mind to the mere memory of a headstrong youngster, now far removed from

the scene of his stupidity and without further power to trouble. That he

could advise John to wait a while until Will's shadow grew less in

Phoebe's thought, argued kindness and delicacy of mind in Mr. Lyddon.

Will he only saw and gauged as the rest of the world. He did not fathom

all of him, as Mrs. Blanchard had said; while concerning Phoebe's inner

heart and the possibilities of her character, at a pinch, he could speak

with still less certainty. She was a virgin page, unturned, unscanned.

No man knew her strength or weakness; she did not know it herself.

Time progressed; the leaf fell and the long drought was followed by a

mild autumn of heavy rains. John Grimbal's days were spent between the

Red House and Monks Barton. His rod was put up; but he had already made

friends and now shot many partridges. He spent long evenings in the

society of Phoebe and her father at the farm; and the miller not seldom

contrived to be called away on these occasions. Billy proved ever ready

to assist, and thus the two old men did the best in their power to aid

Grimbal's suit. In the great, comfortable kitchen, generally at some

distance from each other, Phoebe and the squire of the new Red House

would sit. She, now suspecting, was shy and uneasy; he, his wits

quickened by love, displayed a tact and deftness of words not to have

been anticipated from him. At first Phoebe took fire when Grimbal

criticised Will in anything but a spirit of utmost friendliness; but it

was vital to his own hopes that he should cloud the picture painted on

her heart if he could; so, by degrees and with all the cleverness at his

command, he dropped gall into poor Phoebe's cup in minute doses. He

mourned the extreme improbability of Blanchard's success, grounding his

doubt on Will's uneven character; he pictured Blanchard's fight with the

world and showed how probable it was that he would make it a losing

battle by his own peculiarities of temper. He declared the remoteness of

happiness for Miss Lyddon in that direction to be extreme; he deplored

the unstable nature of a young man's affection all the world over; and

he made solid capital out of the fact that not once since his departure

had her lover communicated with Phoebe. She argued against this that her

father had forbidden it; but Mr. Grimbal overrode the objection, and

asked what man in love would allow himself to be bound by such a

command. As a matter of fact, Will had sent two messages at different

times to his sweetheart. These came through Clement Hicks, and only

conveyed the intelligence that the wanderer was well.

So Phoebe suffered persistent courting and her soft mould of mind sank a

little under the storm. Now, weary and weak, she hesitated; now a wave

of strength fortified her spirit. That John Grimbal should be dogged and

importunate she took as mere masculine characteristics, and the fact did

not anger her against him; but what roused her secret indignation almost

as often as they met was his half-hidden air of sanguine confidence. He

was humble in a way, always the patient lover, but in his manner she

detected an indefinable, irritating self-confidence--the demeanour of

one who already knows himself a conqueror before the battle is fought.

Thus the position gradually developed. As yet her father had not spoken

to Phoebe or pretended to any knowledge of what was doing; but there

came a night, at the end of November, when John Grimbal, the miller, and

Billy sat and smoked at Monks Barton after Phoebe's departure to bed.

Mr. Blee, very well knowing what matter moved the minds of his

companions, spoke first.

"Missy have put on a temperate way of late days it do seem. I most begin

to think that cat-a-mountain of a bwoy 's less in her thoughts than he

was. She 'm larnin' wisdom, as well she may wi' sich a faither."

"I doan't knaw what to think," answered Mr. Lyddon, somewhat gloomily.

"I ban't so much in her confidence as of auld days. Damaris Blanchard's

right, like enough. A maid 's tu deep even for the faither that got her,

most times. A sweet, dear gal as ever was, for all that. How fares it,

John? She never names 'e to me, though I do to her."

"I'm biding my time, neighbour. I reckon 't will be right one day. It

only makes me feel a bit mean now and again to have to say hard things

about young Blanchard. Still, while she 's wrapped up there, I may

whistle for her."

"You 'm in the right," declared Billy. "'T is an auld sayin' that all

manner of dealings be fair in love, an' true no doubt, though I'm a

bachelor myself an' no prophet in such matters."

"All's fair for certain," admitted John, as though he had not before

considered the position from this standpoint.

"Ay, an' a darter's welfare lies in her faither's hand. Thank God, I'm

not a parent to my knowledge; but 'tis a difficult calling in life, an'

a young maiden gal, purty as a picksher, be a heavy load to a honest

mind."

"So I find it," said the miller.

"You've forbid Will--lock, stock, and barrel--therefore, of coourse,

she 's no right to think more of him, to begin with," continued the old

man. It was a new idea.

"Come to think of it, she hasn't--eh?" asked John.

"No, that's true enough," admitted Mr. Lyddon.

"I speak, though of low position, but well thought of an' at Miller's

right hand, so to say," continued Mr. Blee; "so theer 't is: Missy's in

a dangerous pass. Eve's flesh be Eve's flesh, whether hid under flannel

or silk, or shawed mother-naked to the sun after the manner of furrin

cannibals. A gal 's a gal; an' if I was faither of such as your darter,

I'd count it my solemn duty to see her out of the dangers of life an'

tidily mated to a gude man. I'd say to myself, 'Her'll graw to bless me

for what I've done, come a few years.'"

So Billy Blee, according to his golden rule, advised men upon the road

they already desired to follow, and thus increased his reputation for

sound sense and far-reaching wisdom.

"It's true, every word he says," declared John Grimbal.

"I believe it," answered the miller; "though God forbid any word or act

of mine should bring wan tear to Phoebe's cheek. Yet, somehow, I doan't

knaw but you 'm right."

"I am, believe me. It's the truth. You want Phoebe's real happiness

considered, and that now depends on--well, I'll say it out--on me. We

have reached the point now when you must speak, as you promised to

speak, and throw the weight of your influence on my side. Then, after

you've had your say, I'll have mine and put the great question."

Mr. Lyddon nodded his head and relapsed into taciturnity.

CHAPTER VI

AN UNHAPPY POET

That a man of many nerves, uncertain in temper and with no physical or

temporal qualifications, should have won for himself the handsomest girl

in Chagford caused the unreflective to marvel whenever they considered

the point. But a better knowledge of Chris Blauchard had served in some

measure to explain the wonder. Of all women, she was the least likely to

do the thing predicted by experience. She had tremendous force of

character for one scarce twenty years of age; indeed, she lived a

superlative life, and the man, woman, child, or dog that came within

radius of her existence presently formed a definite part of it, and was

loved or detested according to circumstances. Neutrality she could not

understand. If her interests were wide, her prejudices were strong. A

certain unconscious high-handedness of manner made the circle of her

friends small, but those who did love her were enthusiastic. Upon the

whole, the number of those who liked her increased with years, and

avowed enemies had no very definite reasons for aversion. Of her

physical perfections none pretended two opinions; but the boys had

always gone rather in fear of Chris, and the few men who had courted her

during the past few years were all considerably her seniors. No real

romance entered into this young woman's practical and bustling life

until the advent of Clement Hicks, though she herself was the flame of

hearts not a few before his coming.

Neurotic, sensual, as was Chris herself in a healthy fashion, a man of

varying moods, and perhaps the richer for faint glimmerings of the real

fire, Hicks yet found himself no better than an aimless, helpless child

before the demands of reality. Since boyhood he had lived out of touch

with his environment. As bee-keeper and sign-writer he made a naked

living for himself and his mother, and achieved success sufficient to

keep a cottage roof over their heads, but that was all. Books were his

only friends; the old stones of the Moor, the lonely wastes, the

plaintive music of a solitary bird were the companions of his happiest

days. He had wit enough to torture half his waking hours with

self-analysis, and to grit his teeth at his own impotence. But there was

no strength, no virile grip to take his fate in his own hands and mould

it like a man. He only mourned his disadvantages, and sometimes blamed

destiny, sometimes a congenital infirmity of purpose, for the dreary

course of his life. Nature alone could charm his sullen moods, and that

not always. Now and again she spread over the face of his existence a

transitory contentment and a larger hope; but the first contact with

facts swept it away again. His higher aspirations were neither deep nor

enduring, and yet the man's love of nature was lofty and just, and

represented all the religion he had. No moral principles guided him,

conscience never pricked. Nevertheless, thus far he had been a clean

liver and an honest man. Vice, because it affronted his sense of the

beautiful and usually led towards death, did not attract him. He lived

too deep in the lap of Nature to be deceived by the pseudo-realism then

making its appearance in literature, and he laughed without mirth at

these pictures from city-bred pens at that time paraded as the whole

truth of the countryman's life. The later school was not then above the

horizon; the brief and filthy spectacle of those who dragged their

necrosis, marasmus, and gangrene of body and mind across the stage of

art and literature, and shrieked Decay, had not as yet appeared to make

men sicken; the plague-spot, now near healed, had scarce showed the

faintest angry symptom of coming ill. Hicks might under no circumstances

have been drawn in that direction, for his morbidity was of a different

description. Art to this man appeared only in what was wholesome; it

even embraced a guide to conduct, for it led him directly to Nature, and

Nature emphatically taught him the value of obedience, the punishment of

weakness, the reward for excess and every form of self-indulgence. But a

softness in him shrank from these aspects of the Mother. He tried vainly

and feebly to dig some rule of life from her smiles alone, to read a

sermon into her happy hours of high summer sunshine. Beauty was his

dream; he possessed natural taste, and had cultivated the same without

judgment. His intricate disposition and extreme sensitiveness frightened

him away from much effort at self-expression; yet not a few trifling

scraps and shreds of lyric poetry had fallen from his pen in high

moments. These, when the mood changed, he read again, and found dead,

and usually destroyed. He was more easily discouraged than a child who

sets out to tell its parent a story, and is all silence and shamefaced

blushes at the first whisper of laughter or semblance of a smile. The

works of poets dazed him, disheartened him, and secret ambitions toward

performance grew dimmer with every book he laid his hands on. Ambition

to create began to die; the dream scenery of his ill-controlled mental

life more and more seldom took shape of words on paper; and there came a

time when thought grew wholly wordless for him; a mere personal

pleasure, selfish, useless, unsubstantial as the glimmer of mirage over

desert sands.

Into this futile life came Chris, like a breath of sweet air from off

the deep sea. She lifted him clean out of his subjective existence,

awoke a healthy, natural love, built on the ordinary emotions of

humanity, galvanised self-respect and ambition into some activity, and

presently inspired a pluck strong enough to propose marriage. That was

two years ago; and the girl still loved this weakly soul with all her

heart, found his language unlike that of any other man she had seen or

heard, and even took some slight softening edge of culture into herself

from him. Her common sense was absolutely powerless to probe even the

crust of Clement's nature; but she was satisfied that his poetry must be

a thing as marketable as that in printed books. Indeed, in an elated

moment he had assured her that it was so. During the earlier stages of

their attachment, she pestered him to write and sell his verses and make

money, that their happiness might be hastened; while he, on the first

budding of his love, and with the splendid assurance of its return, had

promised all manner of things, and indeed undertaken to make poems that

should be sent by post to the far-away place where they printed unknown

poets, and paid them. Chris believed in Clement as a matter of course.

His honey must at least be worth more to the world than that of his

bees. Over her future husband she began at once to exercise the control

of mistress and mother; and she loved him more dearly after they had

been engaged a year than at the beginning of the contract. By that time

she knew his disposition, and instead of displaying frantic impatience

at it, as might have been predicted, her tolerance was extreme. She bore

with Clem because she loved him with the full love proper to such a

nature as her own; and, though she presently found herself powerless to

modify his character in any practical degree, his gloomy and uneven mind

never lessened the sturdy optimism of Chris herself, or her sure

confidence that the future would unite them. Through her protracted

engagement Mrs. Blanchard's daughter maintained a lively and sanguine

cheerfulness. But seldom was it that she lost patience with the dreamer.

Then her rare, indignant outbursts of commonplace and common sense, like

a thunderstorm, sweetened the stagnant air of Clement's thoughts and

awoke new, wholesome currents in his mind.

As a rule, on the occasion of their frequent country walks, Clem and

Chris found personal problems and private interests sufficient for all

conversation, but it happened that upon a Sunday in mid-December, as

they passed through the valley of the Teign, where the two main streams

of that river mingle at the foothills of the Moor, the subject of Will

and Phoebe for a time at least filled their thoughts. The hour was clear

and bright, yet somewhat cheerless. The sun had already set, from the

standpoint of all life in the valley, and darkness, hastening out of the

east, merged the traceries of a million naked boughs into a thickening

network of misty grey. The river beneath these woods churned in winter

flood, while clear against its raving one robin sang little tinkling

litanies from the branch of an alder.

Chris stood upon Lee Bridge at the waters' meeting and threw scraps of

wood into the river; Clem sat upon the parapet, smoked his pipe, and

noted with a lingering delight the play of his sweetheart's lips as her

fingers strained to snap a tough twig. Then the girl spoke, continuing a

conversation already entered upon.

"Phoebe Lyddon's that weak in will. How far's such as her gwaine in life

without some person else to lean upon?"

"If the ivy cannot find a tree it creeps along the ground, Chrissy."

"Ess, it do; or else falls headlong awver the first bank it comes to.

Phoebe's so helpless a maiden as ever made a picksher. I mind her at

school in the days when we was childer together. Purty as them china

figures you might buy off Cheap Jack, an' just so tender. She'd come up

to dinky gals no bigger 'n herself an' pull out her li'l handkercher an'

ax 'em to be so kind as to blaw her nose for her! Now Will's gone, Lard

knaws wheer she'll drift to."

"To John Grimbal. Any man could see that. Her father's set on it."

"Why don't Will write to her and keep her heart up and give her a little

news? 'Twould be meat an' drink to her. Doan't matter 'bout mother an'

me. We'll take your word for it that Will wants to keep his ways secret.

But a sweetheart--'tis so differ'nt. I wouldn't stand it!"

"I know right well you wouldn't. Will has his own way. We won't

criticise him. But there's a masterful man in the running--a prosperous,

loud-voiced, bull-necked bully of a man, and one not accustomed to take

'no' for his answer. I'm afraid of John Grimbal in this matter. I've

gone so far as to warn Will, but he writes back that he knows Phoebe."

"Jan Grimbal's a very differ'nt fashion of man to his brother; that I

saw in a moment when they bided with us for a week, till the 'Three

Crowns' could take 'em in. I hate Jan--hate him cruel; but I like

Martin. He puts me in mind o' you, Clem, wi' his nice way of speech and

tender quickness for women. But it's Phoebe we'm speaking of. I think

you should write stern to Will an' frighten him. It ban't fair fightin',

that poor, dear Phoebe 'gainst the will o' two strong men."

"Well, she's had paltry food for a lover since he went away. He's got

certain ideas, and she'll hear direct when--but there, I must shut my

mouth, for I swore by fantastic oaths to say nothing."

"He ought to write, whether or no. You tell Will that Jan Grimbal be

about building a braave plaace up under Whiddon, and is looking for a

wife at Monks Barton morning, noon, an' evening. That's like to waken

him. An' tell him the miller's on t'other side, and clacking Jan Grimbal

into Phoebe's ear steadier than the noise of his awn water-wheel."

"And she will grow weak, mark me. She sees that red-brick place rising

out of the bare boughs, higher and higher, and knows that from floor to

attics all may be hers if she likes to say the word. She hears great

talk of drawing-rooms, and pictures, and pianos, and greenhouses full of

rare flowers, and all the rest--why, just think of it!"

"Ban't many gals as could stand 'gainst a piano, I daresay."

"I only know one--mine."

Chris looked at him curiously.

"You 'm right. An' that, for some queer reason, puts me in mind of the

other wan, Martin Grimbal. He was very pleasant to me."

"He's too late, thank God!"

"Ess, fay! An' if he'd comed afore 'e, Clem, he'd been tu early. Theer's

awnly wan man in the gert world for me."

"My gypsy!"

"But I didn't mean that. He wouldn't look at me, not even if I was a

free woman. 'T was of you I thought when I talked to Mr. Grimbal. He'm

well-to-do, and be seekin' a house in the higher quarter under

Middledown. You an' him have the same fancy for the auld stones. So you

might grow into friends--eh, Clem? Couldn't it so fall out? He might

serve to help--eh? You 'm two-and-thirty year auld next February, an' it

do look as though they silly bees ban't gwaine to put money enough in

the bank to spell a weddin' for us this thirty year to come. Theer's

awnly your aunt, Widow Coomstock, as you can look to for a penny, and

that tu doubtful to count on."

"Don't name her, Chris. Good Lord! poor drunken old thing, with that

crowd of hungry relations waiting like vultures round a dying camel!

Never think of her. Money she has, but I sha'n't see the colour of it,

and I don't want to."

"Well, let that bide. Martin Grimbal's the man in my thought."

"What can I do there?"

"Doan't knaw, 'zactly; but things might fall out if he got to like you,

being a bookish sort of man. Anyway, he's very willing to be friends,

for that he told me. Doan't bear yourself like Lucifer afore him; but

take the first chance to let him knaw your fortune's in need of

mendin'."

"You say that! D' you think self-respect is dead in me?" he asked, half

angry.

There was no visible life about them, so she put her arms round him.

"I ax for love of 'e, dearie, an' for want of 'e. Do 'e think waitin' 's

sweeter for me than for you?"

Then he calmed down again, sighed, returned the caress, touched her, and

stroked her breast and shoulder with sudden earthly light in his great

eyes.

"It 's hard to wait."

"That's why I say doan't lose chances that may mean a weddin' for us,

Clem. Theer 's so much hid in 'e, if awnly the way to bring it out could

be found."

"A mine that won't pay working," he said bitterly, the passion fading

out of eyes and voice. "I know there 's something hidden; I feel there

's a twist of brain that ought to rise above keeping bees and take me

higher than honey-combs. Yet look at hard truth. The clods round me get

enough by their sweat to keep wives and feed children. I'm only a

penniless, backboneless, hand-to-mouth wretch, living on the work of

laborious insects."

"If it ban't your awn fault, then whose be it, Clem?"

"The fault of Chance--to pack my build of brains into the skull of a

pauper. This poor, unfinished abortion of a head-piece of mine only

dreams dreams that it cannot even set on paper for others to see."

"You've given up trying whether it can or not, seemin'ly. I never hear

tell of no verses now."

"What 's the good? But only last night, so it happens, I had a sort of a

wild feeling to get something out of myself, and I scribbled for hours

and hours and found a little morsel of a rhyme."

"Will 'e read it to me?"

He showed reluctance, but presently dragged a scrap of paper out of his,

pocket. Not a small source of trouble was his sweetheart's criticism of

his verses.

"It was the common sight of a pair of lovers walking tongue-tied, you

know. I call it 'A Devon Courting.'"

He read the trifle slowly, with that grand, rolling sea-beat of an

accent that Elizabeth once loved to hear on the lips of Raleigh and

Drake.

"Birds gived awver singin',

Flittermice was wingin',

Mists lay on the meadows--

A purty sight to see.

Down-long in the dimpsy, the dimpsy, the dimpsy,

Down-long in the dimpsy

Theer went a maid wi' me.

"Five gude mile o' walkin',

Not wan word o' talkin',

Then I axed a question

And put the same to she.

Up-long in the owl-light, the owl-light, the owl-light,

Up-long in the owl-light,

Theer corned my maid wi' me.

"But I wonder you write the common words, Clem--you who be so much tu

clever to use 'em."

"The words are well enough. They were not common once."

"Well, you knaw best. Could 'e sell such a li'l auld funny thing as that

for money?"

He shook his head.

"No; it was only the toil of making it seemed good. It is worthless."

"An' to think how long it took 'e! If you'd awnly put the time into

big-fashioned verses full of the high words you've got. But you knaw

best. Did 'e hear anything of them rhymes 'bout the auld days you sent

to Lunnon?"

"They sent them back again. I told you 't was wasting three stamps. It

's not for me, I know it. The world is full of dumb singers. Maybe I

haven't got even a pinch of the fire that _must_ break through and show

its flame, no matter what mountains the earth tumbles on it. God knows I

burn hot enough sometimes with great thoughts and wild longings for love

and for sweeter life and for you; but my fires--whether they are

soul-fires or body-fires--only burn my heart out."

She sighed and squeezed his hand, understanding little enough of what he

said.

"We must be patient. 'T is a solid thing, patience. I'm puttin' by

pence; but it 's so plaguy little a gal can earn, best o' times and with

the best will."

"If I could only write the things I think! But they vanish before pen

and paper and the need of words, as the mists of the night vanish before

the hard, searching sun. I am ignorant of how to use words; and those in

the world who might help me will never know of me. As for those around

about, they reckon me three parts fool, with just a little gift of

re-writing names over their dirty shop-fronts."

"Yet it 's money. What did 'e get for that butivul fox wi' the goose in

his mouth you painted 'pon Mr. Lamacraft's sign to Sticklepath?"

"Ten shillings."

"That's solid money."

"It isn't now. I bought a book with it--a book of lies."

Chris was going to speak, but changed her mind and sighed instead.

"Well, as our affairs be speeding so poorly, we'd best to do some gude

deed an' look after this other coil. You must let Will knaw what 's

doin' by letter this very night. 'T is awnly fair, you being set in

trust for him."

"Strange, these Grimbal brothers," mused Clement, as the lovers

proceeded in the direction of Chagford. "They come home with everything

on God's earth that men might desire to win happiness, and, by the look

of it, each marks his home-coming by falling in love with one he can't

have."

"Shaws the fairness of things, Clem; how the poor may chance to have

what the rich caan't buy; so all look to stand equal."

"Fairness, you call it? The damned, cynical irony of this whole

passion-driven puppet-show--that's what it shows! The man who is loved

cannot marry the woman he loves lest they both starve; the man who can

give a woman half the world is loathed for his pains. Not that he 's to

be pitied like the pauper, for if you can't buy love you can buy women,

and the wise ones know how to manufacture a very lasting substitute for

the real thing."

"You talk that black and bitter as though you was deep-read in all the

wickedness of the world," said Chris; "yet I knaw no man can say sweeter

things than you sometimes."

"Talk! It 's all talk with me--all snarling and railing and whining at

hard facts, like a viper wasting its venom on steel. I'm sick of

myself--weary of the old, stale round of my thoughts. Where can I wash

and be clean? Chrissy, for God's sake, tell me."

"Put your hope in the Spring," she said, "an' be busy for Will."

In reality, with the approach of Christmas, affairs between Phoebe and

the elder Grimbal had reached a point far in advance of that which

Clement and Chris were concerned with. For more than three months, and

under a steadily increasing weight of opposition, Miller Lyddon's

daughter fought without shadow of yielding. Then came a time when the

calm but determined iteration of her father's desires and the

sledge-hammer love-making of John Grimbal began to leave an impression.

Even then her love for Will was bright and strong, but her sense of

helplessness fretted her nerves and temper, and her sweetheart's laconic

messages, through the medium of another man, were sorry comfort in this

hour of tribulation. With some reason she felt slighted. Neither

considering Will's peculiarities, nor suspecting that his silence was

only, the result of a whim or project, she began to resent it. Then John

Grimbal caught her in a dangerous mood. Once she wavered, and he had the

wisdom to leave her at the moment of victory. But on the next occasion

of their meeting, he took good care to keep the advantage he had gained.

Conscious of his own honest and generous intentions, Grimbal went on his

way. The subtler manifestations of Phoebe's real attitude towards him

escaped his observation; her reluctance he set down as resulting from

the dying shadow of affection for Will Blanchard. That she would be very

happy and proud and prosperous in the position of his wife, the lover

was absolutely assured. He pursued her with the greater determination,

in that he believed he was saving her from herself. What were some few

months of vague uncertainty and girlish tears compared with a lifetime

of prosperity and solid happiness? John Grimbal made Phoebe handsome

presents of pretty and costly things after the first great victory. He

pushed his advantage with tremendous vigour. His great face seemed

reflected in Phoebe's eyes when she slept as when she woke; his voice

was never out of her ears. Weary, hopeless, worn out, she prayed

sometimes for strength of purpose. But it was a trait denied to her

character and not to be bestowed at a breath. Her stability of defence,

even as it stood, was remarkable and beyond expectation. Then the sure

climax rolled in upon poor Phoebe. Twice she sought Clement Hicks with

purpose to send an urgent message; on each occasion accident prevented a

meeting; her father was always smiling and droning his desires into her

ear; John Grimbal haunted her. His good-nature and kindness were hard to

bear; his patience made her frantic. So the investment drew to its

conclusion and the barriers crumbled, for the forces besieged were too

weak and worn to restore them; while a last circumstance brought victory

to the stronger and proclaimed the final overthrow.

This culmination resulted from a visit to the spiritual head of Phoebe's

dwelling-place. The Rev. James Shorto-Champernowne, Vicar of Chagford,

made an appointment to discuss the position with Mr. Lyddon and his

daughter. A sportsman of the old type, and a cleric of rare reputation

for good sense and fairness to high and low, was Mr. Shorto-Champernowne,

but it happened that his more tender emotions had been buried with a

young wife these forty years, and children he had none. Nevertheless,

taking the standpoint of parental discipline, he held Phoebe's alleged

engagement a vain thing, not to be considered seriously. Moreover, he

knew of Will's lapses in the past; and that was fatal.

"My child, have little doubt that both religion and duty point in one

direction and with no faltering hands," he said, in his stately way.

"Communicate with the young man, inform him that conversation with

myself has taken place; then he can hardly maintain an attitude of

doubt, either to the exalted convictions that have led to your decision,

or to the propriety of it. And, further, do not omit an opportunity of

well-doing, but conclude your letter with a word of counsel. Pray him to

seek a Guide to his future life, the only Guide able to lead him aright.

I mean his Mother Church. No man who turns his back upon her can be

either virtuous or happy. I mourned his defection from our choir some

years ago. You see I forget nobody. My eyes are everywhere, as they

ought to be. Would that he could be whipped back to the House of

God--with scorpions, if necessary! There is a cowardice, a lack of

sportsmanlike feeling, if I may so express it, in these fallings away

from the Church of our fathers. It denotes a failing of intellect amid

the centres of human activity. There is a blight of unbelief abroad--a

nebulous, pestilential rationalism. Acquaint him with these facts; they

may serve to re-establish one whose temperament must be regarded as

abnormal in the light of his great eccentricity of action. Now farewell,

and God be with you."

The rotund, grey-whiskered clergyman waved his hand; Miller Lyddon and

his daughter left the vicarage; while both heard, as it seemed, his

studied phrases and sonorous voice rolling after them all the way home.

But poor Phoebe felt that the main issues as to conscience were now only

too clear; her last anchor was wrenched from its hold, and that night,

through a mist of unhappy tears, she succumbed, promised to marry John

Grimbal and be queen of the red castle now rising under Cranbrook's

distant heights.

That we have dealt too scantily with her tragic experiences may be

suspected; but the sequel will serve to show how these circumstances

demand no greater elaboration than has been accorded to them.

CHAPTER VII

LIBATION TO POMONA

A WINTER moon threw black shadows from stock and stone, tree and cot in

the valley of the Teign. Heavy snow had fallen, and moor-men, coming

down from the highlands, declared it to lie three feet deep in the

drifts. Now fine, sharp weather had succeeded the storm, and hard frost

held both hill and vale.

On Old Christmas Eve a party numbering some five-and-twenty persons

assembled in the farmyard of Monks Barton, and Billy Blee, as master of

the pending ceremonies, made them welcome. Some among them were aged,

others youthful; indeed the company consisted mostly of old men and

boys, a circumstance very easily understood when the nature of their

enterprise is considered. The ancients were about to celebrate a

venerable rite and sacrifice to a superstition, active in their boyhood,

moribund at the date with which we are concerned, and to-day probably

dead altogether. The sweet poet[2] of Dean Prior mentions this quaint,

old-time custom of "christening" or "wassailing" the fruit-trees among

Christmas-Eve ceremonies; and doubtless when he dwelt in Devon the use

was gloriously maintained; but an adult generation in the years of this

narrative had certainly refused it much support. It was left to their

grandfathers and their sons; and thus senility and youth preponderated

in the present company. For the boys, this midnight fun with lantern and

fowling-piece was good Christmas sport, and they came readily enough; to

the old men their ceremonial possessed solid value, and from the musty

storehouse of his memory every venerable soul amongst them could cite

instances of the sovereign virtue hid in such a procedure.

[2] _The sweet poet._

"Wassaile the trees, that they may beare

You many a Plum, and many a Peare;

For more or lesse fruites they will bring,

As you doe give them Wassailing."

_Hesperides._

"A brave rally o' neighbours, sure 'nough," cried Mr. Blee as he

appeared amongst them. "Be Gaffer Lezzard come?"

"Here, Billy."

"Hast thy fire-arm, Lezzard?"

"Ess, 't is here. My gran'son's carrying of it; but I holds the

powder-flask an' caps, so no ruin be threatened to none."

Mr. Lezzard wore a black smock-frock, across the breast of which

extended delicate and skilful needlework. His head was hidden under an

old chimney-pot hat with a pea-cock's feather in it, and, against the

cold, he had tied a tremendous woollen muffler round his neck and about

his ears. The ends of it hung down over his coat, and the general effect

of smock, comforter, gaitered shanks, boots tied up in straw, long nose,

and shining spectacles, was that of some huge and ungainly bird, hopped

from out a fairy-tale or a nightmare.

"Be Maister Chappie here likewise?" inquired Billy.

"I'm waitin'; an' I've got a fowling-piece, tu."

"That's gude then. I be gwaine to carry the auld blunderbuss what's been

in Miller Lyddon's family since the years of his ancestors, and belonged

to a coach-guard in the King's days. 'T is well suited to

apple-christenin'. The cider's here, in three o' the biggest earth

pitchers us'a' got, an' the lads is ready to bring it along. The Maister

Grimbals, as will be related to the family presently, be comin' to see

the custom, an' Miller wants every man to step back-along arterwards an'

have a drop o' the best, 'cordin' to his usual gracious gudeness. Now,

Lezzard, me an' you'll lead the way."

Mr. Blee then shouldered his ancient weapon, the other veteran marched

beside him, and the rest of the company followed in the direction of

Chagford Bridge. They proceeded across the fields; and along the

procession bobbed a lantern or two, while a few boys carried flaring

torches. The light from these killed the moonbeams within a narrow

radius, shot black tongues of smoke into the clear air, and set the

meadows glimmering redly where contending radiance of moon and fire

powdered the virgin snow with diamond and ruby. Snake-like the party

wound along beside the river. Dogs barked; voices rang clear on the

crystal night; now and again, with laughter and shout, the lads raced

hither and thither from their stolid elders, and here and there jackets

carried the mark of a snowball. Behind the procession a trampled grey

line stretched out under the moonlight. Then all passed like some dim,

magic pageant of a dream; the distant dark blot of naked woodlands

swallowed them up, and the voices grew faint and ceased. Only the

endless song of the river sounded, with a new note struck into it by the

world of snow.

For a few moments the valley was left empty, so empty that a fox, who

had been prowling unsuccessfully about Monks Barton since dusk, took the

opportunity to leave his hiding-place above the ducks' pool, cross the

meadows, and get him home to his earth two miles distant. He slunk with

pattering foot across the snow, marking his way by little regular

paw-pits and one straight line where his brush roughened the surface.

Steam puffed in jets from his muzzle, and his empty belly made him angry

with the world. At the edge of the woods he lifted his head, and the

moonlight touched his green eyes. Then he recorded a protest against

Providence in one eerie bark, and so vanished, before the weird sound

had died.

Phoebe Lyddon and her lover, having given the others some vantage of

ground, followed them to their destination--Mr. Lyddon's famous orchard

in Teign valley. The girl's dreary task of late had been to tell herself

that she would surely love John Grimbal presently--love him as such a

good man deserved to be loved. Only under the silence and in the

loneliness of long nights, only in the small hours of day, when sleep

would not come and pulses were weak, did Phoebe confess that contact

with him hurt her, that his kisses made her giddy to sickness, that all

his gifts put together were less to her than one treasure she was too

weak to destroy--the last letter Will had written. Once or twice, not to

her future husband, but to the miller, Phoebe had ventured faintly to

question still the promise of this great step; but Mr. Lyddon quickly

overruled all doubts, and assisted John Grimbal in his efforts to hasten

the ceremony. Upon this day, Old Christmas Eve, the wedding-day lay not

a month distant and, afterwards the husband designed to take his wife

abroad for a trip to South Africa. Thus he would combine business and

pleasure, and return in the spring to witness the completion of his

house. Chagford highly approved the match, congratulated Phoebe on her

fortune, and felt secretly gratified that a personage grown so important

as John Grimbal should have chosen his life's partner from among the

maidens of his native village.

Now the pair walked over the snow; and silent and stealthy as the

vanished fox, a grey figure followed after them. Dim as some moon-spirit

against the brightness, this shape stole forward under the rough hedge

that formed a bank and threw a shadow between meadow and stream. In

repose the grey man, for a man it was, looked far less substantial than

the stationary outlines of fences and trees; and when he moved it had

needed a keen eye to see him at all. He mingled with the moonlight and

snow, and became a part of a strange inversion of ordinary conditions;

for in this white, hushed world the shadows alone seemed solid and

material in their black nakedness, in their keen sharpness of line and

limit, while things concrete and ponderable shone out a silvery medley

of snow-capped, misty traceries, vague of outline, uncertain of shape,

magically changed as to their relations by the unfamiliar carpet now

spread between them.

The grey figure kept Phoebe in sight, but followed a path of his own

choosing. When she entered the woods he drew a little nearer, and thus

followed, passing from shadow to shadow, scarce fifty yards behind.

Meanwhile the main procession approached the scene of its labours.

Martin Grimbal, attracted by the prospect of reading this page from an

old Devonian superstition, was of the company. He walked with Billy Blee

and Gaffer Lezzard; and these high priests, well pleased at their

junior's attitude towards the ceremony, opened their hearts to him upon

it.

"'T is an ancient rite, auld as cider--maybe auld as Scripture, to, for

anything I've heard to the contrary," said Mr. Lezzard.

"Ay, so 't is," declared Billy Blee, "an' a custom to little observed

nowadays. But us might have better blooth in springtime an' braaver

apples come autumn if the trees was christened more regular. You doan't

see no gert stock of sizable apples best o' years now--li'l scrubbly

auld things most times."

"An' the cider from 'em--poor roapy muck, awnly fit to make 'e thirst

for better drink," criticised Gaffer Lezzard.

"'Tis this way: theer's gert virtue in cider put to apple-tree roots on

this particular night, accordin' to the planets and such hidden things.

Why so, I can't tell 'e, any more 'n anybody could tell 'e why the moon

sails higher up the sky in winter than her do in summer; but so 't is.

An' facts be facts. Why, theer's the auld 'Sam's Crab' tree in this very

orchard we'm walkin' to. I knawed that tree three year ago to give a

hogshead an' a half as near as damn it. That wan tree, mind, with no

more than a few baskets of 'Redstreaks' added."

"An' a shy bearer most times, tu," added Mr. Lezzard.

"Just so; then come next year, by some mischance, me being indoors, if

they didn't forget to christen un! An', burnish it all! theer wasn't

fruit enough on the tree to fill your pockets!"

"Whether 't is the firing into the branches, or the cider to the roots

does gude, be a matter of doubt," continued Mr. Lezzard; but the other

authority would not admit this.

"They 'm like the halves of a flail, depend on it: wan no use wi'out

t'other. Then theer's the singing of the auld song: who's gwaine to say

that's the least part of it?"

"'T is the three pious acts thrawn together in wan gude deed," summed up

Mr. Lezzard; "an' if they'd awnly let apples get ripe 'fore they break

'em, an' go back to the straw for straining, 'stead of these tom-fule,

new-fangled hair-cloths, us might get tidy cider still."

By this time the gate of the orchard was reached; Gaffer Lezzard, Billy,

and the other patriarch, Mr. Chapple,--a very fat old man,--loaded their

weapons, and the perspiring cider-carriers set down their loads.

"Now, you bwoys, give awver runnin' 'bout like rabbits," cried out Mr.

Chapple. "You 'm here to sing while us pours cider an' shoots in the

trees; an' not a drop you'll have if you doan't give tongue proper, so I

tell 'e."

At this rebuke the boys assembled, and there followed a hasty gabbling,

to freshen the words in young and uncertain memories. Then a small

vessel was dipped under floating toast, that covered the cider in the

great pitchers, and the ceremony of christening the orchard began. Only

the largest and most famous apple-bearers were thus saluted, for neither

cider nor gunpowder sufficient to honour more than a fraction of the

whole multitude existed in all Chagford. The orchard, viewed from the

east, stretched in long lines, like the legions of some arboreal army;

the moon set sparks and streaks of light on every snowy fork and bough;

and at the northwestern foot of each tree a network of spidery

shadow-patterns, sharp and black, extended upon the snow.

Mr. Blee himself made the first libation, led the first chorus, and

fired the first shot. Steaming cider poured from his mug, vanished,

sucked in at the tree-foot, and left a black patch upon the snow at the

hole of the trunk; then he stuck a fragment of sodden toast on a twig;

after which the christening song rang out upon the night--ragged at

first, but settling into resolute swing and improved time as its music

proceeded. The lusty treble of the youngsters soon drowned the notes of

their grandfathers; for the boys took their measure at a pace beyond the

power of Gaffer Lezzard and his generation, and sang with heart and

voice to keep themselves warm. The song has variants, but this was their

version--

"Here 's to thee, auld apple-tree,

Be sure you bud, be sure you blaw,

And bring forth apples good enough--

Hats full, caps full, three-bushel bags full,

Pockets full and all--

Hurrah! Hurrah! Hurrah!

Hats full, caps full, three-bushel bags full,

Hurrah! Hurrah! Hurrah!"

Then Billy fired his blunderbuss, and a flame leapt from its bell mouth

into the branches of the apple-tree, while surrounding high lands echoed

its report with a reverberating bellow that rose and fell, and was flung

from hill to hill, until it gradually faded upon the ear. The boys

cheered again, everybody drank a drop of the cider, and from under a

cloud of blue smoke, that hung flat as a pancake above them in the still

air, all moved onward. Presently the party separated into three groups,

each having a gunner to lead it, half a dozen boys to sing, and a

dwindling jar of cider for the purposes of the ceremony. The divided

choirs clashed their music, heard from a distance; the guns fired at

intervals, each sending forth its own particular detonation and winning

back a distinctive echo; then the companies separated widely and

decreased to mere twinkling, torchlit points in the distance.

Accumulated smoke from the scattered discharges hung in a sluggish haze

between earth and moon, and a sharp smell of burnt powder tainted the

sweetness of the frosty night.

Upon this scene arrived John Grirnbal and his sweetheart. They stood for

a while at the open orchard gate, gazed at the remote illumination, and

heard the distant song. Then they returned to discussion of their own

affairs; while at hand, unseen, the grey watcher moved impatiently and

anxiously. The thing he desired did not come about, and he blew on his

cold hands and swore under his breath. Only an orchard hedge now

separated them, and he might have listened to Phoebe's soft speech had

he crept ten yards nearer, while John Grimbal's voice he could not help

hearing from time to time. The big man was just asking a question not

easy to answer, when an unexpected interruption saved Phoebe from the

difficulty of any reply.

"Sometimes I half reckon a memory of that blessed boy still makes you

glum, my dear. Is it so? Haven't you forgot him yet?"

As he spoke an explosion, differing much in sound from those which

continued to startle the night, rang suddenly out of the distance. It

arose from a spot on the confines of the orchard, and was sharp in

tone--sharp almost as the human cries which followed it. Then the

distant lights hastened towards the theatre of the catastrophe. "What

has happened?" cried Phoebe, thankful enough to snatch conversation away

from herself and her affairs.

"Easy to guess. That broken report means a burst gun. One of those old

fools has got excited, put too much powder into his blunderbuss and

blown his head off, likely as not. No loss either!"

"Please, please go and see! Oh, if 'tis Billy Blee come to grief,

faither will be lost. Do 'e run, Mr. Grimbal--Jan, I mean. If any grave

matter's failed out, send them bwoys off red-hot for doctor."

"Stop here, then. If any ugly thing has happened, there need be no

occasion for you to see it."

He departed hastily to where a distant galaxy of fiery eyes twinkled and

tangled and moved this way and that, like the dying sparks on a piece of

burnt paper.

Then the patient grey shadow, rewarded by chance at last, found his

opportunity, slipped into the hedge just above Grimbal's sweetheart, and

spoke to her.

"Phoebe, Phoebe Lyddon!"

The voice, dropping out of empty air as it seemed, made Phoebe jump, and

almost fall; but there was an arm gripped round her, and a pair of hot

lips on hers before she had time to open her mouth or cry a word.

"Will!"

"Ess, so I be, alive an' kicking. No time for anything but business now.

I've followed 'e for this chance. Awnly heard four day ago 'bout the fix

you'd been drove to. An' Clem's made it clear 't was all my damn silly

silence to blame. I had a gert thought in me and wasn't gwaine to write

till--but that's awver an' done, an' a purty kettle of feesh, tu. We

must faace this coil first."

"Thank God, you can forgive me. I'd never have had courage to ax 'e."

"You was drove into it. I knaw there's awnly wan man in the world for

'e. Ban't nothin' to forgive. I never ought to have left 'e--a

far-seein' man, same as me. Blast him! I'd like to tear thicky damned

fur off you, for I lay it comed from him."

"They were killing me, Will; and never a word from you."

"I knaw, I knaw. What's wan girl against a parish full, an' a blustering

chap made o' diamonds?"

"The things doan't warm me; they make me shiver. But now--you can

forgive me--that's all I care for. What shall I do? How can I escape it?

Oh, Will, say I can!"

"In coourse you can. Awnly wan way, though; an' that's why I'm here. Us

must be married right on end. Then he's got no more power over 'e than a

drowned worm, nor Miller, nor any."

"To think you can forgive me enough to marry me after all my wickedness!

I never dreamed theer was such a big heart in the world as yourn."

"Why, we promised, didn't us? We'm built for each other. I knawed I'd

only got to come. An' I have, at cost, tu, I promise 'e. Now we'll be

upsides wi' this tramp from furrin paarts, if awnly you do ezacally what

I be gwaine to tell you. I'd meant to write it, but I can speak it

better as the chance has come."

Phoebe's heart glowed at this tremendous change in the position. She

forgot everything before sight and sound of Will. The nature of her

promises weakened to gossamer. Her first love was the only love for her,

and his voice fortified her spirit and braced her nerves. A chance for

happiness yet remained and she, who had endured enough, was strong in

determination to win it yet at any cost if a woman could.

"If you awnly knawed the half I've suffered before they forced me, you'd

forgive," she said. His frank pardon she could hardly realise. It seemed

altogether beyond the desert of her weakness.

"Let that bide. It's the future now. Clem's told me everything. Awnly

you and him an' Chris knaw I'm here. Chris will serve 'e. Us must play a

hidden game, an' fight this Grimbal chap as he fought me--behind back.

Listen; to-day fortnight you an' me 'm gwaine to be married afore the

registrar to Newton Abbot. He 'm my awn Uncle Ford, as luck has it, an'

quite o' my way o' thinkin' when I told him how 't was, an' that Jan

Grimbal was gwaine to marry you against your will. He advised me, and

I'm biding in Newton for next two weeks, so as the thing comes out right

by law. But you've got to keep it still as death."

"If I could awnly fly this instant moment with 'e!"

"You caan't. 'T would spoil all. You must stop home, an' hear your banns

put up with Grimbal, an' all the rest of it. Wish I could! Meat an'

drink 't would be, by God! But he'll get his pay all right. An' afore

the day comes, you nip off to Newton, an' I'll meet 'e, an' us'll be

married in a wink, an' you'll be back home again to Monks Barton 'fore

you knaw it."

"Is that the awnly way? Oh, Will, how terrible!"

"God knaws I've done worse 'n that. But no man's gwaine to steal the

maid of my choosin' from me while I've got brains and body to prevent

it."

"Let me look at you, lovey--just the same, just the same! 'Tis glorious

to hear your voice again. But this thin coat, so butivul in shaape, tu!

You 'm a gentleman by the look of it; but 't is summer wear, not

winter."

"Ess, 'tis cold enough; an' I've got to get back to Newton to-night. An'

never breathe that man's name no more. I'll shaw 'e wat 's a man an'

what ban't. Steal my true love, would 'e?--God forgive un, I

shaan't--not till we 'm man an' wife, anyway. Then I might. Give 'e up!

Be I a chap as chaanges? Never--never yet."

Phoebe wept at these words and pressed Will to her heart.

"'Tis strength, an' fire, an' racing blood in me to hear 'e, dear,

braave heart. I was that weak without 'e. Now the world 's a new plaace,

an' I doan't doubt fust thought was right, for all they said. I'll meet

'e as you bid me, an' nothin' shall ever keep me from 'e now--nothing!"

"'T is well said, Phoebe; an' doan't let that anointed scamp kiss 'e

more 'n he must. Be braave an' cunnin', an' keep Miller from smelling a

rat. I'd like to smash that man myself now wheer he stands,--Grimbal I

mean,--but us must be wise for the present. Wipe your shiny eyes an'

keep a happy faace to 'em, an' never let wan of the lot dream what's hid

in 'e. Cock your li'l nose high, an' be peart an' gay. An' let un buy

you what he will,--'t is no odds; we can send his rubbish back again

arter, when he knaws you'm another man's wife. Gude-bye, Phoebe dearie;

I've done what 'peared to me a gert deed for love of 'e; but the sight

of 'e brings it down into no mighty matter."

"You've saved my life, Will--saved all my days; an' while I've got a

heart beating 't will be yourn, an' I'll work for 'e, an' slave for 'e,

an' think for 'e, an' love 'e so long as I live--an' pray for 'e, tu,

Will, my awn!"

He parted from her as she spoke, and she, by an inspiration, hurried

towards the approaching crowd that the trampled marks of the snow where

she had been standing might not be noted under the gleam of torches and

lanterns.

John Grimbal's prophecy was happily not fulfilled in its gloomy

completeness: nobody had blown his head off; but Billy Blee's

prodigality of ammunition proved at last too much for the blunderbuss of

the bygone coach-guard, and in its sudden annihilation a fragment had

cut the gunner across the face, and a second inflicted a pretty deep

flesh-wound on his arm. Neither injury was very serious, and the general

escape, as John Grimbal pointed out, might be considered marvellous, for

not a soul save Billy himself had been so much as scratched.

With Martin Grimbal on one side and Mr. Chapple upon the other, the

wounded veteran walked slowly and solemnly along. The dramatic moments

of the hour were dear to him, and while tolerably confident at the

bottom of his mind that no vital hurt had been done, he openly declared

himself stricken to death, and revelled in a display of Christian

fortitude and resignation that deceived everybody but John Grimbal.

Billy gasped and gurgled, bid them see to the bandages, and reviewed his

past life with ingenuous satisfaction.

"Ah, sawls all! dead as a hammer in an hour. 'T is awver. I feel the

life swelling out of me."

"Don't say that, Billy," cried Martin, in real concern. "The blood's

stopped flowing entirely now."

"For why? Theer's no more to come. My heart be pumping wind, lifeless

wind; my lung-play's gone, tu, an' my sight's come awver that coorious.

Be Gaffer Lezzard nigh?"

"Here, alongside 'e, Bill."

"Gimme your hand then, an' let auld scores be wiped off in this

shattering calamity. Us have differed wheer us could these twoscore

years; but theer mustn't be no more ill-will wi' me tremblin' on the lip

o' the graave."

"None at all; if 't wasn't for Widow Coomstock," said Gaffer Lezzard.

"You 'm tu pushing theer, an' I say it even now, for truth's truth,

though it be the last thing a man's ear holds."

"Break it to her gentle," said Billy, ignoring the other's criticism;

"she'm on in years, and have cast a kindly eye awver me since the early

sixties. My propositions never was more than agreeable conversation to

her, but it might have come. Tell her theer's a world beyond marriage

customs, an' us'll meet theer."

Old Lezzard showed a good deal of anger at this speech, but being in a

minority fell back and held his peace.

"Would 'e like to see passon, dear sawl?" asked Mr. Chapple, who walked

on Billy's left with his gun reversed, as though at a funeral.

"Me an' him be out, along o' rheumatics keeping me from the House of God

this month," said the sufferer, "but at a solemn death-bed hour like

this here, I'd soon see un as not. Ban't no gert odds, for I forgive all

mankind, and doan't feel no more malice than a bird in a tree."

"You're a silly old ass," burst out Grimbal roughly. "There's nothing

worth naming the matter with you, and you know it better than we do. The

Devil looks after his own, seemingly. Any other man would have been

killed ten times over."

Billy whined and even wept at this harsh reproof. "Ban't a very fair way

to speak to an auld gunpowder-blawn piece, like what I be now," he said;

"gormed if 't is."

"Very onhandsome of 'e, Mr. Grimbal," declared the stout Chappie; "an'

you so young an' in the prime of life, tu!"

Here Phoebe met them, and Mr. Blee, observing the signs of tears upon

her face, supposed that anxiety for him had wet her cheeks, and

comforted his master's child.

"Doan't 'e give way, missy. 'T is all wan, an' I ban't 'feared of the

tomb, as I've tawld 'em. Us must rot, every bone of us, in our season,

an' 't is awnly the thought of it, not the fear of it, turns the

stomach. But what's a wamblyness of the innards, so long as a body's

sawl be ripe for God?"

"A walkin' sermon!" said Mr. Chappie.

Doctor Parsons was waiting for Billy at Monks Barton, and if John

Grimbal had been brusque, the practitioner proved scarcely less so. He

pronounced Mr. Blee but little hurt, bandaged his arm, plastered his

head, and assured him that a pipe and a glass of spirits was all he

needed to fortify his sinking spirit. The party ate and drank, raised a

cheer for Miller Lyddon and then went homewards. Only Mr. Chappie and

Gaffer Lezzard entered the house and had a wineglass or two of some

special sloe gin. Mr. Lezzard thawed and grew amiable over this

beverage, and Mr. Chappie repeated Billy's lofty sentiments at the

approach of death for the benefit of Miller Lyddon.

"'T is awnly my fearless disposition," declared the wounded man with

great humility; "no partic'lar credit to me. I doan't care wan iotum for

the thought of churchyard mould--not wan iotum. I knaw the value of gude

rich soil tu well; an' a man as grudges the rames[3] of hisself to the

airth that's kept un threescore years an' ten's a carmudgeonly cuss,

surely."

[3] _Rames_ = skeleton; remains.

"An' so say I; theer's true wisdom in it," declared Mr. Chapple, while

the miller nodded.

"Theer be," concluded Gaffer Lezzard. "I allus sez, in my clenching way,

that I doan't care a farden damn what happens to my bones, if my

everlasting future be well thought on by passon. So long as I catch the

eye of un an' see um beam 'pon me to church now an' again, I'm content

with things as they are."

"As a saved sawl you 'm in so braave a way as the best; but, to say it

without rudeness, as food for the land a man of your build be nought,

Gaffer," argued Mr. Chapple, who viewed the veteran's withered anatomy

from his own happy vantage ground of fifteen stone.

But Gaffer Lezzard would by no means allow this.

"Ban't quantity awnly tells, my son. 'T is the aluminium in a man's

bones that fats land--roots or grass or corn. Anybody of larnin', 'll

tell 'e that. Strip the belly off 'e, an', bone for bone, a lean man

like me shaws as fair as you. No offence offered or taken, but a gross

habit's mere clay and does more harm than gude underground."

Mr. Chapple in his turn resented this contemptuous dismissal of tissue

as matter of no agricultural significance. The old men went wrangling

home; Miller Lyddon and Billy retired to their beds; the moon departed

behind the distant moors; and all the darkened valley slept in snow and

starlight.

CHAPTER VIII

A BROTHERS' QUARREL

Though Phoebe was surprised at Will Blanchard's mild attitude toward her

weakness, she had been less so with more knowledge. Chris Blanchard and

her lover were in some degree responsible for Will's lenity, and

Clement's politic letter to the wanderer, when Phoebe's engagement was

announced, had been framed in words best calculated to shield the

Miller's sore-driven daughter. Hicks had thrown the blame on John

Grimbal, on Mr. Lyddon, on everybody but Phoebe herself. Foremost indeed

he had censured Will, and pointed out that his own sustained silence,

however high-minded the reason of it, was a main factor in his

sweetheart's sufferings and ultimate submission.

In answer to this communication Blanchard magically reappeared,

announced his determination to marry Phoebe by subterfuge, and, the deed

accomplished, take his punishment, whatever it might be, with light

heart. Given time to achieve a legal marriage, and Phoebe would at least

be safe from the clutches of millionaires in general.

Much had already been done by Will before he crept after the

apple-christeners and accomplished his meeting with Phoebe. A week was

passed since Clement wrote the final crushing news, and during that

interval Will had been stopping with his uncle, Joel Ford, at Newton

Abbot. Fate, hard till now, played him passing fair at last. The old

Superintendent Registrar still had a soft corner in his heart for Will,

and when he learnt the boy's trouble, though of cynic mind in all

matters pertaining to matrimony, he chose to play the virtuous and

enraged philosopher, much to his nephew's joy. Mr. Ford promised Will he

should most certainly have the law's aid to checkmate his dishonourable

adversary; he took a most serious view of the case and declared that all

thinking men must sympathise with young Blanchard under such

circumstances. But in private the old gentleman rubbed his hands, for

here was the very opportunity he desired as much as a man well

might--the chance to strike at one who had shamefully wronged him. His

only trouble was how best to let John Grimbal know whom he had to thank

for this tremendous reverse; for that deed he held necessary to complete

his revenge.

As to where Will had come from, or whither he was returning, after his

marriage Joel Ford cared not. The youngster once wedded would be

satisfied; and his uncle would be satisfied too. The procedure of

marriage by license requires that one of the parties shall have resided

within the Superintendent's district for a space of fifteen days

preceding the giving of notice; then application in prescribed form is

made to the Registrar; and his certificate and license are usually

received one clear day later. Thus a resident in a district can be

married at any time within eight-and-forty hours of his decision. Will

Blanchard had to stop with his uncle nine or ten days more to complete

the necessary fortnight, and as John Grimbal's marriage morning was as

yet above three weeks distant, Phoebe's fate in no way depended upon

him.

Mr. Ford explained the position to Will, and the lover accepted it

cheerfully.

"As to the marriage, that'll be hard and fast as a bench of bishops can

make it; but wedding a woman under age, against the wish of her legal

guardian, is an offence against the law. Nobody can undo the deed

itself, but Miller Lyddon will have something to say afterwards. And

there's that blustering blackguard, John Grimbal, to reckon with.

Unscrupulous scoundrel! Just the sort to be lawless and vindictive if

what you tell me concerning him is true."

"And so he be; let un! Who cares a brass button for him? 'T is awnly

Miller I thinks of. What's worst he can do?"

"Send you to prison, Will."

"For how long?"

"That I can't tell you exactly. Not for marrying his daughter of course,

but for abduction--that's what he'll bring against you."

"An' so he shall, uncle, an' I'll save him all the trouble I can. That's

no gert hardship--weeks, or months even. I'll go like a lark, knawin'

Phoebe's safe."

So the matter stood and the days passed. Will's personal affairs, and

the secret of the position from which he had come was known only to

Clement Hicks. The lover talked of returning again thither after his

marriage, but he remained vague on that point, and, indeed, modified his

plans after the above recorded conversation with his uncle. Twice he

wrote to Phoebe in the period of waiting, and the letter had been

forwarded on both occasions through Clement. Two others knew what was

afoot, and during that time of trial Phoebe found Chris her salvation.

The stronger girl supported her sinking spirit and fortified her

courage. Chris mightily enjoyed the whole romance, and among those

circumstances that combined to make John Grimbal uneasy during the days

of waiting was her constant presence at Monks Barton. There she came as

Phoebe's friend, and the clear, bright eyes she often turned on him made

him angry, he knew not why. As for Mrs. Blanchard, she had secretly

learnt more than anybody suspected, for while Will first determined to

tell her nothing until afterwards, a second thought rebuked him for

hiding such a tremendous circumstance from his mother, and he wrote to

her at full length from Newton, saying nothing indeed of the past but

setting out the future in detail. Upon the subject Mrs. Blanchard kept

her own counsel.

Preparations for Phoebe's wedding moved apace, and she lived in a dim,

heart-breaking dream. John Grimbal, despite her entreaties, continued to

spend money upon her; yet each new gift brought nothing but tears. Grown

desperate in his determination to win a little affection and regard

before marriage, and bitterly conscious that he could command neither,

the man plied her with what money would buy, and busied himself to bring

her happiness in spite of herself. Troubled he was, nevertheless, and

constantly sought the miller that he might listen to comforting

assurances that he need be under no concern.

"'T is natural in wan who's gwaine to say gude-bye to maidenhood so

soon," declared Mr. Lyddon. "I've thought 'bout her tears a deal. God

knaws they hurt me more 'n they do her, or you either; but such sad

whims and cloudy hours is proper to the time. Love for me's got a share

in her sorrow, tu. 'T will all be well enough when she turns her back on

the church-door an' hears the weddin'-bells a-clashing for her future

joy. Doan't you come nigh her much during the next few weeks."

"Two," corrected Mr. Grimbal, moodily.

"Eh! Awnly two! Well, 't is gert darkness for me, I promise you--gert

darkness comin' for Monks Barton wi'out the butivul sound an' sight of

her no more. But bide away, theer's a gude man; bide away these coming

few days. Her last maiden hours mustn't be all tears. But my gifts do

awnly make her cry, tu, if that's consolation to 'e. It's the

tenderness of her li'l heart as brims awver at kindness."

In reality, Phoebe's misery was of a complexion wholly different. The

necessity for living thus had not appeared so tremendous until she found

herself launched into this sea of terrible deception. In operation such

sustained falsity came like to drive her mad. She could not count the

lies each day brought forth; she was frightened to pray for forgiveness,

knowing every morning must see a renewal of the tragedy. Hell seemed

yawning for her, and the possibility of any ultimate happiness, reached

over this awful road of mendacity and deceit, was more than her

imagination could picture. With loss of self-respect, self-control

likewise threatened to depart. She became physically weak, mentally

hysterical. The strain told terribly on her nature; and Chris mourned to

note a darkness like storm-cloud under her grey eyes, and unwonted

pallor upon her cheek. Dr. Parsons saw Phoebe at this juncture,

prescribed soothing draughts, and ordered rest and repose; but to Chris

the invalid clung, and Mr. Lyddon was not a little puzzled that the

sister of Phoebe's bygone sweetheart should now possess such power to

ease her mind and soothe her troubled nerves.

John Grimbal obeyed the injunction laid upon him and absented himself

from Monks Barton. All was prepared for the ceremony. He had left his

Red House farm and taken rooms for the present at "The Three Crowns."

Hither came his brother to see him four nights before the weddingday.

Martin had promised to be best man, yet a shadow lay between the

brothers, and John, his mind unnaturally jealous and suspicious from the

nature of affairs with Phoebe, sulked of late in a conviction that

Martin had watched his great step with unfraternal indifference and

denied him the enthusiasm and congratulation proper to such an event.

The younger man found his brother scanning a new black broadcloth coat

when he entered. He praised it promptly, whereupon John flung it from

him and showed no more interest in the garment. Martin, not to be

offended, lighted his pipe, took an armchair beside the fire, and asked

for some whiskey. This mollified the other a little; he produced

spirits, loaded his own pipe, and asked the object of the visit.

"A not over-pleasant business, John," returned his brother, frankly;

"but 'Least said, soonest mended.' Only remember this, nothing must ever

lessen our common regard. What I am going to say is inspired by my--"

"Yes, yes--cut that. Spit it out and have done with it. I know there's

been trouble in you for days. You can't hide your thoughts. You've been

grim as a death's-head for a month--ever since I was engaged, come to

think of it. Now open your jaws and have done."

John's aggressive and hectoring manner spoke volubly of his own lack of

ease. Martin nerved himself to begin, holding it his duty, but secretly

fearing the issue in the light of his brother's hard, set face.

"You've something bothering you too, old man. I'm sure of it. God is

aware I don't know much about women myself, but--"

"Oh, dry up that rot! Don't think I'm blind, if you are. Don't deceive

yourself. There's a woman-hunger in you, too, though perhaps you haven't

found it out yet. What about that Blanchard girl?"

Martin flushed like a schoolboy; his hand went up over his mouth and

chin as though to hide part of his guilt, and he looked alarmed and

uneasy.

John laughed without mirth at the other's ludicrous trepidation.

"Good heavens! I've done nothing surely to suggest--?"

"Nothing at all--except look as if you were going to have a fit every

time you get within a mile of her. Lovers know the signs, I suppose.

Don't pretend you're made of different stuff to the rest of us, that's

all."

Martin removed his hand and gasped before the spectacle of what he had

revealed to other eyes. Then, after a silence of fifteen seconds, he

shut his mouth again, wiped his forehead with his hand, and spoke.

"I've been a silly fool. Only she's so wonderfully beautiful--don't you

think so?"

"A gypsy all over--if you call that beautiful."

The other flushed up again, but made no retort.

"Never mind me or anybody else. I want to speak to you about Phoebe, if

I may, John. Who have I got to care about but you? I'm only thinking of

your happiness, for that's dearer to me than my own; and you know in

your heart that I'm speaking the truth when I say so."

"Stick to your gate-posts and old walls and cow-comforts and dead

stones. We all know you can look farther into Dartmoor granite than most

men, if that's anything; but human beings are beyond you and always

were. You'd have come home a pauper but for me."

"D' you think I'm not grateful? No man ever had a better brother than

you, and you've stood between me and trouble a thousand times. Now I

want to stand between you and trouble."

"What the deuce d' you mean by naming Phoebe, then?"

"That is the trouble. Listen and don't shout me down. She's breaking her

heart--blind or not blind, I see that--breaking her heart, not for you,

but Will Blanchard. Nobody else has found it out; but I have, and I know

it's my duty to tell you; and I've done it."

An ugly twist came into John Grimbal's face. "You've done it; yes. Go

on."

"That's all, brother, and from your manner I don't believe it's entirely

news to you."

"Then get you gone, damned snake in the grass! Get gone, 'fore I lay a

hand on you! You to turn and bite _me!_ Me, that's made you! I see it

all--your blasted sheep's eyes at Chris Blanchard, and her always at

Monks Barton! Don't lie about it," he roared, as Martin raised his hand

to speak; "not a word more will I hear from your traitor's lips. Get out

of my sight, you sneaking hypocrite, and never call me 'brother' no

more, for I'll not own to it!"

"You'll be sorry for this, John."

"And you too. You'll smart all your life long when you think of this

dirty trick played against a brother who never did you no hurt. You to

come between me and the girl that's promised to marry me! And for your

own ends. A manly, brotherly plot, by God!"

"I swear, on my sacred honour, there's no plot against you. I've never

spoken to a soul about this thing, nor has a soul spoken of it to me;

that's the truth."

"Rot you, and your sacred honour too! Go, and take your lies with you,

and keep your own friends henceforth, and never cross my threshold

more--you or your sacred, stinking honour either."

Martin rose from his chair dazed and bewildered. He had seen his

brother's passion wither up many a rascal in the past; but he himself

had never suffered until now, and the savagery of this language hurled

against his own pure motives staggered him. He, of course, knew nothing

about Will Blanchard's enterprise, and his blundering and ill-judged

effort to restrain his brother from marrying Phoebe was absolutely

disinterested. It had been a tremendous task to him to speak on this

delicate theme, and regard for John alone actuated him; now he departed

without another word and went blankly to the little new stone house he

had taken and furnished on the outskirts of Chagford under Middledown.

He walked along the straight street of whitewashed cots that led him to

his home, and reflected with dismay on this catastrophe. The

conversation with his brother had scarcely occupied five minutes; its

results promised to endure a lifetime.

Meanwhile, and at the identical hour of this tremendous rupture, Chris

Blanchard, well knowing that the morrow would witness Phoebe's secret

marriage to her brother, walked down to see her. It happened that a

small party filled the kitchen of Monks Barton, and the maid who

answered her summons led Chris through the passage and upstairs to

Phoebe's own door. There the girls spoke in murmurs together, while

various sounds, all louder than their voices, proceeded from the kitchen

below. There were assembled the miller, Billy Blee, Mr. Chapple, and one

Abraham Chown, the police inspector of Chagford, a thin, black-bearded

man, oppressed with the cares of his office.

"They be arranging the programme of festive delights," explained Phoebe.

"My heart sinks in me every way I turn now. All the world seems thinking

about what's to come; an' I knaw it never will."

"'T is a wonnerful straange thing to fall out. Never no such happened

before, I reckon. But you 'm doin' right by the man you love, an' that's

a thought for 'e more comfortin' than gospel in a pass like this. A

promise is a promise, and you've got to think of all your life

stretching out afore you. Will's jonic, take him the right way, and that

you knaw how to do--a straight, true chap as should make any wife happy.

Theer'll be waitin' afterwards an' gude need for all the patience you've

got; but wance the wife of un, allus the wife of un; that's a butivul

thing to bear in mind."

"'T is so; 't is everything. An' wance we'm wed, I'll never tell a lie

again, an' atone for all I have told, an' do right towards everybody."

"You caan't say no fairer. Be any matter I can help 'e with?"

"Nothing. It's all easy. The train starts for Moreton at half-past nine.

Sam Bonus be gwaine to drive me in, and bide theer for me till I come

back from Newton. Faither's awnly too pleased to let me go. I said 't

was shopping."

"An' when you come home you'll tell him--Mr. Lyddon--straight?"

"Everything, an' thank God for a clean breast again."

"An' Will?"

"Caan't say what he'll do after. Theer'll be no real marryin' for us yet

a while. Faither can have the law of Will presently,--that's all I

knaw."

"Trust Will to do the right thing; and mind, come what may to him,

theer's allus Clem Hicks and me for friends."

"Ban't likely to be many others left, come to-morrow night. But I've run

away from my own thoughts to think of you and him often of late days.

He'll get money and marry you, won't he, when his aunt, Mrs. Coomstock,

dies?"

"No; I thought so tu, an' hoped it wance; but Clem says what she've got

won't come his way. She's like as not to marry, tu--there 'm a lot of

auld men tinkering after her, Billy Blee among 'em."

Sounds arose from beneath. They began with harsh and grating notes,

interrupted by a violent hawking and spitting. Then followed renewal of

the former unlovely noises. Presently, at a point in the song, for such

it was, half a dozen other voices drowned the soloist in a chorus.

"'T is Billy rehearsin' moosic," explained Phoebe, with a sickly smile.

"He haven't singed for a score of years; but they've awver-persuaded him

and he's promised to give 'em an auld ballet on my wedding-day."

"My stars! 't is a gashly auld noise sure enough," criticised Phoebe's

friend frankly; "for all the world like a stuck pig screechin', or the

hum of the threshin' machine poor faither used to have, heard long ways

off."

Quavering and quivering, with sudden painful flights into a cracked

treble, Billy's effort came to the listeners.

"'Twas on a Monday marnin'

Afore the break of day,

That I tuked up my turmit-hoe

An' trudged dree mile away!"

Then a rollicking chorus, with rough music in it, surged to their ears--

"An' the fly, gee hoppee!

The fly, gee whoppee!

The fly be on the turmits,

For 't is all my eye for me to try

An' keep min off the turmits!"

Mr. Blee lashed his memory and slowly proceeded, while Chris, moved by a

sort of sudden mother-instinct towards pale and tearful Phoebe, strained

her to her bosom, hugged her very close, kissed her, and bid her be

hopeful and happy.

"Taake gude heart, for you 'm to mate the best man in all the airth but

wan!" she said; "an', if 't is awnly to keep Billy from singing in

public, 't is a mercy you ban't gwaine to take Jan Grimbal. Doan't 'e

fear for him. There'll be a thunder-storm for sartain; then he'll calm

down, as better 'n him have had to 'fore now, an' find some other gal."

With this comfort Chris caressed Phoebe once more, heartily pitying her

helplessness, and wishing it in her power to undertake the approaching

ordeal on the young bride's behalf. Then she departed, her eyes almost

as dim as Phoebe's. For a moment she forgot her own helpless matrimonial

projects in sorrow for her brother and his future wife. Marriage at the

registry office represented to her, as to most women, an unlovely,

uncomfortable, and unfinished ceremony. She had as easily pictured a

funeral without the assistance of the Church as a wedding without it.

CHAPTER IX

OUTSIDE EXETER GAOL

Within less than twelve hours of the time when she bid Chris farewell

Phoebe Lyddon was Phoebe Lyddon no more. Will met her at Newton; they

immediately proceeded to his uncle's office; and the Registrar had made

them man and wife in space of time so brief that the girl could hardly

realise the terrific event was accomplished, and that henceforth she

belonged to Will alone. Mr. Ford had his little joke afterwards in the

shape of a wedding-breakfast and champagne. He was gratified at the

event and rejoiced to be so handsomely and tremendously revenged on his

unfortunate enemy. The young couple partook of the good things provided

for them; but appetite was lacking to right enjoyment of the banquet,

and Will and his wife much desired to escape and be alone.

Presently they returned to the station and arrived there before Phoebe's

train departed. Her husband then briefly explained the remarkable course

of action he designed to pursue.

"You must be a braave gal and think none the worse of me. But't is this

way: I've broke law, and a month or two, or six, maybe, in gaol have got

to be done. Your faither will see to that."

"Prison! O, Will! For marryin' me?"

"No, but for marryin' you wi'out axin' leave. Miller Lyddon told me the

upshot of taking you, if I done it; an' I have; an' he'll keep his word.

So that's it. I doan't want to make no more trouble; an' bein' a man of

resource I'm gwaine up to Exeter by first train, so soon as you've

started. Then all bother in the matter will be saved Miller."

"O Will! Must you?"

"Ess fay, 't is my duty. I've thought it out through many hours. The

time'll soon slip off; an' then I'll come back an' stand to work. Here's

a empty carriage. Jump in. I can sit along with 'e for a few minutes."

"How ever shall I begin? How shall I break it to them, dearie?"

"Hold up your li'l hand," said Will with a laugh. "Shaw 'em the gawld

theer. That'll speak for 'e. 'S truth!" he continued, with a gesture of

supreme irritation, "but it's a hard thing to be snatched apart like

this--man an' wife. If I was takin' 'e home to some lew cot, all our

very awn, how differ'nt 't would be!"

"You will some day."

"So I will then. I've got 'e for all time, an' Jan Grimbal's missed 'e

for all time. Damned if I ban't a'most sorry for un!"

"So am I,--in a way,--as you are. My heart hurts me to think of him.

He'll never forgive me."

"Me, you mean. Well, 't is man to man, an' I ban't feared of nothing on

two legs. You just tell 'em that 't was to be, that you never gived up

lovin' me, but was forced into lyin' and such-like by the cruel way they

pushed 'e. Shaw 'em the copy of the paper if they doan't b'lieve the

ring. An' when Miller lifts up his voice to cuss me, tell un quiet that

I knawed what must come of it, and be gone straight to Exeter Gaol to

save un all further trouble. He'll see then I'm a thinking, calculating

man, though young in years."

Phoebe was now reduced to sighs and dry sobs. Will sat by her a little

longer, patted her hands and spoke cheerfully. Then the train departed

and he jumped from it as it moved and ran along the platform with a last

earnest injunction.

"See mother first moment you can an' explain how 't is. Mother'll

understand, for faither did similar identical, though he wasn't put in

clink for it."

He waved his hand and Phoebe passed homewards. Then the fire died out of

his eyes and he sighed and turned. But no shadow of weakness manifested

itself in his manner. His jaw hardened, he smote his leg with his stick,

and, ascertaining the time of the next train to Exeter, went back to bid

Mr. Ford farewell before setting about his business.

Will told his uncle nothing concerning the contemplated action; and such

silence was unfortunate, for had he spoken the old man's knowledge must

have modified his fantastic design. Knowing that Will came mysteriously

from regular employment which he declined to discuss, and assuming that

he now designed returning to it, Mr. Ford troubled no more about him. So

his nephew thanked the Registrar right heartily for all the goodness he

had displayed in helping two people through the great crisis of their

lives, and went on his way. His worldly possessions were represented by

a new suit of blue serge which he wore, and a few trifles in a small

carpet-bag.

It was the past rather than the present or future which troubled Will on

his journey to Exeter; and the secret of the last six months, whatever

that might be, lay heavier on his mind than the ordeal immediately ahead

of him. In this coming achievement he saw no shame; it was merely part

payment for an action lawless but necessary. He prided himself always on

a great spirit of justice, and justice demanded that henceforth he must

consider the family into which he had thus unceremoniously introduced

himself. To no man in the wide world did he feel more kindly disposed

than to Miller Lyddon; and his purpose was now to save his father-in-law

all the annoyance possible.

Arrived at Exeter, Will walked cheerfully away to the County Gaol, a

huge red-brick pile that scarce strikes so coldly upon the eye of the

spectator as ordinary houses of detention. Grey and black echo the

significance of a prison, but warm red brick strikes through the eye to

the brain, and the colour inspires a genial train of ideas beyond

reason's power instantly to banish. But the walls, if ruddy, were high,

and the rows of small, remote windows, black as the eye-socket of a

skull, stretched away in dreary iron-bound perspective where the sides

of the main fabric rose upward to its chastened architectural

adornments. Young Blanchard grunted to himself, gripped his stick, from

one end of which was suspended his carpet-bag, and walked to the wicket

at the side of the prison's main entrance. He rang a bell that jangled

with tremendous echoes among the naked walls within; then there followed

the rattle of locks as the sidegate opened, and a warder looked out to

ask Will his business. The man was burly and of stout build, while his

fat, bearded face, red as the gaol walls themselves, attracted Blanchard

by its pleasant expression. Will's eyes brightened at the aspect of this

janitor; he touched his hat very civilly, wished the man "good

afternoon," and was about to step in when the other stopped him.

"Doan't be in such a hurry, my son. What's brought 'e, an' who do 'e

want?"

"My business is private, mister; I wants to see the head man."

"The Governor? Won't nobody less do? You can't see him without proper

appointment. But maybe a smaller man might serve your turn?"

Will reflected, then laughed at the warder with that sudden magic of

face that even softened hard hearts towards him.

"To be plain, mate, I'm here to stop. You'll be sure to knaw 'bout it

sooner or late, so I'll tell 'e now. I've done a thing I must pay for,

and 't is a clink job, so I've comed right along."

The warder grew rather sterner, and his eye instinctively roamed for a

constable.

"Best say no more, then. Awnly you've comed to the wrong place. Police

station's what you want, I reckon."

"Why for? This be County Gaol, ban't it?"

"Ess, that's so; but we doan't take in folks for the axin'. Tu many

queer caraters about."

Will saw the man's eyes twinkle, yet he was puzzled at this unexpected

problem.

"Look here," he said, "I like you, and I'll deal fair by you an' tell

you the rights of it. Step out here an' listen."

"Mind, what you sez will be used against you, then."

"Theer ban't no secret in it, for that matter."

The husband thereupon related his recent achievement, and concluded

thus:

"So, having kicked up a mort o' trouble, I doan't want to make no

more--see? An' I stepped here quiet to keep it out of the papers, an'

just take what punishment's right an' vitty for marryin' a maid wi'out

so much as by your leave. Now, then, caan't 'e do the rest?"

He regarded the warder gravely and inquiringly, but as the red-faced man

slowly sucked up the humour of the situation, his mouth expanded and his

eyes almost disappeared. Then he spoke through outbursts and shakings of

deep laughter.

"Oh Lard! Wheerever was you born to?"

Will flushed deeply, frowned, and clenched his fists at this question.

"Shut your gert mouth!" he said angrily. "Doan't bellow like that, or

I'll hit 'e awver the jaw! Do'e think I want the whole of Exeter City to

knaw my errand? What's theer to gape an' snigger at? Caan't 'e treat a

man civil?"

This reproof set the official off again, and only a furious demand from

Blanchard to go about his business and tell the Governor he wanted an

interview partially steadied him.

"By Gor! you'll be the death of me. Caan't help it--honour

bright--doan't mean no rudeness to you. Bless your young heart, an' the

gal's, whoever she be. Didn't 'e knaw? But theer! course you didn't,

else you wouldn't be here. Why, 't is purty near as hard to get in

prison as out again. You'll have to be locked up, an' tried by judge an'

jury, and plead guilty, and be sentenced, an' the Lard He knaws what

beside 'fore you come here. How do the lawyers an' p'licemen get their

living?"

"That's news. I hoped to save Miller Lyddon all such trouble."

"Why not try another way, an' see if you can get the auld gentleman to

forgive 'e?"

"Not him. He'll have the law in due time."

"Well, I'm 'mazin' sorry I caan't oblige 'e, for I'm sure we'd be gude

friends, an' you'd cheer us all up butivul."

"But you 'm certain it caan't be managed?"

"Positive."

"Then I've done all a man can. You'll bear witness I wanted to come,

won't 'e?"

"Oh yes, I'll take my oath o' that. _I_ shaan't forget 'e."

"All right. And if I'm sent here again, bimebye, I'll look out for you,

and I hopes you'll be as pleasant inside as now."

"I'll promise that. Shall be awnly tu pleased to make you at home. I

like you; though, to be frank, I reckon you'm tu gnat-brained a chap to

make a wife happy."

"Then you reckon a damned impedent thing! What d' you knaw 'bout it?"

"A tidy deal. I've been married more years than you have hours, I lay."

"Age ban't everything; 't is the fashion brains in a man's head counts

most."

"That's right enough. 'T is something to knaw that. Gude-bye to 'e,

bwoy, an' thank you for makin' me laugh heartier than I have this month

of Sundays."

"More fule you!" declared Will; but he was too elated at the turn of

affairs to be anything but amiable just now. Before the other

disappeared, he stopped him.

"Shake hands, will 'e? I thank you for lightenin' my mind--bein' a man

of law, in a manner of speakin'. Ess, I'm obliged to 'e. Of coourse I

doan't _want_ to come to prison 'zackly. That's common sense."

"Most feel same as you. No doubt you're in the wrong, though the law

caan't drop on honest, straightforrard matrimony to my knowledge. Maybe

circumstances is for 'e."

"Ess, they be--every jack wan of 'em!" declared Will. "An' if I doan't

come here to stop, I'll call in some day and tell 'e the upshot of this

coil in a friendly way."

"Do so, an' bring your missis. Shall be delighted to see the pair of 'e

any time. Ax for Thomas Bates."

Will nodded and marched off, while the warder returned to his post, and

when he had again made fast the door behind him, permitted the full

splendor of his recent experience to tumble over his soul in a laughter

perhaps louder than any heard before or since within the confines of one

of Her Majesty's prisons.

CHAPTER X

THE BRINGING OF THE NEWS

Phoebe meantime returned to Chagford, withdrew herself into her chamber,

and feverishly busied brains and hands with a task commended that

morning by Will when she had mentioned it to him. The various trinkets

and objects of value lavished of late upon her by John Grimbal she made

into a neat packet, and tied up a sealskin jacket and other furs in a

second and more bulky parcel. With these and a letter she presently

despatched a maid to Mr. Grimbal's temporary address. Phoebe's note

explained how, weak and friendless until the sudden return of Will into

her life, she had been thrown upon wickedness, falsehood, and deceit to

win her own salvation in the face of all about her. She told him of the

deed done that day, begged him to be patient and forget her, and

implored him to forgive her husband, who had fought with the only

weapons at his command. It was a feeble communication, and Phoebe

thought that her love for Will might have inspired words more forcible;

but relief annihilated any other emotion; she felt thankful that the

lying, evasion, and prevarication of the last horrible ten days were at

an end. From the nightmare of that time her poor, bruised conscience

emerged sorely stricken; yet she felt that the battle now before her was

a healthy thing by comparison, and might serve to brace her moral senses

rather than not.

At the tea-table she first met her father, and there were present also

Billy Blee and Mr. Chapple. The latter had come to Monks Barton about a

triumphal arch, already in course of erection at Chagford market-place,

and his presence it was that precipitated her confession, and brought

Phoebe's news like a thunderbolt upon the company.

Mr. Chapple, looking up suddenly from the saucer that rested upon his

outspread fingers and thumb, made a discovery, and spoke with some

concern.

"Faith, Missy, that's ill luck--a wisht thing to do indeed! Put un off,

like a gude maid, for theer 's many a wise sayin' 'gainst it."

"What's her done?" asked Billy anxiously.

"Luke 'pon her weddin' finger. 'Tis poor speed to put un on 'fore her

lard an' master do it, at the proper moment ordained by Scripture."

"If she hasn't! Take un off, Miss Phoebe, do!" begged Mr. Blee, in real

trepidation; and the miller likewise commanded his daughter to remove

her wedding-ring.

"An auld wife's tale, but, all the same, shouldn't be theer till you 'm

a married woman," he said.

Thus challenged, the way was made smooth as possible for the young wife.

She went over to her father, walked close to him, and put her plump

little hand with its shining addition upon his shoulder.

"Faither dear, I be a married woman. I had to tell lies and play false,

but't was to you an' Mr. Grimbal I've been double, not to my husband

that is. I was weak, and I've been punished sore, but--"

"Why, gal alive! what rigmarole 's this? Married--ay, an' so you shall

be, in gude time. You 'm light-headed, lass, I do b'lieve. But doan't

fret, I'll have Doctor--"

"Hear me," she said, almost roughly. "I kept my word--my first sacred

word--to Will. I loved him, an' none else but him; an' 'tis done--I've

married him this marnin', for it had to be, an' theer's the sign an'

token of it I've brought along with me."

She drew the copy of the register from her pocket, opened it with

trembling fingers, set it before Mr. Lyddon, and waited for him to

speak. But it was some time before he found words or wind to do so.

Literally the fact had taken his breath. A curious expression, more grin

than frown--an expression beyond his control in moments of high

emotion--wrinkled his eyelids, stretched his lips, and revealed the

perfect double row of his false teeth. His hand went forward to the blue

paper now lying before him, then the fingers stopped half way and shook

in the air. Twice he opened his mouth, but only a sharp expiration,

between a sigh and a bark, escaped.

"My God, you've shook the sawl of un!" cried Billy, starting forward,

but the miller with an effort recovered his self-possession, scanned the

paper, dropped it, and lifted up his voice in lamentation.

"True--past altering--'t is a thing done! May God forgive you for this

wicked deed, Phoebe Lyddon--I'd never have b'lieved it of 'e--never--not

if an angel had tawld me. My awn that was, and my awnly one! My darter,

my soft-eyed gal, the crown of my grey hairs, the last light of my

life!"

"I pray you'll come to forgive me in time, dear faither. I doan't ax 'e

to yet a while. I had to do it--a faithful promise. 'T was for pure

love, faither; I lied for him--lied even to you; an' my heart 's been

near to breakin' for 'e these many days; but you'd never have listened

if I'd told 'e."

"Go," he said very quietly. "I caan't abear the sight of'e just now. An'

that poor fule, as thrawed his money in golden showers for 'e! Oh, my

gude God, why for did 'E leave me any childern at all? Why didn't 'E

take this cross-hearted wan when t' other was snatched away? Why didn't

'E fill the cup of my sorrer to the brim at a filling an' not drop by

drop, to let un run awver now I be auld?"

Phoebe turned to him in bitter tears, but the man's head was down on his

hands beside his plate and cup, and he, too, wept, with a pitiful

childish squeak between his sobs. Weakness so overwhelming and so

unexpected--a father's sorrow manifested in this helpless feminine

fashion--tore the girl's very heartstrings. She knelt beside him and put

her arms about him; but he pushed her away and with some return of

self-control and sternness again bid her depart from him. This Phoebe

did, and there was silence, while Mr. Lyddon snuffled, steadied himself,

wiped his face with a cotton handkerchief, and felt feebly for a pair of

spectacles in his pocket. Mr. Chapple, meantime, had made bold to scan

the paper with round eyes, and Billy, now seeing the miller in some part

recovered, essayed to comfort him.

"Theer, theer, maister, doan't let this black come-along-o't quench 'e

quite. That's better! You such a man o' sense, tu! 'T was

awver-ordained by Providence, though a artful thing in a young gal; but

women be such itemy twoads best o' times--stage-players by sex, they

sez; an' when love for a man be hid in 'em, gormed if they caan't fox

the God as made 'em!"

"Her to do it! The unthankfulness, the cold cruelty of it! An' me that

was mother an' father both to her--that did rock her cradle with these

hands an' wash the li'l year-auld body of her. To forget all--all she

owed! It cuts me that deep!"

"Deep as a wire into cheese, I lay. An' well it may; but han't no new

thing; you stablish yourself with that. The ways o' women 's like--'t

was a sayin' of Solomon I caan't call home just this minute; but he

knawed, you mind, none better. He had his awn petticoat trouble, same as

any other Christian man given to women. What do 'e say, neighbour?"

Billy, of opinion that Mr. Chapple should assist him in this painful

duty, put the last question to his rotund friend, but the other, for

answer, rose and prepared to depart.

"I say," he answered, "that I'd best go up-along and stop they chaps

buildin' the triumphant arch. 'Pears won't be called for now. An'

theer's a tidy deal else to do likewise. Folks was comin' in from the

Moor half a score o' miles for this merry-makin'."

"'T is a practical thought," said Billy. "Them as come from far be like

to seem fules if nothin' 's done. You go up the village an' I'll follow

'e so quick as I can."

Mr. Chapple thereupon withdrew and Billy turned to the miller. Mr.

Lyddon had wandered once and again up and down the kitchen, then fallen

into his customary chair; and there he now sat, his elbows on his knees,

his hands over his face. He was overwhelmed; his tears hurt him

physically and his head throbbed. Twenty years seemed to have piled

themselves upon his brow in as many minutes.

"Sure I could shed water myself to see you like this here," said Mr.

Blee, sympathetically; "but 't is wan of them eternal circumstances we

'm faaced with that all the rain falled of a wet winter won't wash away.

Theer 's the lines. They 'm a fact, same as the sun in heaven 's a fact.

God A'mighty's Self couldn't undo it wi'out some violent invention; an'

for that matter I doan't see tu clear how even Him be gwaine to magic a

married woman into a spinster again; any more than He could turn a

spinster into a married woman, onless some ordinary human man came

forrard. You must faace it braave an' strong. But that imp o'

Satan--that damn Blanchard bwoy! Theer! I caan't say what I think 'bout

him. Arter all that's been done: the guests invited, the banns axed

out, the victuals bought, and me retracin' my ballet night arter night,

for ten days, to get un to concert pitch--well, 't is a matter tu deep

for mere speech."

"The--the young devil! I shall have no pity--not a spark. I wish to God

he could hang for it!"

"As to that, might act worse than leave it to Jan Grimbal. He'll do

summat 'fore you've done talkin', if I knaw un. An' a son-in-law 's a

son-in-law, though he've brought it to pass by a brigand deed same as

this. 'T is a kicklish question what a man should do to the person of

his darter's husband. You bide quiet an' see what chances. Grimbal's

like to take law into his awn hands, as any man of noble nature might in

this quandary."

The disappointed lover's probable actions offered dreary food for

thought, and the two old men were still conversing when a maid entered

to lay the cloth for supper. Then Billy proceeded to the village and Mr.

Lyddon, unnerved and restless, rambled aimlessly into the open air,

addressed any man or woman who passed from the adjacent cottages, and

querulously announced, to the astonishment of chance listeners, that his

daughter's match was broken off.

An hour later Phoebe reappeared in the kitchen and occupied her usual

place at the supper-table. No one spoke a word, but the course of the

meal was suddenly interrupted, for there came a knock at the farmhouse

door, and without waiting to be answered, somebody lifted the latch,

tramped down the stone passage, and entered the room.

Now Phoebe, in the privacy of her little chamber beneath the thatch, had

reflected miserably on the spectacle of her husband far away in a prison

cell, with his curls cropped off and his shapely limbs clad

convict-fashion. When, therefore, Will, and not John Grimbal, as she

expected, stood before her, his wife was perhaps more astonished than

any other body present. Young Blanchard appeared, however. He looked

weary and hungry, for he had been on his legs during the greater part of

the day and had forgotten to eat since his pretence of wedding-breakfast

ten hours earlier. Now, newly returned from Exeter, he came straight to

Monks Barton before going to his home.

Billy Blee was the first to find his voice before this sudden

apparition. His fork, amply laden, hung in the air as though his arm was

turned to stone; with a mighty gulp he emptied his mouth and spoke.

"Gormed if you ban't the most 'mazin' piece ever comed out o' Chagford!"

"Miller Lyddon," said Will, not heeding Mr. Blee, "I be here to say wan

word 'fore I goes out o' your sight. You said you'd have law of me if I

took Phoebe; an' that I done, 'cause we was of a mind. Now we 'm man an'

wife, an' I'm just back from prison, wheer I went straight to save you

trouble. But theer 's preambles an' writs an' what not. I shall be to

mother's, an' you can send Inspector Chown when you like. It had to come

'cause we was of a mind."

He looked proudly at Phoebe, but departed without speaking to her, and

silence followed his going. Mr. Lyddon stared blankly at the door

through which Will departed, then his rage broke forth.

"Curse the wretch! Curse him to his dying day! An' I'll do more--more

than that. What he can suffer he shall, and if I've got to pay my last

shilling to get him punishment I'll do it--my last shilling I'll pay."

He had not regarded his daughter or spoken to her since his words at

their first meeting; and now, still ignoring Phoebe's presence, he began

eagerly debating with Billy Blee as to what law might have power to do.

The girl, wisely enough, kept silence, ate a little food, and then went

quietly away to her bed. She was secretly overjoyed at Will's return and

near presence; but another visitor might be expected at any moment, and

Phoebe knew that to be in bed before the arrival of John Grimbal would

save her from the necessity of a meeting she much feared. She entered

upon her wedding-night, therefore, while the voices below droned on, now

rising, now falling; then, while she was saying her prayers with half

her mind on them, the other half feverishly intent on a certain sound,

it came. She heard the clink, clink of the gate, thrown wide open and

now swinging backwards and forwards, striking the hasp each time; then a

heavy step followed it, feet strode clanging down the passage, and the

bull roar of a man's voice fell on her ear. Upon this she huddled under

the clothes, but listened for a second at long intervals to hear when he

departed. The thing that had happened, however, since her husband's

departure and John Grimbal's arrival, remained happily hidden from

Phoebe until next morning, by which time a climax in affairs was past

and the outcome of tragic circumstances fully known.

When Blanchard left the farm, he turned his steps very slowly homewards,

and delayed some minutes on Rushford Bridge before appearing to his

mother. For her voice he certainly yearned, and for her strong sense to

throw light upon his future actions; but she did not know everything

there was to be known and he felt that with himself, when all was said,

lay decision as to his next step. While he reflected a new notion took

shape and grew defined and seemed good to him.

"Why not?" he said to himself, aloud. "Why not go back? Seeing the

provocation--they might surely--?" He pursued the idea silently and came

to a determination. Yet the contemplated action was never destined to be

performed, for now an accident so trifling as the chance glimmer of a

lucifer match contributed to remodel the scheme of his life and wholly

shatter immediate resolutions. Craving a whiff of tobacco, without which

he had been since morning, Will lighted his pipe, and the twinkle of

flame as he did so showed his face to a man passing across the bridge at

that moment. He stopped in his stride, and a great bellow of wrath

escaped him, half savage, half joyful.

"By God! I didn't think to meet so soon!"

Here was a red-hot raving Nemesis indeed; and Will, while prepared for a

speedy meeting with his enemy, neither expected nor desired an encounter

just then. But it had come, and he knew what was before him. Grimbal,

just returned from a long day's sport, rode back to his hotel in a good

temper. He drank a brandy-and-soda at the bar, then went up to his rooms

and found Phoebe's letter; whereupon, as he was in muddy pink, he set

off straight for Monks Barton; and now he stood face to face with the

man on earth he most desired to meet. By the light of his match Will saw

a red coat, white teeth under a great yellow moustache, and a pair of

mad, flaming eyes, hungry for something. He knew what was coming, moved

quickly from the parapet of the bridge, and flung away his pipe to free

his hands. As he did so the other was on him. Will warded one tremendous

stroke from a hunting-crop; then they came to close quarters, and

Grimbal, dropping his whip, got in a heavy half-arm blow on his enemy's

face before they gripped in holds. The younger man, in no trim for

battle, reeled and tried to break away; but the other had him fast,

picked him clean off the ground, and, getting in his weight, used a

Yankee throw, with intent to drop Will against the granite of the

bridge. But though Blanchard went down like a child before the attack,

he disappeared rather than fell; and in the pitchy night it seemed as

though some amiable deity had caught up the vanquished into air. A

sudden pressure of the low parapet against his own legs as he staggered

forward, told John Grimbal what was done and, at the same moment, a

tremendous splash in the water below indicated his enemy's dismal

position. Teign, though not in flood at the time, ran high, and just

below the bridge a deep pool opened out. Around it were rocks upon which

rose the pillars of the bridge. No sound or cry followed Will

Blanchard's fall; no further splash of a swimmer, or rustle on the

river's bank, indicated any effort from him. Grimbal's first instincts

were those of regret that revenge had proved so brief. His desire was

past before he had tasted it. Then for a moment he hesitated, and the

first raving lust to kill Phoebe's husband waned a trifle before the

sudden conviction that he had done so. He crept down to the river,

ploughed about to find the man, questioning what he should do if he did

find him. His wrath waxed as he made search, and he told himself that he

should only trample Blanchard deeper into water if he came upon him. He

kicked here and there with his heavy boots; then abandoned the search

and proceeded to Monks Barton.

Into the presence of the miller he thundered, and for a time said

nothing of the conflict from which he had come. The scene needs no

special narration. Vain words and wishes, oaths and curses, filled John

Grimbal's mouth. He stamped on the floor, finding it impossible to

remain motionless, roared the others down, loaded the miller with bitter

reproaches for his blindness, silenced Mr. Blee on every occasion when

he attempted to join the discussion. The man, in fine, exhibited that

furious, brute passion and rage to be expected from such a nature

suddenly faced with complete dislocation of cherished hopes. His life

had been a long record of success, and this tremendous reverse, on his

first knowledge of it, came near to unhinge John Grimbal's mind. Storm

succeeded storm, explosion followed upon explosion, and the thought of

the vanity of such a display only rendered him more frantic. Then chance

reminded the raging maniac of that thing he had done, and now, removed

from the deed by a little time, he gloried in it.

"Blast the devil--short shrift he got--given straight into my hand! I

swore to kill him when I heard it; an' I have--pitched him over the

bridge and broken his blasted neck. I'd burn in ragin' hell through ten

lifetimes to do it again. But that's done once for all. And you can tell

your whore of a daughter she's a widow, not a wife!"

"God be gude to us!" cried Billy, while Mr. Lyddon started in dismay.

"Is this true you'm tellin'? Blue murder? An' so, like's not, his awn

mother'll find un when she goes to draw water in the marnin'!"

"Let her, and his sister, too; and my God-damned brother! All in

it--every cursed one of 'em. I'd like--I'd like--Christ--"

He broke off, was silent for a moment, then strode out of the room

towards the staircase. Mr. Lyddon heard him and rushed after him with

Billy. They scrambled past and stood at the stair-foot while Grimbal

glanced up in the direction of Phoebe's room, and then glared at the two

old men.

"Why not, you doddering fools? Can you still stand by her, cursed jade

of lies? My work's only half done! No man's ever betrayed me but he's

suffered hell for it; and no woman shall."

He raged, and the two with beating hearts waited for him.

Then suddenly laughing aloud, the man turned his back, and passed into

the night without more words.

"Mad, so mad as any zany!" gasped Mr. Blee. "Thank God the whim's took

un to go. My innards was curdlin' afore him!"

The extravagance of Grimbal's rage had affected Mr. Lyddon also. With

white and terrified face he crept after Grimbal, and watched that

tornado of a man depart.

"My stars! He do breathe forth threatenings and slaughters worse 'n in

any Bible carater ever I read of," said the miller, "and if what he sez

be true--"

"I'll wager 't is. Theer 's method in him. Your son-in-law, if I may say

it, be drownded, sure 's death. What a world!"

"Get the lanterns and call Sam Bonus. He must stand to this door an' let

no man in while we 'm away. God send the chap ban't dead. I don't like

for a long-cripple to suffer torture."

"That's your high religion. An' I'll carry the brandy, for 't is a

liquor, when all 's said, what 's saved more bodies in this world than

it 's damned sawls in the next, an' a thing pleasant, tu, used with

sense--specially if a man can sleep 'fore 't is dead in un."

"Hurry, hurry! Every minute may mean life or death. I'll call Bonus; you

get the lanterns."

Ten minutes later a huge labourer stood guard over Monks Barton, and the

miller, with his man, entered upon their long and fruitless search. The

thaw had come, but glimmering ridges of snow still outlined the bases of

northern-facing hedges along the river. With infinite labour and some

difficulty they explored the stream, then, wet and weary, returned by

the southern bank to their starting-point at Rushford Bridge. Here Billy

found a cloth cap by the water's edge, and that was the only evidence of

Will's downfall. As they clambered up from the river Mr. Lyddon noted

bright eyes shining across the night, and found that the windows of Mrs.

Blanchard's cottage were illuminated.

"They 'm waitin' for him by the looks of it," he said. "What ought us to

do, I wonder?"

Billy never objected to be the bearer of news, good or ill, so that it

was sensational; but a thought struck him at seeing the lighted windows.

"Why, it may be he's theer! If so, then us might find Grimbal didn't

slay un arter all. 'T was such a miz-maze o' crooked words he let fly

'pon us, that perhaps us misread un."

"I wish I thought so. Come. Us can ax that much."

A few minutes later they stood at Mrs. Blanchard's door and knocked. The

widow herself appeared, fully dressed, wide awake, and perfectly

collected. Her manner told Mr. Lyddon nothing.

"What might you want, Miller?"

"'T is Will. There's bin blows struck and violence done, I hear."

"I can tell 'e the rest. The bwoy's paid his score an' got full measure.

He wanted to be even with you, tu, but they wouldn't let un."

"If he ban't dead, I'll make him smart yet for his evil act."

"I warned 'e. He was cheated behind his back, an' played with the same

cards what you did, and played better."

"Wheer is he now? That's what I want to knaw."

"Up in the house. They met on the bridge an' Grimbal bested him, Will

bein' weary an' empty-bellied. When the man flinged him in the stream,

he got under the arch behind the rocks afore he lost his head for a time

and went senseless. When he comed to he crawled up the croft and I let

un in."

"Thank God he's not dead; but punishment he shall have if theer's

justice in the land."

"Bide your time. He won't shirk it. But he's hurted proper; you might

let Jan Grimbal knaw, 't will ease his mind."

"Not it," declared Billy; "he thought he'd killed un; cracked the neck

of un."

"The blow 'pon his faace scatted abroad his left nostril; the fall

brawked his arm, not his neck; an' the spurs t' other was wearin' tored

his leg to the bone. Doctor's seen un; so tell Grimbal. Theer's pleasure

in such payment."

She spoke without emotion, and showed no passion against the master of

the Red House. When Will had come to her, being once satisfied in her

immediate motherly agony that his life was not endangered, she allowed

her mind a sort of secret, fierce delight at his performance and its

success in the main issue. She was proud of him at the bottom of her

heart; but before other eyes bore herself with outward imperturbability.

"You'll keep the gal, I reckon?" she said quietly; "if you can hold hand

off Will till he'm on his legs again, I'd thank you."

"I shall do what I please, when I please; an' my poor fule of a daughter

stops with me as long as I've got power to make her."

"Hope you'll live to see things might have been worse."

"That's impossible. No worse evil could have fallen upon me. My grey

hairs a laughing-stock, and your awn brother's hand in it. He knawed

well enough the crime he was committing."

"You've a short memory, Miller. I lay Jan Grimbal knaws the reason if

you doan't. The worm that can sting does, if you tread on it. Gude-night

to 'e."

"An' how do you find yourself now?" Billy inquired, as his master and he

returned to Monks Barton.

"Weary an' sick, an' filled with gall. Was it wrong to make the match,

do 'e think, seein' 't was all for love of my cheel? Was I out to push

so strong for it? I seem I done right, despite this awful mischance."

"An' so you did; an' my feelin's be the same as yours to a split hair,

though I've got no language for em at this unnatural hour of marnin',"

said Billy.

Then in silence, to the bobbing illumination of their lanterns, Mr.

Lyddon and his familiar dragged their weary bodies home.

CHAPTER XI

LOVE AND GREY GRANITE

The lofty central area of Devon has ever presented a subject of

fascination to geologists; and those evidences of early man which adorn

Dartmoor to-day have similarly attracted antiquarian minds for many

generations past. But the first-named student, although his researches

plunge him into periods of mundane time inconceivably more remote than

that with which the archaeologist is concerned, yet reaches conclusions

more definite and arrives at a nearer approximation to truth than any

who occupy themselves in the same area with manifold and mysterious

indications of early humanity's sojourn. The granite upheaval during

that awful revolt of matter represented by the creation of Dartmoor has

been assigned to a period between the Carboniferous and Permian eras;

but whether the womb of one colossal volcano or the product of a

thousand lesser eruptions threw forth this granite monster, none may yet

assert. Whether Dartmoor first appeared as a mighty shield, with one

uprising spike in its midst, or as a target supporting many separate

bosses cannot be declared; for the original aspect of the region has

long vanished, though our worn and weathered land of tors still shadows,

in its venerable desolation, those sublimer, more savage glories

manifested ere the eye of man or beast existed to receive an image of

them.

But the earliest human problems presented by Devon's watershed admit of

no sure solution, albeit they date from a time adjacent contrasted with

that wherein the land was born. Nature's message still endures for man

to read as his knowledge grows; but the records of our primal fellows

have grown dim and uncertain as the centuries rolled over them. There

exists, however, within the lofty, lonely kingdom of the granite, a

chain of human evidences extending from prehistoric ages to the ruined

shepherd's cot of yesterday. At many spots a spectator may perceive in

one survey the stone ruin of the Danmonian's habitation, and hypaethral

temple or forum, the heather-clad debris left by Elizabethan streamers

of alluvial tin, the inky peat-ridges from which a moorman has just cut

his winter firing. But the first-named objects, with kindred fragments

that have similarly endured, chiefly fire imagination. Seen grey at

gloaming time, golden through sunny dawns, partaking in those spectral

transformations cast upon the moor by the movement of clouds, by the

curtains of the rain, by the silver of breaking day, the monotone of

night and the magic of the moon, these relics reveal themselves and

stand as a link between the present and the far past. Mystery broods

over them and the jealous wings of the ages hide a measure of their

secret. Thus far these lonely rings of horrent stones and the alignments

between them have concealed their story from modern man, and only in

presence of the ancient pound, the foundations of a dwelling, the

monolith that marked a stone-man's sepulchre, the robbed cairn and naked

kistvaen, may we speak with greater certainty and, through the

glimmering dawn of history and the records of Britain's earliest foes,

burrow back to aboriginal man on Dartmoor. Then research and imagination

rebuild the eternal rings of granite and, erecting upon them tall domes

of thatch and skins on wattle ribs, conceive the early village like a

cluster of gigantic mushrooms, whose cowls are uplifted in that rugged

fastness through the night of time. We see Palaeolithic man sink into

mother earth before the superior genius of his Neolithic successor; and

we note the Damnonian shepherds flourishing in lonely lodges and

preserving their flocks from the wolf, while Egypt's pyramids were still

of modern creation, and the stars twinkled in strange constellations,

above a world innocent as yet of the legends that would name them. The

stone-workers have vanished away, but their labour endures; their

fabricated flints still appear, brought to light from barrows and

peat-ties, from the burrows of rabbits and the mounds of the antiquary

mole; the ruins of their habitations, the theatres of their assemblies

and unknown ceremonies still stand, and probably will continue so to do

as long as Dartmoor's bosom lies bare to the storm and stress of the

ages.

Modern man has also fretted the wide expanse, has scratched its surface

and dropped a little sweat and blood; but his mansion and his cot and

his grave are no more; plutonic rock is the only tablet on which any

human story has been scribbled to endure. Castles and manor-houses have

vanished from the moorland confines like the cloudy palaces of a dream;

the habitations of the mining folk shall not be seen to-day, and their

handiwork quickly returns to primitive waste; fern and furze hide the

robbed cairn and bury the shattered cross; flood and lightning and

tempest roam over the darkness of a region sacred to them, and man

stretches his hand for what Nature touches not; but the menhir yet

stands erect, the "sacred" circles are circles still, and these, with

like records of a dim past, present to thinking travellers the crown and

first glory of the Moor. Integral portions of the ambient desolation are

they--rude toys that infant humanity has left in Mother Nature's lap;

and the spectacle of them twines a golden thread of human interest into

the fabric of each lonely heath, each storm-scarred mountain-top and

heron-haunted stream. Nothing is changed since skin-clad soldiers and

shepherds strode these wastes, felt their hearts quicken at sight of

women, or their hands clench over celt-headed spears before danger. Here

the babies of the stone-folk, as the boys and girls to-day, stained

their little mouths and ringers with fruit of briar and whortle; the

ling bloomed then as now; the cotton-grass danced its tattered plume;

the sphagnum mosses opened emerald-green eyes in marsh and quaking bog;

and hoary granite scattered every ravine and desert valley. About those

aboriginal men the Moor spread forth the same horizon of solemn

enfolding hills, and where twinkle the red hides of the moor-man's

heifers through upstanding fern, in sunny coombs and hawthorn thickets,

yesterday the stone-man's cattle roamed and the little eyes of a hidden

bear followed their motions. Here, indeed, the first that came in the

flesh are the last to vanish in their memorials; here Nature, to whom

the hut-circle of granite, all clad in Time's lichen livery of gold and

grey, is no older than the mushroom ring shining like a necklace of

pearls within it--Nature may follow what course she will, may build as

she pleases, may probe to the heart of things, may pursue the eternal

Law without let from the pigmies; and here, if anywhere from man's

precarious standpoint, shall he perceive the immutable and observe a

presentment of himself in those ephemera that dance above the burn at

dawn, and ere twilight passes gather up their gauze wings and perish.

According to individual temperament this pregnant region attracts and

fascinates the human spectator or repels him. Martin Grimbal loved

Dartmoor and, apart from ties of birth and early memories, his natural

predilections found thereon full scope and play. He was familiar with

most of those literary productions devoted to the land, and now

developed an ambition to add some result of personal observation and

research to extant achievements. He went to work with method and

determination, and it was not until respectable accumulations of notes

and memoranda already appeared as the result of his labours that the man

finally--almost reluctantly--reconciled himself to the existence of

another and deeper interest in his life than that furnished by the grey

granite monuments of the Moor. Hide it from himself he could no longer,

nor yet wholly from others. As in wild Devon it is difficult at any time

to escape from the murmur of waters unseen, so now the steady flood of

this disquieting emotion made music at all waking hours in Martin's

archaeologic mind, shattered his most subtle theories unexpectedly, and

oftentimes swept the granite clean out of his head on the flood of a

golden river.

After three months of this beautiful but disquieting experience, Martin

resigned himself to the conclusion that he was in love with Chris

Blanchard. He became very cautious and timid before the discovery. He

feared much and contemplated the future with the utmost distrust. Doubt

racked him; he checked himself from planning courses of conduct built on

mad presumptions. By night, as a sort of debauch, in those hours when

man is awake and fancy free, he conceived of a happy future with Chris

and little children about him; at morning light, if any shadow of that

fair vision returned, he blushed and looked round furtively, as though

some thought-reader's cold eye must be sneering at such presumption. He

despaired of finding neutral ground from which his dry mind could make

itself attractive to a girl. Now and again he told himself that the new

emotion must be crushed, in that it began to stand between him and the

work he had set himself to do for his county; but during more sanguine

moods he challenged this decision and finally, as was proper and right,

the flood of the man's first love drowned menhir and hut-circle fathoms

deep, and demanded all his attention at the cost of mental peace. An

additional difficulty appeared in the fact that the Blanchard family

were responsible for John Grimbal's misfortune; and Martin, without

confusing the two circumstances, felt that before him really lay the

problem of a wife or a brother. When first he heard of the event that

set Chagford tongues wagging so briskly, he rightly judged that John

would hold him one of the conspirators; and an engagement to Chris

Blanchard must certainly confirm the baffled lover's suspicions and part

the men for ever. But before those words, as they passed through his

brain, Martin Grimbal stopped, as the peasant before a shrine. "An

engagement to Chris Blanchard!" He was too much a man and too deep

merged in love to hesitate before the possibility of such unutterable

happiness.

For his brother he mourned deeply enough, and when the thousand rumours

bred of the battle on the bridge were hatched and fluttered over the

countryside, Martin it was who exerted all his power to stay them. Most

people were impressed with the tragic nature of the unfortunate John's

disappointment; but his energetic measures since the event were held to

pay all scores, and it was believed the matter would end without any

more trouble from him. Clement Hicks entertained a different opinion,

perhaps judging John Grimbal from the secrets of his own character; but

Will expressed a lively faith that his rival must now cry quits, after

his desperate and natural but unsuccessful attempt to render Phoebe a

widow. The shattered youth took his broken bones very easily, and only

grunted when he found that his wife was not permitted to visit him under

any pretence whatever; while as for Phoebe, her wild sorrow gradually

lessened and soon disappeared as each day brought a better account of

Will. John Grimbal vanished on the trip which was to have witnessed his

honeymoon. He pursued his original plans with the modification that

Phoebe had no part in them, and it was understood that he would return

to Chagford in the spring.

Thus matters stood, and when his brother was gone and Will and Phoebe

had been married a month, Martin, having suffered all that love could do

meantime, considered he might now approach the Blanchards. Ignorantly he

pursued an awkward course, for wholly unaware that Clement Hicks felt

any interest in Will and his sister beyond that of friendship, Martin

sought from him the general information he desired upon the subject of

Chris, her family and concerns.

Together the two men went upon various excursions to ancient relics that

interested them both, though in different measure. It was long before

Martin found courage to bring forth the words he desired to utter, but

finally he managed to do so, in the bracing conditions that obtained on

Cosdon Beacon upon the occasion of a visit to its summit. By this time

he had grown friendly with Hicks and must have learnt all and more than

he desired to know but for the bee-keeper's curious taciturnity. For

some whim Clement never mentioned his engagement; it was a subject as

absent from his conversation as his own extreme poverty; but while the

last fact Martin had already guessed, the former remained utterly

concealed from him. Neither did any chance discover it until some time

afterwards.

The hut-circles on Cosdon's south-eastern flank occupied Martin's

pencil. Clement gazed once upon the drawing, then turned away, for no

feeling or poetry inspired the work; it was merely very accurate. The

sketches made, both men ascended immense Cosdon, where its crown of

cairns frets the long summit; and here, to the sound of the wind in the

dead heather, with all the wide world of Northern Devon extended beneath

his gaze under a savage sunset, Martin found courage to speak. At first

Hicks did not hear. His eyes were on the pageant of the sky and paid

tribute of sad thought before an infinity of dying cloud splendours. But

the antiquary repeated his remark. It related to Will Blanchard, and

upon Clement dropping a monosyllabic reply his companion continued:

"A very handsome fellow, too. Miss Blanchard puts me in mind of him."

"They're much alike in some things. But though Chris knows her brother

to be good to look at, you'll never get Will to praise her. Funny, isn't

it? Yet to his Phoebe, she's the sun to a star."

"I think so too indeed. In fact, Miss Blanchard is the most beautiful

woman I ever saw."

Clement did not answer. He was gazing through the sunset at Chris, and

as he looked he smiled, and the sadness lifted a little from off his

face.

"Strange some lucky fellow has not won her before now," proceeded the

other, glancing away to hide the blush that followed his diplomacy.

Here, by all experience and reason, and in the natural sequence of

events Clement Hicks might have been expected to make his confession and

rejoice in his prize, but for some cause, from some queer cross-current

of disposition, he shut his mouth upon the greatest fact of his life. He

answered, indeed, but his words conveyed a false impression. What

sinister twist of mind was responsible for his silence he himself could

not have explained; a mere senseless monkey-mischief seemed to inspire

it. Martin had not deceived him, because the elder man was unused to

probing a fellow-creature for facts or obtaining information otherwise

than directly. Clement noted the false intonation and hesitation,

recollected his sweetheart's allusion to Martin Grimbal, and read into

his companion's question something closely akin to what in reality lay

behind it. His discovery might have been expected to hasten rather than

retard the truth, and a first impulse in any man had made the facts

instantly clear; but Clement rarely acted on impulse. His character was

subtle, disingenuous, secretive. Safe in absolute possession, the

discovery of Martin's attachment did not flutter him. He laughed in his

mind; then he pictured Chris the wife of this man, reviewed the worldly

improvement in her position such a union must effect, and laughed no

more. Finally he decided to hold his peace; but his motives for so doing

were not clear even to himself.

"Yes," he answered, "but she's not one to give her hand without her

heart."

These words, from Martin's point of view, embraced a definite assurance

that Chris was free; and, as they walked homewards, he kept silence upon

this thought for the space of half an hour. The uneasy hopes and black

fears of love circled him about. Perhaps his timorous mind, in some

moods, had been almost relieved at declaration of the girl's engagement

to another. But now the tremendous task of storming a virgin heart lay

ahead of him, as he imagined. Torments unfelt by those of less sensitive

mould also awaited Martin Grimbal. The self-assertive sort of man, who

rates himself as not valueless, and whose love will not prevent callous

calculation on the weight of his own person and purse upon the argument,

is doubtless wise in his generation, and his sanguine temperament

enables him to escape oceans of unrest, hurricanes of torment; but

self-distrust and humility have their value, and those who are oppressed

by them fall into no such pitiable extreme as that too hopeful lover on

whose sanguine ear "No" falls like a thunderbolt from red lips that were

already considered to have spoken "Yes." A suitor who plunges from lofty

peaks of assured victory into failure falls far indeed; but Martin

Grimbal stood little chance of suffering in that sort as his brother

John had done.

The antiquary spoke presently, fearing he must seem too self-absorbed,

but Clement had little to say. Yet a chance meeting twisted the

conversation round to its former topic as they neared home. Upon

Chagford Bridge appeared Miller Lyddon and Mr. Blee. The latter had been

whitewashing the apple-tree stems--a course to which his master attached

more importance than that pursued on Old Christmas Eve--and through the

gathering dusk the trunks now stood out livid and wan as a regiment of

ghosts.

"Heard from your brother since he left?" Mr. Lyddon inquired after

evening greetings.

"I cannot yet. I hope he may write, but you are more likely to hear than

I."

"Not me. I'm nothing to un now."

"Things will come right. Don't let it prey on your mind. No woman ever

made a good wife who didn't marry where her heart was," declared Martin,

exhibiting some ignorance of the subject he presumed to discuss.

"Ah! you was ag'in' us, I mind," said the miller, drawing in. "He said

as much that terrible night."

"He was wrong--utterly. I only spoke for his good. I saw that your

daughter couldn't stand the sight of him and shivered if he touched her.

It was my duty to speak. Strange you didn't see too."

"So easy to talk afterwards! I had her spoken word, hadn't I? She'd

never lied in all her life afore. Strange if I _had_ seen, I reckon."

"You frightened her into falsehood. Any girl might have been expected to

lie in that position," said Clement coolly; then Mr. Blee, who had been

fretting to join the conversation, burst into it unbidden.

"Be gormed if I ban't like a cat on hot bricks to hear 'e! wan might

think as Miller was the Devil hisself for cruelty instead o' bein', as

all knaws, the most muty-hearted[4] faither in Chagford."

[4] _Muty-hearted_ = soft-hearted.

"As to that, I doan't knaw, Billy," declared Mr. Lyddon stoutly; "I be a

man as metes out to the world same measure as I get from the world.

Right is right, an' law is law; an' if I doan't have the law of Will

Blanchard--"

"There's little enough you can do, I believe," said Hicks; "and what

satisfaction lies in it, I should like to know, if it's not a rude

question?"

The old man answered with some bitterness, and explained his power.

"William Blanchard's done abduction, according to Lawyer Bellamy of

Plymouth; an' abduction's felony, and that's a big thing, however you

look 'pon it."

"Long an' short is," cut in Billy, who much desired to air a little of

his new knowledge, "that he can get a sentence inside the limits of two

years, with or without hard labour; at mercy of judge and jury. That's

his dose or not his dose, 'cording to the gracious gudeness of Miller."

"Will's nearly ready to go," said Clement. "Let his arm once be

restored, and he'll do your hard labour with a good heart, I promise

you. He wants to please Mr. Lyddon, and will tackle two months or two

years or twenty."

"Two an' not a second less--with hard labour I'll wager, when all's

taken into account."

"Why are you so hot, Billy Blee? You're none the worse."

"Billy's very jealous for me, same as Elijah was for the Lard o' Hosts,"

said Mr. Lyddon.

Then Martin and Clement climbed the steep hill that lay between them and

Chagford, while the miller and his man pursued their way through the

valley.

CHAPTER XII

A STORY-BOOK

Despite the miller's explicit declaration, there was yet a doubt as to

what he might do in the matter of Will Blanchard. Six weeks is a period

of time that has often served to cool dispositions more fiery, purposes

more inflexible than those of Mr. Lyddon, and his natural placidity of

temperament, despite outbreaks, had begun to reassert itself. Billy

Blee, misunderstanding his master in this, suspected that the first

fires of rage were now sunk into a conflagration, not so visible, but

deeper and therefore more dangerous to the sufferer, if not to other

people. He failed to observe that each day of waiting lessened the

miller's desire towards action, and he continued to urge some step

against Will Blanchard, as the only road by which his master's peace of

mind might be regained. He went further, and declared delay to be very

dangerous for Mr. Lyddon's spleen and other physical organs. But though

humanity still prevented any definite step, Billy's master so far

adopted his advice as to see a solicitor and learn what the law's power

might be in the matter. Now he knew, as was recorded in the previous

chapter; and still Mr. Lyddon halted between two opinions. He usually

spoke on the subject as he had spoken to Martin Grimbal and Clement

Hicks; but in reality he felt less desire in the direction of revenge

than he pretended. Undoubtedly his daughter contributed not a little to

this irresolution of mind. During the period of Will's convalescence,

his wife conducted herself with great tact and self-restraint. Deep love

for her father not only inspired her, but also smoothed difficulties

from a road not easy. Phoebe kept much out of sight until the miller's

first dismay and sorrow had subsided; then she crept back into her old

position and by a thousand deft deeds and proper speeches won him again

unconsciously. She anticipated his unspoken desire, brightened his

every-day life by unobtrusive actions, preserved a bright demeanour,

never mentioned Will, and never contradicted her father when he did so.

Thus the matter stood, and Mr. Lyddon held his hand until young

Blanchard was abroad again and seeking work. Then he acted, as shall

appear. Before that event, however, incidents befell Will's household,

the first being an unexpected visit from Martin Grimbal; for the

love-sick antiquary nerved himself to this great task a week after his

excursion to Cosdon. He desired to see Will, and was admitted without

comment by Mrs. Blanchard. The sufferer, who sat at the kitchen fire

with his arm still in a sling, received Martin somewhat coldly, being

ignorant of the visitor's friendly intentions. Chris was absent, and

Will's mother, after hoping that Mr. Grimbal would not object to discuss

his business in the kitchen, departed and left the men together.

"Sit down," said Will. "Be you come for your brother or yourself?"

"For myself. I want to make my position clear. You must not associate me

with John in this affair. In most things our interests were the same,

and he has been a brother in a thousand to me; but concerning Miss--Mrs.

Blanchard--he erred in my opinion--greatly erred--and I told him so. Our

relations are unhappily strained, to my sorrow. I tell you this because

I desire your friendship. It would be good to me to be friends with you

and your family. I do not want to lose your esteem by a

misunderstanding."

"That's fair speech, an' I'm glad to hear 'e say it, for it ban't my

fault when a man quarrels wi' me, as anybody will tell 'e. An' mother

an' Chris will be glad. God knaws I never felt no anger 'gainst your

brother, till he tried to take my girl away from me. Flesh an' blood

weern't gwaine to suffer that."

"Under the circumstances, and with all the difficulties of your

position, I never could blame you."

"Nor Phoebe," said the other warmly. "I won't have wan word said against

her. Absolute right she done. I'm sick an' savage, even now, to think of

all she suffered for me. I grits my teeth by night when it comes to my

mind the mort o' grief an' tears an' pain heaped up for her--just

because she loved wan chap an' not another."

"Let the past go and look forward. The future will be happy presently."

"In the long run 't will for sure. Your brother's got all he wants, I

reckon, an' I doan't begrudge him a twinge; but I hope theer ban't no

more wheer that comed from, for his awn sake, 'cause if us met

unfriendly again, t' other might go awver the bridge, an' break worse 'n

his arm."

"No, no, Blanchard, don't talk and think like that. Let the past go. My

brother will return a wiser man, I pray, with his great disappointment

dulled."

"A gert disappointment! To be catched out stealin', an' shawed up for a

thief!"

"Well, forgive and forget. It's a valuable art--to learn to forget."

"You wait till you 'm faaced wi' such trouble, an' try to forget! But we

'm friends, by your awn shawm', and I be glad 't is so. Ax mother to

step in from front the house, will 'e? I'd wish her to know how we 'm

standin'."

Mrs. Blanchard appeared with her daughter, and subsequent conversation

banished a haunting sense of disloyalty to his brother from Martin's

mind. Chris never looked more splendid or more sweet than in that noon,

new come from a walk with Clement Hicks. Martin listened to her voice,

stayed as long as he dared, and then departed with many emotions

breaking like a storm upon his lonely life. He began to long for her

with overwhelming desire. He had scarcely looked at a woman till now,

and this brown-eyed girl of twenty, so full of life, so beautiful, set

his very soul helplessly adrift on the sea of love. Her sudden laugh,

like Will's, but softer and more musical, echoed in the man's ear as he

returned to his house and, in a ferment, tramped the empty rooms.

His own requirements had been amply met by three apartments, furnished

with sobriety and great poverty of invention; but now he pictured Chris

singing here, tripping about with her bright eyes and active fingers.

Like his brother before him, he fell back upon his money, and in

imagination spent many pounds for one woman's delight. Then from this

dream he tumbled back into reality and the recollection that his goddess

must be wooed and won. No man ever yet failed to make love from

ignorance how to begin, but the extent and difficulties of his

undertaking weighed very heavily on Martin Grimbal at this juncture. To

win even a measure of her friendship appeared a task almost hopeless.

Nevertheless, through sleepless nights, he nerved himself to the

tremendous attempt. There was not so much of self-consciousness in him,

but a great store of self-distrust. Martin rated himself and his powers

of pleasing very low; and unlike the tumultuous and volcanic methods of

John, his genius disposed him to a courtship of most tardy development,

most gradual ripening. To propose while a doubt existed of the answer

struck him as a proceeding almost beyond the bounds of man's audacity.

He told himself that time would surely show what chance or hope there

might be, and that opportunity must be left to sneak from the battle at

any moment when ultimate failure became too certainly indicated. In more

sanguine moods, however, by moonlight, or alone on the high moors,

greater bravery and determination awoke in him. At such times he would

decide to purchase new clothes and take thought for externals generally.

He also planned some studies in such concerns as pleased women if he

could learn what they might be. His first deliberate if half-hearted

attack relied for its effect upon a novel. Books, indeed, are priceless

weapons in the armory of your timid lover; and let but the lady discover

a little reciprocity, develop an unsuspected delight in literature, as

often happens, and the most modest volume shall achieve a practical

result as far beyond its intrinsic merit as above the writer's dream.

Martin, then, primed with a work of fiction, prayed that Chris might

prove a reader of such things, and called at Mrs. Blanchard's cottage

exactly one fortnight after his former visit. Chance favoured him to an

extent beyond his feeble powers to profit by. Will was out for a walk,

and Mrs. Blanchard being also from home, Martin enjoyed conversation

with Chris alone. He began well enough, while she listened and smiled.

Then he lost his courage and lied, and dragging the novel from his

pocket, asserted that he had bought the tale for her brother.

"A story-book! I doubt Will never read no such matter in his life, Mr.

Grimbal."

"But get him to try. It's quite a new thing. There's a poaching

adventure and so forth--all very finely done according to the critical

journals."

"He'll never sit down to that gert buke."

"You read it then, and tell him if it is good."

"Me! Well, I do read now and again, an' stories tu; but Will wouldn't

take my word. Now if Phoebe was to say 't was braave readin', he'd go

for it fast enough."

"I may leave it, at any rate?"

"Leave it, an' thank you kindly."

"How is Will getting on?"

"Quite well again. Awnly riled 'cause Mr. Lyddon lies so low. Clem told

us what the miller can do, but us doan't knaw yet what he will do."

"Perhaps he doesn't know himself," suggested Martin. The name of "Clem,"

uttered thus carelessly by her, made him envious. Then, inspired by the

circumstance, a request which fairly astounded the speaker by its valour

dropped on his listener's ear.

"By the way, don't call me 'Mr. Grimbal.' I hope you'll let me be

'Martin' in a friendly way to you all, if you will be so very kind and

not mind my asking."

The end of the sentence had its tail between its legs, but he got the

words cleanly out, and his reward was great.

"Why, of course, if you'd rather us did; an' you can call me 'Chris' if

you mind to," she said, laughing. "'T is strange you took sides against

your brother somehow to me."

"I haven't--I didn't--except in the matter of Phoebe. He was wrong

there, and I told him so,--"

He meant to end the sentence with the other's name, only the word stuck

in his throat; but "Miss Blanchard" he would not say, after her

permission, so left a gap.

"He'll not forgive 'e that in a hurry."

"Not readily, but some day, I hope. Now I must really go--wasting your

precious time like this; and I do hope you may read the book."

"That Will may?"

"No--yes--both of you, in fact. And I'll come to know whether you liked

it. Might I?"

"Whether Will liked it?"

She nodded and laughed, then the door hid her; while Martin Grimbal went

his way treading upon air. Those labourers whom he met received from him

such a "Good evening!" that the small parties, dropping back on Chagford

from their outlying toil, grinned inquiringly, they hardly knew at what.

Meantime, Chris Blanchard reflected, and the laughter faded out of her

eyes, leaving them grave and a little troubled. She was sufficiently

familiar with lovers' ways. The bold, the uncouth, the humble, and

timorous were alike within her experience. She watched this kind-faced

man grow hot and cold as he spoke to her, noted the admixture of

temerity and fear that divided his mind and appeared in his words. She

had seen his lips tremble and refuse to pronounce her name; and she

rightly judged that he would possibly repeat it aloud to himself more

than once before he slept that night. Chris was no flirt, and now

heartily regretted her light and friendly banter upon the man's

departure. "I be a silly fule, an' wouldn't whisper a word of this to

any but Clem," she thought, "for it may be nothing but the nervous way

of un, an' such a chap 's a right to seek a sight further 'n me for a

wife; an' yet they all 'pear the same, an' act the same soft sort o'

style when they 'm like it." Then she considered that, seeing what

friendship already obtained between Clement and Martin Grimbal, it was

strange the latter still went in ignorance. "Anyways, if I'm not wrong,

the sooner he 'm told the better, for he's a proper fashioned man," she

thought.

While Chris was still revolving this matter in her mind, Mrs. Blanchard

returned with some news.

"Postmistress stepped out of the office wi' this as I corned down the

village," she said. "'T is from Mrs. Watson, I fancy."

Her daughter brought a light, and the letter was perused. "Uncle 's took

bad," Mrs. Blanchard presently announced; "an' sends to say as he wants

me to go along an' help Sarah Watson nurse un."

"Him ill! I never thought he was made of stuff to be ill."

"I must go, whether or no. I'll take the coach to Moreton to-morrow."

Mrs. Blanchard mentally traversed her wardrobe as she drank tea, and had

already packed in anticipation before the meal was ended. Will, on

returning, was much perturbed at this bad news, for since his own

marriage Uncle Ford had become a hero among men to him.

"What's amiss she doan't say--Mrs. Watson--but it's more 'n a fleabite

else he wouldn't take his bed. But I hopes I'll have un to rights again

in a week or so. 'Mind me to take a bottle of last summer's Marshmally

brew, Chris. Doctors laugh at such physic, but I knaw what I knaw."

"Wonder if't would better him to see me?" mused Will.

"No, no; no call for that. You'll be fit to stand to work by Monday, so

mind your business an' traapse round an' look for it. Theer 's plenty

doin' 'pon the land now, an' I want to hear you' ve got a job 'fore I

come home. Husbands must work for two; an' Phoebe'll be on your hands

come less than a couple o' years."

"One year and five months and seven days 't is."

"Very well. You've got to mind a brace of things meantime; to make a

vitty home for her by the sweat of your body, an' to keep your hands off

her till she 'm free to come to 'e."

"Big things both, though I ban't afeared of myself afore 'em. I've

thought a lot in my time, an' be allowed to have sense an' spirit for

that matter."

"Spirit, ess fay, same as your faither afore you; but not so much sense

as us can see wi'out lightin' cannel."

"Wonder if Uncle Joel be so warm a man as he'd have us think sometimes

of an evenin' arter his hot whiskey an' water?" said Chris.

"Don't 'e count on no come-by-chance from him. He's got money, that I

knaw, but ban't gwaine to pass our way, for he tawld me so in as many

words. Sarah Watson will reap what he's sawed; an' who shall grumble? He

'm a just man, though not of the accepted way o' thinkin'."

"Why for didn't he marry her?" asked Will.

"Caan't tell'e, more'n the dead. Just a whim. I asked her same question,

when I was last to Newton, an' she said 't was to save the price of a

licence she reckoned, though in his way of life he might have got

matrimony cheap as any man. But theer 't is. Her 's bin gude as a wife

to un--an' better 'n many--this fifteen year."

"A very kind woman to me while I was biding along with uncle," said

Will. "All the same you should have some of the money."

"I'm well as I be. An' this dead-man-shoe talk's vain an' giddy. I lay

he'm long ways from death, an' the further the better. Now I be gwaine

to pack my box 'fore supper."

Mrs. Blanchard withdrew, and Chris, suddenly recollecting it, mentioned

Martin Grimbal's visit. Will laughed and read a page or two of the

story-book, then went out of doors to see Clement Hicks; and his sister,

with a spare hour before her while a rabbit roasted, sat near the spit

and occupied her mind with thought.

Will's business related to himself. He was weary of waiting for Mr.

Lyddon, and though he had taken care to let Phoebe know by Chris that

his arm was well and strong enough for the worst that might be found for

it to do, no notice was taken of his message, no sign escaped the

miller.

All interested persons had their own theories upon this silence. Mrs.

Blanchard suspected that Mr. Lyddon would do nothing at all, and Will

readily accepted this belief; but he found it impossible to wait with

patience for its verification. This indeed was the harder to him because

Clement Hicks predicted a different issue and foretold an action of most

malignant sort on the miller's part. What ground existed for attributing

any such deed to Mr. Lyddon was not manifest, but the bee-keeper stuck

to it that Will's father-in-law would only wait until he was in good

employment and then proceed to his confusion.

This conviction he now repeated.

"He's going to make you smart before he's done with you, if human

nature's a factor to rely upon. It's clear to me."

"I doan't think so ill of un. An' yet I ban't wishful to leave it to

chance. You, an' you awnly, knaw what lies hid in the past behind me.

The question is, should I take that into account now, or go ahead as if

it never had failed out?"

"Let it alone, as it has let you alone. Never rake it up again, and

forget it if you can. That's my advice to you. Forget you ever--"

"Hush!" said Will. "I'd rather not hear the word, even 'pon your lips."

They then discussed the main matter from the opposite vantage-grounds of

minds remote in every particular; but no promising procedure suggested

itself to either man, and it was not until upon his homeward way that

Will, unaided, arrived at an obvious and very simple conclusion. With

some glee he welcomed this idea.

"I'll just wait till Monday night," he said to himself, "an' then I'll

step right down to Miller, an' ax un what's in the wind, an' if I can

help his hand. Then he must speak if he's a man."

CHAPTER XIII

THE MILLER'S OFFER

Will, followed his determination and proceeded to Monks Barton on the

following Monday evening, at an hour when he knew that Mr. Lyddon would

have finished supper and be occupied about a pipe or a game of cards

with Mr. Blee. The old men occasionally passed an hour at "oaks" or

"cribbage" before retiring, but on this occasion they were engaged in

conversation, and both looked up with some surprise when Blanchard

appeared.

"You--you here again!" said the miller, and his mouth remained slightly

open after the words.

"You 'm allus setting sober hair on end--blessed if you ain't!" was

Billy's comment.

Will, for his part, made no introductory speeches, but went straight to

the point.

"Theer's my arm," he said, thrusting it out before him. "'T is mended so

neat that Doctor Parsons says no Lunnon bone-setter could have done it

better. So I've comed just to say theer's no call for longer waitin'. 'T

was a sportsmanlike thing in you, Miller Lyddon, to bide same as you

did; and now, if you'd set the law movin' an' get the job out o' hand,

I'd thank you kindly. You see, if they put me in for two year, 't will

leave mighty li'l time to get a home ready for Phoebe against the day

she comes of age."

"You needn't be at any trouble about that."

"But I shall be. Do 'e think my wife's gwaine to be any differ'nt to

lesser folks? A home she'll have, an' a braave, vitty home, tu, though

I've got to sweat blood for it. So if you'd take your bite so soon as

convenient, you'd sarve me."

"I doan't say you 'm axin' anything onreasonable," said Mr. Lyddon,

thoughtfully. "An' what might you think o'doin, when you comes out o'

prison?"

"First gude work that offers."

"Maybe you doan't kuaw that chaps whose last job was on the treadmill

finds it uncommon hard to get another?"

"Depends what they was theer for, I should reckon, Miller"

"Not a bit of it. Gaol-birds is all feathered alike inside clink, an'

honest men feathers 'em all alike when they come out," declared Will's

father-in-law.

"A sheer Cain, as no man will touch by the hand--that's what you'll be,"

added Billy, without apparent regret.

"If that's so," said Will, very calmly, "you'd best to think twice 'fore

you sends me. I've done a high-handed deed, bein' forced into the same

by happenings here when I went off last summer; but 't is auld history

now. I'd like to be a credit to 'e some time, not a misery for all time.

Why not--?" He was going to suggest a course of action more favourable

to himself than that promised; but it struck him suddenly that any

attitude other than the one in which he had come savoured of snivelling

for mercy. So he stopped, left a break of silence, and proceeded with

less earnestness in his voice.

"You've had a matter of eight weeks to decide in, so I thought I might

ax'e, man to man, what's gwaine to be done."

"I have decided," said the miller coldly; "I decided a week ago."

Billy started and his blue eyes blinked inquiringly. He sniffed his

surprise and said "Well!" under his breath.

"Ess, 't is so, I didn't tell 'e, Blee, 'cause I reckoned you'd try an'

turn me from my purpose, which wasn't to be done."

"Never--not me. I'm allus in flat agreement with 'e, same as any wise

man finds hisself all times."

"Well, doan't 'e take it ill, me keepin' it to myself."

"No, no--awnly seem' how--"

"If it 's all the same," interrupted Will, "I'd like to knaw what you 'm

gwaine for to do."

"I'm gwaine to do nort, Will Blanchard--nort at all. God He knaws you

've wronged me, an' more 'n me, an' her--Phoebe--worst of all; but I'll

lift no hand ag'in' you. Bide free an' go forrard your awn way--"

"To the Dowl!" concluded Billy.

There was a silence, then Will spoke with some emotion.

"You 'm a big, just man, Miller Lyddon; an' if theer was anything could

make me sorry for the past--which theer ban't--'t would be to knaw

you've forgived me."

"He ain't done no such thing!" burst out Mr. Blee. "Tellin' 'e to go to

the Dowl ban't forgivin' of 'e!"

"That was your word," answered Will hotly, "an' if you didn't open your

ugly mouth so wide, an' shaw such a 'mazing poor crop o' teeth same

time, me an' Miller might come to onderstanding. I be here to see him,

not you."

"Gar! you 'm a beast of a bwoy, looked at anyhow, an' I wouldn't have

no dealin's with 'e for money," snorted the old man.

"Theer we'll leave it then, Blanchard," said Mr. Lyddon, as Will turned

his back upon the last speaker without answering him. "Go your way an'

try to be a better man; but doan't ax me to forget what 's passed--no,

nor forgive it, not yet. I'll come to a Christian sight of it some day,

God willin'; but it 's all I can say that I bear you no ill-will."

"An' I'm beholden enough for that. You wait an' keep your eye on me.

I'll shaw you what's in me yet. I'll surprise 'e, I promise. Nobody in

these paarts 'cept mother, knaws what 's in me. But, wi'out boastful

words, I'll prove it. Because, Miller, I may assure 'e I'm a man as have

thought a lot in my time 'bout things in general."

"Ess, you'm a deep thinker, I doan't doubt. Now best to go; an', mind,

no dealins wi' Phoebe, for that I won't stand."

"I've thought that out, tu. I'll give 'e my word of honour 'pon that."

"Best to seek work t'other side the Moor, if you ax me. Then you'll be

out the way."

"As to that, I'd guessed maybe Martin Grimbal, as have proved a gert

friend to me an' be quite o' my way o' thinking, might offer garden work

while I looked round. Theer ban't a spark o' pride in me--tu much sense,

I hope, for that."

The miller sighed.

"You've done a far-reachin' thing, as hits a man from all sorts o'

plaaces, like the echo in Teign Valley. I caan't see no end to it yet."

"Martin Grimbal's took on Wat Widdicombe, so you needn't fule yourself

he'll give 'e work," snapped Mr. Blee.

"Well, theer be others."

And then that sudden smile, half sly, half sweet, leapt to Will's eyes

and brightened all his grave face, as the sun gladdens a grey sky after

rain.

"Look now, Miller Lyddon, why for shouldn't you, the biggest man to

Chagford, give me a bit of work? I ban't no caddlin'[5] chap, an' for

you--by God, I'd dig a mountain flat if you axed me!"

[5] _Caddling_ = loafing, idling.

"Well, I be gormed!" gasped Billy. It was a condition, though whether

physical or mental he only knew, to which Will reduced Mr. Blee upon

every occasion of their meeting.

"You hold your jaw an' let me talk to Mr. Lyddon. 'Tis like this, come

to look at it: who should work for 'e same as what I would? Who should

think for my wife's faither wi' more of his heart than me? I'd glory to

do a bit of work for 'e--aye, I would so, high or low; an' do it in a

way to make you rub your eyes!"

Billy saw the first-formed negative die still-born on his master's lips.

He began to cry out volubly that Monks Barton was over-manned, and that

scandal would blast every opening bud on the farm if such a thing

happened. Will glared at him, and in another moment Mr. Blee might have

suffered physically had not the miller lifted his hand and bid both be

silent.

For a full minute no man spoke, while in Mr. Lyddon's mind proceeded a

strange battle of ideas. Will's audacity awakened less resentment than

might have been foreseen. The man had bent before the shock of his

daughter's secret marriage and was now returning to his customary mental

condition. Any great altitude of love or extremity of hate was beyond

Mr. Lyddon's calibre. Life slipped away and left his forehead smooth.

Sorrow brought no great scars, joy no particular exaltation. This

temperament he had transmitted to Phoebe; and now she came into his mind

and largely influenced him. A dozen times he opened his mind to say

"No," but did not say it. Personal amiability could hardly have overcome

natural dislike of Blanchard at such a moment, but the unexpected

usually happens when weak natures are called upon to make sudden

decisions; and though such may change their resolve again and again at a

later date and before new aspects of the problem, their first hasty

determination will often be the last another had predicted from them.

A very curious result accrued from Mr. Lyddon's mental conflict, and it

was reached by an accidental train of thought. He told himself that his

conclusion was generous to the extreme of the Christian ideal; he

assured himself that few men so placed had ever before acted with such

notable magnanimity; but under this repeated mental asseveration there

spoke another voice which he stifled to the best of his power. The

utterance of this monitor may best be judged from what followed.

"If I gave you work you'd stand to it, Will Blanchard?" he asked at

length.

"Try me!"

"Whatsoever it might be?"

"Try me. Ban't for me to choose."

"I will, then. Come to-morrow by five, an' Billy shall show 'e what's to

do."

It would be difficult to say which, of those who heard the miller's

resolve received it with most astonishment. Will's voice was almost

tremulous.

"You'll never be sorry, never. I couldn't have hoped such a thing.

Caan't think how I comed to ax it. An' yet--but I'll buckle to anything

and everything, so help me. I'll think for 'e an' labour for 'e as no

hireling that was ever born could, I will. An' you've done a big,

grand-fashion thing, an' I'm yours, body an' bones, for it; an' you'll

never regret it."

The young man was really moved by an issue so unexpected. He had uttered

his suggestion on the spur of the moment, as he uttered most things, and

such a reception argued a greatness of heart and generosity of spirit

quite unparalleled in his experience. So he departed wishing all good on

Mr. Lyddon and meaning all good with his whole soul and strength.

When he had gone the miller spoke; but contrary to custom, he did not

look into Mr. Blee's face while so doing.

"You'm astonished, Billy," he said, "an' so be I, come to think of it.

But I'm gettin' tu auld to fret my life away with vain strife. I be

gwaine to prove un. He'd stand to anything, eh? 'Twas his word."

"An' well he might."

"Can 'e picture Blanchard cleaning out the pigs' house?"

"No fay!"

"Or worse?"

"Ah!"

They consulted, and it presently appeared that Mr. Lyddon deliberately

designed to set Will about the most degrading task the farm could

furnish.

"'Twill sting the very life of un!" said Billy gleefully, and he

proceeded to arrange an extremely trying programme for Will Blanchard.

"Doan't think any small spite leads me to this way of dealing with un,"

explained Mr. Lyddon, who knew right well that it was so. "But 'tis to

probe the stuff he's made of. Nothing should be tu hard for un arter

what he've done, eh?"

"You'm right. 'Tis true wisdom to chastise the man this way if us can,

an' shake his wicked pride."

Billy's genius lent itself most happily to this scheme. He applauded the

miller's resolution until his master himself began to believe that the

idea was not unjust; he ranged airily, like a blue-fly, from one

agglomeration of ordure to another; and he finally suggested a task, not

necessary to dwell on, but which reached the utmost height or depth of

originality in connection with such a subject. Mr. Lyddon laboured under

some shadow of doubt, but he quickly agreed when his man reminded him of

the past course of events.

"'Tis nothin', when all's said. Who'd doubt if he'd got to choose

between that or two year in gaol? He'm lucky, and I'll tell un so come

the marnin'."

Thus matters were left, and the miller retired in some secret shame, for

he had planned an act which, if great in the world's eye, had yet a dark

side from his own inner view of it; but Mr. Blee suffered no pang from

conscience upon the question. He heartily disliked Blanchard, and he

contemplated the morrow with keen satisfaction. If his sharp tongue had

power to deepen the wound awaiting Will's self-respect, that power would

certainly be exercised.

Meantime the youth himself passed homeward in a glow of admiration for

Mr. Lyddon.

"I'd lay down my life smilin' for un," he told Chris, who was astounded

at his news. "I'll think for un, an' act for un, till he'll feel I'm his

very right hand. An' if I doan't put a spoke in yellow Billy's wheel,

call me a fule. Snarling auld swine! But Miller! Theer's gude workin'

religion in that man; he'm a shining light for sartain."

They talked late upon this wondrous turn of fortune, then Will

recollected his mother and nothing would serve but that he wrote

instantly to tell her of the news.

"It'll cheer up uncle, tu, I lay," he said.

"A letter comed while you was out," answered Chris; "he'm holding his

awn, but 'tis doubtful yet how things be gwaine to fare in the upshot."

"Be it as 'twill, mother can do more 'n any other living woman could for

un," declared Will.

CHAPTER XIV

LOGIC

As Mr. Blee looked out upon a grey morning, the sallows leaping from

silver to gold, from bud to blossom, scattered brightness through the

dawn, and the lemon catkins of the hazel, the russet tassels of alders,

brought light along the river, warmth into the world. A bell beat five

from Chagford Church tower, and the notes came drowsily through morning

mists. Then quick steps followed on the last stroke of the hour and Will

stood by Billy's side in Monks Barton farmyard. The old man raised his

eyes from contemplation of a spade and barrow, bid Blanchard "Good

morning" with simulated heartiness, and led the way to work, while Will

followed, bringing the tools. They passed into a shrubbery of syringa

bushes twenty yards distant, and the younger man, whose humour had been

exceedingly amiable until that moment, now flushed to his eyes before

the spectacle of his labour.

"Do 'e mean that Miller's got nothin' for me to do but this?"

"Plenty, plenty, I 'sure 'e; but that ban't your business, be it?

Theer's the work, an' I'd rather 'twas yourn than mine. Light your pipe

an' go ahead. Not a purty job, more 'tis; but beggars mustn't be

choosers in this hard world."

Billy bolted after these remarks. He heard a growl behind him, but did

not look round. Half an hour later, he crept back again by a circuitous

route, watched Will awhile unseen, then stole grinning away to milk the

cows.

The young man, honestly thunderstruck at the task planned for him,

judged that thinking would not mend matters, and so began to work

quickly without stopping to reflect. But his thoughts could not be

controlled, any more than his disposition changed. A growing

consciousness of deep and deliberate insult surged up in him. The more

he brooded the slower he worked, and finally anger mastered

determination. He flung down his spade, saluted a red sunrise with the

worst language at his command, and strode down to the river. Here, for

some time and until blue smoke began to climb from the kitchen chimney

of the farm, Will paced about; then with a remarkable effort returned to

his task. He actually started again, and might have carried the matter

to completion; but an evil demon was abroad, and Billy, spying the young

man at work anew, reappeared.

"You'm makin' poor speed, my son," he said, viewing the other's progress

with affected displeasure.

It proved enough, for Will's smouldering fires were ready to leap at any

fuel.

"Go to blue, blazing hell!" he cried. "You'm at the bottom of this

business, I'll lay a pound. Get out o' my sight, you hookem-snivey auld

devil, or I'll rub your dirty ginger poll in it, sure's death!"

"My stars! theer's crooked words! Do 'e try an' keep tighter hand on

your temper, Blanchard. A man should knaw hisself anyways 'fore he has

the damn fulishness to take a wife. An' if you ax me--"

Mr. Blee's remarks were here brutally arrested, for the contents of

Will's spade saluted his furrowed features, and quite obliterated the

old man. He fled roaring, and the other flung his spade twenty yards

away, overturned his wheelbarrow, and again strode to the river. He was

fairly bubbling and boiling now, nor did the business of cleaning

gaiters and boots, arms and hands, restore him to peace. A black pig

gazed upon him and grunted as he came up from the water. It seemed to

him a reincarnation of Billy, and he kicked it hard. It fled screaming

and limping, while Will, his rage at full flood, proceeded through the

farmyard on his way home. But here, by unhappy chance, stood Mr. Lyddon

watching his daughter feed the fowls. Her husband ran full upon Phoebe,

and she blushed in a great wave of joy until the black scowl upon his

face told her that something was amiss. His evident anger made her

start, and the involuntary action upset her bowl of grain. For a moment

she stood motionless, looking upon him in fear, while at her feet fought

and struggled a cloud of feathered things around the yellow corn.

"If you've done your job, Will, may'st come and shaake Phoebe by the

hand," said Mr. Lyddon nervously, while he pretended not to notice the

other's passion.

"I haven't done it; and if I had, is a scavenger's hand fit to touch

hers?" thundered Blanchard. "I thought you was a man to swear by, and

follow through thick an' thin," he continued, "but you ban't. You'm a

mean, ill-minded sawl, as would trample on your awn flesh an' blood, if

you got the chance. Do your awn dirty work. Who be I that you should

call on me to wallow in filth to please your sour spite?"

"You hear him, you hear him!" cried out the miller, now angry enough

himself. "That's how I'm sarved for returnin' gude to his evil. I've

treated un as no man else on God's airth would have done; and this is

what I gets. He's mad, an' that's to speak kind of the wretch!"

The young wife could only look helplessly from one to the other. That

morning had dawned very brightly for her. A rumour of what was to happen

reached her on rising, but the short-lived hope was quickly shattered,

and though she had not seen him since their wedding-day, Phoebe was

stung into bitterness against Will at this juncture. She knew nothing of

particulars, but saw him now pouring harsh reproaches on her father, and

paying the miller's unexampled generosity with hard and cruel words. So

she spoke to her husband.

"Oh, Will, Will, to say such things! Do 'e love me no better 'n that? To

slight dear faither arter all he's forgiven!"

"If you think I'm wrong, say it, Phoebe," he answered shortly. "If you'm

against me, tu--"

"'Against you!' How can you speak so?"

"No matter what I say. Be you on his side or mine? 'Cause I've a right

to knaw."

"Caan't 'e see 'twas faither's gert, braave, generous thought to give 'e

work, an' shaw a lesson of gudeness? An' then we meet again--"

"Ess fay--happy meetin' for wife an' husband, me up to the eyes

in--Theer, any fule can see 'twas done a purpose to shame me."

"You're a fule to say it! 'Tis your silly pride's gwaine to ruin all

your life, an' mine, tu. Who's to help you if you've allus got the black

monkey on your shoulder like this here?"

"You'm a overbearin', headstrong madman," summed up the miller, still

white with wrath; "an' I've done with 'e now for all time. You've had

your chance an' thrawed it away."

"He put this on me because I was poor an' without work."

"He didn't," cried the girl, whose emotions for a moment took her clean

from Will to her father. "He never dreamed o' doin' any such thing. He

couldn't insult a beggar-man; an' you knaw it. 'Tis all your ugly,

wicked temper!"

"Then I'll take myself off, an' my temper, tu," said Will, and prepared

to do so; while Mr. Lyddon listened to husband and wife, and his last

hope for the future dwindled and died, as he heard them quarrel with

high voices. His daughter clung to him and supported his action, though

what it had been she did not know.

"Caan't 'e see you're breakin' faither's heart all awver again just as

'twas mendin'?" she said. "Caan't 'e sing smaller, if 'tis awnly for

thought of me? Doan't, for God's love, fling away like this."

"I met un man to man, an' did his will with a gude thankful heart, an'

comed in the dawn to faace a job as--"

"'Tweren't the job, an' you knaw it," broke in Mr. Lyddon. "I wanted to

prove 'e an' all your fine promises; an' now I knaw their worth, an'

your worth. An' I curse the day ever my darter was born in the world,

when I think she'm your wife, an' no law can break it."

He turned and went into the house, and Phoebe stood alone with her

husband.

"Theer!" cried Will. "You've heard un. That was in his heart when he

spoke me so fair. An' if you think like he do, say it. Lard knaws I

doan't want 'e no more, if you doan't want me!"

"Will! How can you! An' us not met since our marriage-day. But you'm

cruel, cruel to poor faither."

"Say so, an' think so; an' b'lieve all they tell 'e 'gainst your lawful

husband; an' gude-bye. If you'm so poor-spirited as to see your man do

thicky work, you choosed wrong. Not that 'tis any gert odds. Stop along

wi' your faither as you loves so much better 'n me. An' doan't you fear

I'll ever cross his threshold again to anger un, for I'd rather blaw my

brains out than do it."

He shook and stuttered with passion; his eyes glowed, his lips changed

from their natural colour to a leaden blue. He groped for the gate when

he reached it, and passed quickly out, heedless of Phoebe's sorrowful

cry to him. He heard her light step following and only hastened his

speed for answer. Then, hurrying from her, a wave of change suddenly

flowed upon his furious mind, and he began to be very sorry. Presently

he stopped and turned, but she had stayed her progress by now, and for a

moment's space stood and watched him, bathed in tears. At the moment

when he hesitated and looked back, however, his wife herself had turned

away and moved homewards. Had she been standing in one place, Will's

purposes would perchance have faded to air, and his arm been round her

in a moment; but now he only saw Phoebe retreating slowly to Monks

Barton; and he let her go.

Blanchard went home to breakfast, and though Chris discovered that

something was amiss, she knew him too well to ask any questions. He ate

in silence, the past storm still heaving in a ground-swell through his

mind. That his wife should have stood up against him was a sore thought.

It bewildered the youth utterly, and that she might be ignorant of all

details did not occur to him. Presently he told his wrongs to Chris, and

grew very hot again in the recital. She sympathised deeply, held him

right to be angry, and grew angry herself.

"He 'm daft," she said, "an' I'd think harder of him than I do, but that

he's led by the nose. 'Twas that auld weasel, Billy Blee, gived him the

wink to set you on a task he knawed you'd never carry through."

"Theer's truth in that," said Will; then he recollected his last meeting

with the miller's man, and suddenly roared with laughter.

"'Struth! What a picter he was! He agged an' agged at me till I got fair

mad, an'--well, I spiled his meal, I do b'lieve."

His merriment died away slowly in a series of long-drawn chuckles. Then

he lighted his pipe, watched Chris cleaning the cups and plates, and

grew glum again.

"'Twas axin' me--a penniless chap; that was the devil of it. If I'd been

a moneyed man wi'out compulsion to work, then I'd have been free to say

'No,' an' no harm done. De'e follow?"

"I'm thankful you done as you did. But wheer shall 'e turn now?"

"Doan't knaw. I'll lay I'll soon find work."

"Theer's some of the upland farms might be wanting harrowin' an' seed

plantin' done."

"Who's to Newtake, Gran'faither Ford's auld plaace, I wonder?"

"'Tis empty. The last folks left 'fore you went away. Couldn't squeeze

bare life out of it. That's the fourth party as have tried an' failed."

"Yet gran'faither done all right."

"He was a wonnerful man of business, an' lived on a straw a day, as

mother says. But the rest--they come an' go an' just bury gude money

theer to no better purpose than the gawld at a rainbow foot."

"Well, I'll go up in the village an' look around before Miller's got

time to say any word against me. He'll spoil my market if he can, I

knaw."

"He'd never dare!"

"I'd have taken my oath he wouldn't essterday. Now I think differ'nt. He

never meant friendship; he awnly wanted for me to smart. Clem Hicks was

right."

"Theer's Mr. Grimbal might give 'e work, I think. Go an' ax un, an' tell

un I sent 'e."

A moment later Chris was sorry she had made this remark.

"What be talkin' 'bout?" Will asked bluntly. "Tell un _you_ sent me?"

"Martin wants to be friends."

"'Martin,' is it?"

"He axed me to call un so."

"Do he knaw you'm tokened to Clem?"

"Caan't say. It almost 'peared as if he didn't last time he called."

"Then sooner he do the better. Axed you to call un 'Martin'!"

He stopped and mused, then spoke again.

"Our love-makin's a poor business, sure enough. I've got what I wanted

an', arter this marnin', could 'most find it in me to wish my cake was

dough again; an' you--you ain't got what you want, an' ban't no gert

sign you will, for Clem's the weakest hand at turnin' a penny ever I

met."

"I'll wait for un, whether or no," said Chris, fiercely. "I'll wait, if

need be, till we'm both tottling auld mumpheads!"

"Ess; an' when Martin Grimbal knaws that is so, 'twill be time enough to

ax un for work, I dare say,--not sooner. Better he should give Clem work

than me. I'd thought of him myself, for that matter."

"I've axed Clem to ax un long ago, but he won't."

"I'll go and see Clem right away. 'Tis funny he never let the man knaw

'bout you. Should have been the first thing he tawld un."

"Perhaps he thought 'twas so far off that--"

"Doan't care what he thought. Weern't plain dealin' to bide quiet about

that, an' I shall tell un so."

"Well, doan't 'e quarrel with Clem. He'm 'bout the awnly friend you've

got left now."

"I've got mother an' you. I'm all right. I can see as straight as any

man, an' all my brain-work in the past ban't gwaine to be wasted 'cause

wan auld miller fellow happens to put a mean trick on me. I'm above

caring. I just goes along and remembers that people has their failings."

"We must make allowance for other folk."

"So us must; an' I be allus doin' it; so why the hell doan't they make

allowance for me? That's why I boil awver now an' again--damn it! I gets

nought but kicks for my halfpence--allus have; an' I won't stand it from

mortal man much longer!"

Chris kept her face, for Will's views on conduct and man's whole duty to

man were no new thing.

"Us must keep patient, Will, 'specially with the auld."

"I be patient. It 'mazes me, looking back, to see what I have suffered

in my time. But a man's a man, not a post or a holy angel. Us wouldn't

hear such a deal about angels' tempers either if they'd got to faace all

us have."

"That's profanity an' wickedness."

"'Tis truth. Any fule can be a saint inside heaven; an' them that was

born theer and have flown 'bout theer all theer time, like birds in a

wood, did ought to be even-tempered. What's to cross'em?"

"You shouldn't say such things!"

Suddenly a light came into his eyes.

"I doan't envy 'em anyway. Think what it must be never to have no mother

to love 'e! They 'm poor, motherless twoads, for all their gold crowns

an' purple wings."

"Will! whatever will 'e say next? Best go to Clem. An' forget what I

spoke 'bout Martin Grimbal an' work. You was wiser'n me in that."

"I s'pose so. If a man ban't wiser 'n his sister, he's like to have poor

speed in life," said Will.

Then he departed, but the events of that day were still very far from an

end, and despite the warning of Chris, her brother soon stood on the

verge of another quarrel. It needed little to wake fresh storms in his

breast and he criticised Clement's reticence on the subject of his

engagement in so dictatorial and hectoring a manner that the elder man

quickly became incensed. They wrangled for half an hour, Hicks in

satirical humour, Will loud with assurances that he would have no

underhand dealings where any member of his family was concerned. Clement

presently watched the other tramp off, and in his mind was a dim

thought. Could Blanchard forget the past so quickly? Did he recollect

that he, Clement Hicks, shared knowledge of it? "He's a fool, whichever

way you look at him," thought the poet; "but hardly such a fool as to

forget that, or risk angering me of all men."

Later in the day Will called at a tap-room, drank half a pint of beer,

and detailed his injuries for the benefit of those in the bar. He asked

what man amongst them, situated as he had been, had acted otherwise; and

a few, caring not a straw either way, declared he had showed good pluck

and was to be commended; But the bulky Mr. Chapple--he who assisted

Billy Blee in wassailing Miller Lyddon's apple-trees--stoutly criticised

Will, and told him that his conduct was much to blame. The younger

argued against this decision and explained, with the most luminous

diction at his command, that 'twas in the offering of such a task to a

penniless man its sting and offence appeared.

"He knawed I was at low ebb an' not able to pick an' choose. So he gives

me a starvin' man's job. If I'd been in easy circumstances an' able to

say 'Yes' or 'No' at choice, I'd never have blamed un."

"Nonsense and stuff!" declared Mr. Chapple. "Theer's not a shadow of

shame in it."

"You'm Miller's friend, of coourse," said Will.

"'Tis so plain as a pike, I think!" squeaked a hare-lipped young man of

weak intellect who was also present. "Blanchard be right for sartain."

"Theer! If soft Gurney sees my drift it must be pretty plain," said

Will, in triumph.

"But as 'tis awnly him that does, lad," commented Mr. Chapple, drily,

"caan't say you've got any call to be better pleased. Go you back an' do

the job, like a wise man."

"I'd clear the peat out o' Cranmere Pool sooner!" said Will.

And he turned homewards again, wretched enough, yet fiercely prodding

his temper when it flagged, and telling himself repeatedly that he had

acted as became a man of spirit and of judgment. Then, upon a day

sufficiently leaden and dreary until that moment, burst forth sudden

splendours, and Will's life, from a standpoint of extreme sobriety in

time, instantly passed to rare brightness. Between the spot on the

highway where Chris met him and his arrival at home, the youth enjoyed

half a lifetime of glorious hopes and ambitions; but a cloud indeed

shadowed all this overwhelming joy in that the event responsible for his

change of fortune was itself sad.

While yet twenty yards from her brother Chris cried the news to him.

"He's dead--Uncle--he went quite sudden at the end; an' he'm to lie to

Chagford wi' gran'faither an' gran'mother."

"Dead! My God! An' I never seed un more! The best friend to me ever I

had--leastways I thought so till this marnin'."

"You may think so still."

"Ess, so I do. A kind man inside his skin. I knawed un better'n most

people--an' he meant well when he married me, out of pure love to us

both."

"He's left nobody no money but Mrs. Watson and you."

"If 'tis five pound, 'tis welcome to-day; an' if 'tis five shillin',

I'll thank un an' spend it 'pon a ring to wear for un. He was a gude

auld blid, an' I'm sorry he's gone."

"Will, Uncle's left 'e a thousand pound!"

"What! You'm jokin'."

"Solemn truth. 'Tis in mother's letter."

A rush of joy lighted up the young man's face. He said not a word; then

his eyes grew moist.

"To think as he could have loved a daft fule like me so well as that!

Me--that never done nothin'--no, not so much as to catch a dish of trout

for un, now an' again, when he was here."

"You couldn't, bein' water-keeper."

"What matter for that? I ought to have poached for un, seein' the manner

of man he was."

He kept silence for a while, then burst out--

"I'll buy the braavest marble stone can be cut. Nobody shall do it but

me, wi' doves or anchors or some such thing on it, to make it a fine

sight so long as the world goes on."

"Theer's plenty room 'pon the auld slate, for that matter," said Chris.

"Damn the auld slate! The man shall have white marble carvings, I tell

'e, if I've got to spend half the money buying 'em. He b'lieved in me;

he knawed I'd come to gude; an' I'm grateful to un."

During the evening Will was unusually silent and much busied with

thought. He knew little of the value of money, and a thousand pounds to

his mind represented possibilities wholly beyond the real power of that

sum to achieve. Chris presently visited the vicarage, and after their

supper, brother and sister sat late and discussed the days to come. When

the girl retired, Will's thoughts for a moment concerned themselves with

the immediate past rather than the future; and then it was that he

caught himself blankly before his own argument of the morning. To him

the force of the contention, now that his position was magically

changed, appeared strong as before. A little sophistry had doubtless

extricated him from this dilemma, but his nature was innocent of it, and

his face grew longer as the conclusion confronting him became more

clear. From his own logic--a mysterious abstraction, doubtless--he found

it difficult to escape without loss of self-respect. He still held that

the deed, impossible to him as a pauper, might be performed without

sacrifice of dignity or importance by a man of his present fortune. So

the muddle-headed youth saw his duty straight ahead of him; and he

regretted it heartily, but did not attempt to escape from it.

Ten minutes later, in his working clothes, he set out to Monks Barton,

carrying an old horn lantern that had swung behind his father's caravan

twenty years before. At the farm all lights were out save one in the

kitchen; but Will went about his business as silently as possible, and

presently found the spade where he had flung it, the barrow where he had

overthrown it in the morning. So he set to work, his pipe under his

nose, his thoughts afar off in a golden paradise built of Uncle Ford's

sovereigns.

Billy Blee, whose attic window faced out upon the northern side of the

farm, had gone to bed, but he was still awake, and the grunt of a

wheelbarrow quickly roused him. Gazing into the night he guessed what

was doing, dragged on his trousers, and hurried down-stairs to his

master.

The miller sat with his head on his hand. His pipe was out and the

"night-cap" Phoebe had mixed for him long ago, remained untasted.

"Guy Fawkes an 'angels! here's a thing! If that Jack-o'-lantern of a

bwoy ban't back again. He'm delvin' theer, for all the world like a

hobgoblin demon, red as blood in the flicker of the light. I fancied't

was the Dowl hisself. But 't is Blanchard, sure. Theer's some dark

thought under it, I'll lay, or else he wants to come around 'e again."

His master doubted not that Billy was dreaming, but he went aloft and

looked to convince himself. In silence and darkness they watched Will at

work. Then Mr. Blee asked a question as the miller turned to go.

"What in thunder do it mean?"

"God knaws, I doan't. The man or bwoy, or whatever you call un, beats

me. I ban't built to tackle such a piece as him. He's took a year off my

life to-day. Go to your bed, Billy, an' let un bide."

"Gormed if I wouldn't like to slip down an' scat un ower the head for

what he done to me this marnin'. Such an auld man as me, tu! weak in the

hams this ten year."

"But strong in the speech. Maybe you pricked him with a bitter word,

an'--theer, theer, if I ban't standin' up for the chap now! Yet if I've

wished un dead wance, I have fifty times since I first heard tell of un.

Get to bed. I s'pose us'll knaw his drift come to-morrow."

Mr. Lyddon and Billy retired, and both slept ere Will Blanchard's work

was done. Upon its completion he sought the cold nocturnal waters of the

river, and then did a thing he had planned an hour before. Entering the

farmyard, he flung a small stone at Phoebe's window in the thatch, then

another. But the first had roused his wife, for she lay above in

wakefulness and sorrow. She peeped out, saw Blanchard, knew him in the

lantern light, and opened the window.

"Will, my awn Will!" she said, with a throbbing voice.

"Ess fay, lovey! I knawed you'd sleep sweeter for hearin' tell I've done

the work."

"Done it?"

"Truth."

"It was a cruel, wicked shame; an' the blame's Billy Blee's, an' I've

cried my eyes out since I heard what they set you to do; an' I've said

what I thought; an' I'm sorry to bitterness about this marnin', dear

Will."

"'T is all wan now. I've comed into a mort of money, my Uncle Ford bein'

suddenly dead."

"Oh, Will, I could a'most jump out the window!"

"'T would be easier for me to come up-long."

"No, no; not for the world, Will!"

"Why for not? An' you that lovely, twinklin' in your white gownd, an' me

your lawful husband, an' a man o' money! Damned if I ain't got a mind to

climb up by the pear-tree!"

"You mustn't, you mustn't! Go away, dear, sweet Will. An' I'm so

thankful you've forgiven me for being so wicked, dear heart."

"Everybody'll ax to be forgiven now, I reckon; but you--theer ban't

nothin' to forgive you for. You can tell your faither I've forgived un

to-morrow, an' tell un I'm rich, tu. 'T will ease his mind. Theer, an'

theer, an theer!"

Will kissed his hand thrice, then vanished, and his wife shut her window

and, kneeling, prayed out thankful prayers.

As her husband crossed Rushford Bridge, his thought sped backward

through the storm and sunshine of past events. But chiefly he remembered

the struggle with John Grimbal and its sequel. For a moment he glanced

below into the dark water.

"'T is awver an' past, awver an' past," he said to himself. "I be at the

tail of all my troubles now, for theer's nought gude money an' gude

sense caan't do between 'em."

BOOK II

HIS ENTERPRISE

CHAPTER I

SPRINGTIME

Nature, waking at the song of woodland birds to find herself naked,

fashioned with flying fingers such a robe of young green and amber,

hyacinth and pearl as only she can weave or wear. A scent of the season

rose from multitudinous "buds, and bells, and stars without a name";

while the little world of Devon, vale and forest, upland and heathery

waste, rejoiced in the new life, as it rang and rippled with music and

colour even to the granite thrones of the Moor. Down by the margin of

Teign, where she murmured through a vale of wakening leaves and

reflected asphodels bending above her brink, the valley was born again

in a very pageant of golden green that dappled all the grey woods,

clothed branch and bough anew, ran flower-footed over the meadow, hid

nests of happy birds in every dell and dingle, and spread luxuriant life

above the ruin of the year that was gone. A song of hope filled each

fair noon; no wasted energy, no unfulfilled intent as yet saddened the

eye; no stunted, ruined nursling of Nature yet spoke unsuccess; no

canker-bitten bud marked the cold finger of failure; for in that first

rush of life all the earthborn host had set forth, if not equal, at

least together. The primroses twinkled true on downy coral stems and the

stars of anemone, celandine, and daisy opened perfect. Countless

consummate, lustrous things were leaping, mingling, and uncurling, aloft

and below, in the mazes of the wood, at the margins of the water.

Verdant spears and blades expanded; fair fans opened and tendrils

twined; simultaneous showers of heart-shaped, arrow-shaped, flame-shaped

foliage, all pure emerald and translucent beryl, made opulent outpouring

of that new life which now pulsed through the Mother's million veins.

Diaphanous mist wreaths and tender showers wooed the Spring; under

silver gauze of vernal rain rang wild rapture of thrushes, laughter of

woodpeckers, chime and chatter of jackdaws from the rock, secret

crooning of the cushat in the pines. From dawn till dusk the sweet air

was winnowed by busy wings; from dawn till dusk the hum and murmur of

life ceased not. Infinite possibility, infinite promise, marked the

time; and man shared a great new hope with the beasts and birds, and

wild violet of the wood. Blood and sap raced gloriously together, while

a chorus of conscious and unconscious creation sang the anthem of the

Spring in solemn strophe and antistrophe.

As life's litany rises once again, and before the thunder of that music

rolling from the valleys to the hills, human reason yearly hesitates for

a moment, while hope cries out anew above the frosty lessons of

experience. For a brief hour the thinker, perhaps wisely, turns from

memory, as from a cloud that blots the present with its shadow, and

spends a little moment in this world of opal lights and azure shades. He

forgets that Nature adorned the bough for other purpose than his joy;

forgets that strange creatures, with many legs and hungry mouths, will

presently tatter each musical dome of rustling green; forgets that he

gazes upon a battlefield awaiting savage armies, which will fill high

Summer with ceaseless war, to strew the fair earth with slain. He

suffers dead Winter to bury her dead, seeks the wine of life that brims

in the chalices of Spring flowers: plucks blade and blossom, and is a

child again, if Time has so dealt with him that for a little he can thus

far retrace his steps; and, lastly, he turns once more to the Mother he

has forgotten, to find that she has not forgotten him. The whisper of

her passing in a greenwood glade is the murmur of waters invisible and

of life unseen; the scent of her garment comes sweet on the bloom of the

blackthorn; high heaven and lowly forget-me-not alike mirror the blue of

her wonderful eyes; and the gleam of the sunshine on rippling rivers and

dreaming clouds reflects the gold of her hair. She moves a queen who,

passing through one fair corner of her world-wide kingdom, joys in it.

She, the sovereign of the universe, reigns here too, over the buds and

the birds, and the happy, unconsidered life of weald and wold. Each busy

atom and unfolding frond is dear to her; each warm nest and hidden

burrow inspires like measure of her care and delight; and at this time,

if ever, we may think of Nature as forgetting Death for one magic

moment, as sharing the wide joy of her wakening world, as greeting the

young mother of the year's hopes, as pressing to her bosom the babes of

Spring with many a sunny smile and rainbowed tear.

Through the woods in Teign Valley passed Clement Hicks and his

sweetheart about a fortnight after Lawyer Ford had been laid to rest in

Chagford Churchyard. Chris talked about her brother and the great

enterprise he had determined upon. She supported Will and spoke with

sanguine words of his future; but Clement regarded the project

differently.

"To lease Newtake Farm is a fool's trick," he said. "Everybody knows the

last experiments there. The place has been empty for ten months, and

those who touched it in recent years only broke their hearts and wasted

their substance."

"Well, they weern't such men as Will. Theer's a fitness about it, tu;

for Will's awn gran'faither prospered at Newtake; an' if he could get a

living, another may. Mother do like the thought of Will being there

somehow."

"I know it. The sentiment of the thing has rather blinded her natural

keen judgment. Curious that I should criticise sentiment in another

person; but it 's like my cranky, contrary way. Only I was thinking of

Will's thousand pounds. Newtake will suck it out of his pocket quicker

than Cranmere sucks up a Spring shower."

"Well, I'm more hopeful. He knows the value of money; an' Phoebe will

help him when she comes up. The months slip by so quickly. By the time

I've got the cobwebs out of the farm an' made the auld rooms

water-sweet, I dare say theer'll be talk of his wife joining him."

"You going up! This is the first I've heard of it."

"I meant to tell 'e to-day. Mother is willing and I'm awnly tu glad. A

man's a poor left-handed thing 'bout a house. I'd do more 'n that for

Will."

"Pity he doesn't think and do something for you. Surely a little of this

money--?"

"Doan't 'e touch on that, Clem. Us had a braave talk 'pon it, for he

wanted to make over two hundred pound to me, but I wouldn't dream of it,

and you wouldn't have liked me tu. You 'm the last to envy another's

fair fortune."

"I do envy any man fortune. Why should I starve, waiting for you, and--?"

"Hush!" she said, as though she had spoken to a little child. "I won't

hear no wild words to-day in all this gude gold sunshine."

"God damn everything!" he burst out. "What a poor, impotent wretch He's

made me--a thing to bruise its useless hands beating the door that will

never open! It maddens me--especially when all the world's happy, like

to-day--all happy but me. And you so loyal and true! What a fool you

are to stick to me and let me curse you all your life!"

"Doan't 'e, doan't 'e, Clem," said Chris wearily. She was growing well

accustomed to these ebullitions. "Doan't grudge Will his awn. Our turn

will come, an' perhaps sooner than we think for. Look round 'pon the

sweet fresh airth an' budding flowers. Spring do put heart into a body.

We 'm young yet, and I'll wait for 'e if 't is till the crack o' doom."

"Life's such a cursed short thing at best--just a stormy day between two

nights, one as long as past time, the other all eternity. Have you seen

a mole come up from the ground, wallow helplessly a moment or two, half

blind in the daylight, then sink back into the earth, leaving only a

mound? That's our life, yours and mine; and Fate grudges that even these

few poor hours, which make the sum of it, should be spent together.

Think how long a man and woman can live side by side at best. Yet every

Sunday of your life you go to church and babble about a watchful, loving

Maker!"

"I doan't know, Clem. You an' me ban't everybody. You've told me

yourself as God do play a big game, and it doan't become this man or

that woman to reckon their-selves more important than they truly be."

"A great game, yes; but a cursed poor game--for a God. The counters

don't matter, I know; they'll soon be broken up and flung away; and the

sooner the better. It's living hell to be born into a world where

there's no justice--none for king or tinker."

"Sit alongside of me and smell the primrosen an' watch thicky kingfisher

catching the li'l trout. I doan't like 'e in these bitter moods, Clem,

when your talk's all dead ashes."

He sat by her and looked out over the river. It was flooded in sunlight,

fringed with uncurling green.

"I'm sick and weary of life without you. 'Conscious existence is a

failure,' and the man who found that out and said it was wise. I wish I

was a bird or beast--or nothing. All the world is mating but you and me.

Nature hates me because I survive from year to year, not being fit to.

The dumb things do her greater credit than ever I can. The--"

"Now, I'll go--on my solemn word, I'll go--if you grumble any more!

Essterday you was so different, and said you'd fallen in love with Miss

Spring, and pretended to speak to her and make me jealous. You didn't do

that, but you made me laugh. An' you promised a purty verse for me. Did

'e make it up after all? I lay not."

"Yes, I did. I wasted two or three hours over it last night."

"Might 'e get ten shillings for it, like t' other?"

"It's not worth the paper it's on, unless you like it. Your praise is

better than money to me. Nobody wants any thoughts of mine. Why should

they?"

"Not when they 'm all sour an' poor, same as now; but essterday you

spoke like to a picture-book. Theer's many might have took gude from

what you said then."

He pulled a scrap of paper from his pocket and flung it into her lap.

"I call it 'Spring Rain,'" he said. "Yesterday the world was grey, and I

was happy; to-day the world is all gold, and I'm finding life harder and

heavier than usual. Read it out slowly to me. It was meant to be read to

the song of the river, and never a prettier voice read a rhyme than

yours."

Chris smoothed the paper and recited her lover's lyrics. They had some

shadow of music in them and echoed Clem's love of beautiful things; but

they lacked inspiration or much skill.

"'Neath unnumbered crystal arrows--

Crystal arrows from the quiver

Of a cloud--the waters shiver

In the woodland's dim domain;

And the whispering of the rain

Tinkles sweet on silver Teign--

Tinkles on the river.

"Through unnumbered sweet recesses--

Sweet recesses soft in lining

Of green moss with ivy twining--

Daffodils, a sparkling train,

Twinkle through the whispering rain,

Twinkle bright by silver Teign,

With a starry shining.

"'Mid unnumbered little leaf-buds--

Little leaf-buds surely bringing

Spring once more--song birds are winging;

And their mellow notes again

Throb across the whispering rain,

Till the banks of silver Teign

Echo with their singing."

Chris, having read, made customary cheerful comment according to her

limitations.

"'T is just like essterday--butivul grawing weather, but 'pears to me

it's plain facts more 'n poetry. Anybody could come to the streamside

and see it all for themselves."

"Many are far away, pent in bricks and mortar, yearning deep to see the

dance of the Spring, and chained out of sight of it. This might bring

one glimpse to them."

"An' so it might, if you sold it for a bit of money. Then it could be

printed out for 'em like t'other was."

"You don't understand--you won't understand--even you."

"I caan't please 'e to-day. I likes the li'l verses ever so. You do make

such things seem butivul to my ear--an' so true as a photograph."

Clem shivered and stretched his hand for the paper. Then, in a moment,

he had torn it into twenty pieces and sent the fragments afloat.

"There! Let her take them to the sea with her. She understands. Maybe

she'll find a cool corner for me too before many days are passed."

Chris began to feel her patience failing.

"What, in God's name, have I done to 'e you should treat me like this?"

she asked, with fire in her eyes.

"Been fool enough to love me," he answered. "But it's never too late for

a woman to change her mind. Leave a sinking ship, or rather a ship that

never got properly launched, but, sticking out of its element, was left

to rot. Why don't you leave me, Chris?"

She stroked his hand, then picked it up and laid her soft cheek against

it.

"Not till the end of the world comes for wan of us, Clem. I'll love 'e

always, and the better and deeper 'cause you 'm so wisht an' unlucky

somehow. But you 'm tu wise to be miserable all your time."

"You ought to make me a man if anything could. I burn away with hopes

and hopes, and more hopes for the future, and miss the paltry thing at

hand that might save me."

"Then miss it no more, love; seek closer, an' seek sharper. Maybe gude

work an' gude money 's awnly waitin' for 'e to find it. Doan't look at

the moon an' stars so much; think of me, an' look lower."

Slowly the beauty of the hour and the sweet-hearted girl at his elbow

threw some sunshine into Clement's moody heart. For a little while the

melancholy and shiftless dreamer grew happier. He promised renewed

activity in the future, and undertook, as a first step towards Martin

Grimbal, to inform the antiquary of that great fact which his foolish

whim had thus far concealed.

"Chance might have got it to his ears through more channels than one,

you would have thought; but he's a taciturn man, asks no questions, and

invites no confidences. I like him the better for it. Next week, come

what may, I'll speak to him and tell him the truth, like a plain, blunt

man."

"Do 'e that very thing," urged Chris. "Say we'm lovers these two year

an' more; an' that you'd be glad to wed me if your way o' life was

bettered. Ban't beggin', as he knaws, for nobody doubts you'm the most

book-learned man in Chagford after parson."

Together they followed the winding of the river and proceeded through

the valley, by wood, and stile, and meadow, until they reached Rushford

Bridge. Here they delayed a moment at the parapet and, while they did

so, John Grimbal passed on foot alone.

"His house is growing," said Clement, as they proceeded to Mrs.

Blanchard's cottage.

"Aye, and his hearth will be as cold as his heart--the wretch! Well he

may turn his hard face away from me and remember what fell out on this

identical spot! But for God's gude grace he'd have been hanged to Exeter

'fore now."

"You can't put yourself in his shoes, Chris; no woman can. Think what

the world looked like to him after his loss. The girl he wanted was so

near. His hands were stretched out for her; his heart was full of her.

Then to see her slip away."

"An' quite right, tu; as you was the first to say at the time. Who's

gwaine to pity a thief who loses the purse he's stole, or a poacher that

fires 'pon another man's bird an' misses it?"

"All the same, I doubt he would have made a better husband for Phoebe

Lyddon than ever your brother will."

His sweetheart gasped at criticism so unexpected.

"You--you to say that! You, Will's awn friend!"

"It's true; and you know it as well as anybody. He has so little common

sense."

But Chris flamed up in an instant. Nothing the man's cranky temper could

do had power to irritate her long. Nothing he might say concerning

himself or her annoyed her for five minutes; but, upon the subject of

her brother, not even from Clem did Chris care to hear a disparaging

word or unfavourable comment. And this criticism, of all others,

levelled against Will angered her to instant bitter answer before she

had time to measure the weight of her words.

"'Common sense'! Perhaps you'll be so kind as to give Will Blanchard a

li'l of your awn--you being so rich in it. Best look at home, and see

what you can spare!"

So the lovers' quarrel which had been steadily brewing under the

sunshine now bubbled over and lowered thunder-black for the moment, as

such storms will.

Clement Hicks, perfectly calm now that his sweetheart's temper was gone,

marched off; and Chris, slamming the cottage door, vanished, without

taking any further leave of him than that recorded in her last

utterance.

CHAPTER II

NEWTAKE FARM

Clement Hicks told the truth when he said that Mrs. Blanchard fell

something short of her usual sound judgment and sagacity in the matter

of Will's enterprise. The home of childhood is often apt enough to

exercise magic, far-reaching attraction, and even influence a mind for

the most part unsentimental. To Damaris the thought of her son winning

his living where her father had done so was pleasant and in accordance

with eternal fitness. Not without emotion did she accompany Will to

Newtake Farm while yet the proposed bargain awaited completion; not

without strange awakenings in the dormant recesses of her memory did

Will's mother pass and pass again through the scenes of her earliest

days. From the three stone steps, or "upping stock," at the farmhouse

door, whereat a thousand times she had seen her father mount his horse,

to the environment of the farmyard; from the strange, winding staircase

of solid granite that connected upper and lower storeys, to each mean

chamber in Newtake, did Mrs. Blanchard's eyes roam thoughtfully amid the

ghosts of recollections. Her girl's life returned and the occasional

bright days gleamed forth again, vivid by contrast with the prevailing

grey. So active became thought that to relieve her mind she spoke to

Will.

"The li'l chamber over the door was mine," she said; "an' your poor

uncle had the next. I can just mind him, allus at his books, to his

faither's pride. Then he went away to Newton to join some lawyer body

an' larn his business. An' I mind the two small maids as was my elder

sisters and comed betwixt me an' Joel. Both died--like candles blawed

out roughly by the wind. They wasn't made o' the stuff to stand

Dartymoor winters."

She paused for a few moments, then proceeded:

"Theer, to west of the yard, is a croft as had corn in it wan year,

though 'tis permanent grass now, seemin'ly. Your faither corned through

theer like a snake by night more'n wance; an' oftentimes I crept down

house, shivering wi' fear an' love, to meet him under moonlight while

the auld folks slept. Tim he'd grawed to a power wi' the gypsy people by

that time; but faither was allus hard against un. He hated wanderers in

tents or 'pon wheels, or even sea-gwaine sailor-men--he carried it that

far. Then comed a peep o' day when Tim's bonny yellow caravan 'peared

around the corner of that windin' road what goes all across the Moor. At

the first stirring of light, I was ready an' skipped out; an', to this

hour, I mind the last thing as touched me kindly was the red tongue of

the sheep-dog. He ran a mile after the van, unhappy-like; then Tim

ordered un away, an' he stood in the white road an' held up his paw an'

axed a question as plain as a human. So Tim hit un hard wi' a gert

stone, an' he yelped an' gived me up for lost, an' bolted home wi' his

tail between his legs an' his eye thrawed back full of sadness over his

shoulder. Ess fay! I can see the dust puffin' up under his pads in the

grey dawn so clear as I can see you."

Again she stopped, but only for breath.

"They never answered my writings. Faither wouldn't an' mother didn't

dare. But when I was near my time, Timothy, reckoning they'd yield then

if ever, arranged to be in Chagford when I should be brought to bed. Yet

'twas ordained differ'nt, an' the roundy-poundy, wheer the caravan was

drawed up when the moment corned, be just round theer on Metherill hill,

as you knaws. So it happened right under the very walls of Newtake. In

the stone circle you comed; an' by night arterwards, sweatin' for

terror, your gran'mother, as had heard tell of it, sneaked from Newtake

to kiss me an' press you to her body. Faither never knawed till long

arter; an' though mother used to say she heard un forgive me on his

death-bed, 'twas her awn pious wish echoing in her awn ears I reckon.

But that's all awver an' done."

Mrs. Blanchard now sank into silent perambulation of the deserted

chambers. In the kitchen the whitewash was grimy, the ceiling and

windows unclean. Ashes of a peat fire still lay upon the cracked

hearthstone, and a pair of worn-out boots, left by a tramp or the last

tenant, stood on the window-sill. Dust and filth were everywhere, but no

indication of dampness or decay.

"A proper auld rogue's-roost of dirt 'tis just now," said Will; "but a

few pound spent in the right way will do a deal for it."

"An' soap an' water more," declared Mrs. Blanchard, escaping from her

reverie. "What's to be spent landlord must spend," she continued. "A

little whitewash, and some plaster to fill them holes wheer woodwork's

poking through the ceiling, an' you'll be vitty again. 'Tis

lonesome-like now, along o' being deserted, an' you'll hear the rats

galloping an' gallyarding by night, but 'twill soon be all it was

again--a dear li'l auld plaace, sure enough!"

She eyed the desolation affectionately.

"Theer's money in it, any way, for what wan man can do another can."

"Aye, I hope so, I b'lieve 'tis so; but you'll have to live hard, an'

work hard, an' be hard, if you wants to prosper here. Your gran'faither

stood to the work like a giant, an' the sharpest-fashion weather hurt

him no worse than if he'd been a granite tor. Steel-built to his heart's

core, an' needed to be."

"An' I be a stern, far-seein' man, same as him. 'Tis generally knawn I'm

no fule; and my heart's grawed hard, tu of late days, along wi' the

troubles life's brought."

She shook her head.

"You'm your faither's son, not your gran'faither's. Tim was flesh an'

blood, same as you. T'other was stone. Stone's best, when you've got to

fight wi' stone; but if flesh an' blood suffers more, it joys more, tu.

I wouldn't have 'e differ'nt--not to them as loves 'e, any way."

"I sha'n't change; an' if I did to all the world else, 'twouldn't be to

you, mother. You knaw that, I reckon. I'm hopeful; I'm more; I'm 'bout

as certain of fair fortune as a man can be. Venwell rights[6] be mine,

and theer's no better moorland grazing than round these paarts. The

farm-land looks a bit foul, along o' being let go to rack, but us'll

soon have that clean again, an' some gude stuff into it, tu. My awn

work'll be staring me in the faace before summer; an' by the time Phoebe

do come to be mistress, nobody'll knaw Newtake, I promise 'e."

[6] _Venwell rights_ = Venville rights.

Mrs. Blanchard viewed with some uneasiness the spectacle of valley-born

and valley-nurtured Phoebe taking up her abode on the high lands. For

herself she loved them well, and the Moor possessed no terrors for her;

but she had wit to guess that her daughter-in-law would think and feel

differently. Indeed, neither woman nor man might reasonably be blamed

for viewing the farm without delight when first brought within the

radius of its influence.

Newtake stood, a squat and unlovely erection, under a tar-pitched roof

of slate. Its stone walls were coated with a stucco composition, which

included tallow as an ingredient and ensured remarkable warmth and

dryness. Before its face there stretched a winding road of white flint,

that climbed from the village, five miles distant, and soon vanished

amid the undulations of the hills; while, opposite, steep heathery

slopes and grassy coombs ascended abruptly to masses of weathered

granite; and at the rear a hillside, whereon Metherill's scattered

hut-circles made incursions even into the fields of the farm, fell to

the banks of Southern Teign where she babbled between banks of

brake-fern and heather. Swelling and sinking solemnly along the sky,

Dartmoor surrounded Newtake. At the entrance of the yard stood a broken

five-barred gate between twin masses of granite; then appeared a ragged

outbuilding or two, with roofs of lichen-covered slate; and upon one

side, in a row, grew three sycamores, bent out of all uprightness by

years of western winds, and coated as to their trunks with grey lichen.

Behind a cowyard of shattered stone pavement and cracked mud stood the

farm itself, and around it extended the fields belonging thereto. They

were six or seven in number, and embraced some five-and-fifty acres of

land, mostly indifferent meadow.

Seen from the winding road, or from the bird's-eye elevation of the

adjacent tor, Newtake, with its mean ship-pens and sties, outbuildings

and little crofts, all huddled together, poverty-stricken, time-fretted,

wind-worn, and sad of colour, appeared a mere forlorn fragment of

civilisation left derelict upon the savage bosom of an untamable land.

It might have represented some forsaken, night-foundered abode of men,

torn by earthquake or magic spell from a region wholly different, and

dropped and stranded here. It sulked solitary, remote, and forgotten;

its black roof frowned over its windows, and green tears, dribbling down

its walls in time past, had left their traces, as though even spring

sunlight was powerless to eradicate the black memories of winters past,

or soften the bitter certainty of others yet to come. The fields,

snatched from the Moor in time long past, now showed a desire to return

to their wild mother again. The bars of cultivation were broken and the

land struggled to escape. Scabious would presently throw a mauve pallor

over more than one meadow croft; in another, waters rose and rushes and

yellow iris flourished and defied husbandry; elsewhere stubble, left

unploughed by the last defeated farmer, gleamed silver-grey through a

growth of weeds; while at every point the Moor thrust forward hands

laden with briar and heather. They surmounted the low stone walls and

fed and flourished upon the clods and peat that crowned them. Nature

waved early gold of the greater furze in the van of her oncoming, and

sent her wild winds to sprinkle croft and hay-field, ploughed land and

potato patch, with thistledown and the seeds of the knapweed and rattle

and bracken fern. These heathen things and a thousand others, in all the

early vigour of spring, rose triumphant above the meek cultivation. They

trampled it, strangled it, choked it, and maddened the agriculturist by

their sturdy and stubborn persistence. A forlorn, pathetic blot upon the

land of the mist was Newtake, seen even under conditions of sunlight and

fair weather; but beheld beneath autumnal rains, observed at seasons of

deep snow or in the dead waste of frozen winters, its apparition

rendered the most heavy-hearted less sad before the discovery that there

existed a human abode more hateful, a human outlook more oppressive,

than their own.

To-day heavy moorland vapours wrapped Newtake in ghostly raiment, yet no

forlorn emotions clouded the survey of those who now wandered about the

lifeless farm. In the mind of one, here retracing the course of her

maidenhood, this scene, if sad, was beautiful. The sycamores, whose

brown spikes had burst into green on a low bough or two, were the trees

she loved best in the world; the naked field on the hillside, wherein a

great stone ring shone grey through the silver arms of the mist,

represented the theatre of her life's romance. There she had stolen

oftentimes to her lover, and in another such, not far distant, had her

son been born. Thoughts of little sisters rose in the naked kitchen,

with the memory of a flat-breasted, wild-eyed mother, who did man's

work; of a father, who spoke seldom and never twice--a father whose

heavy foot upon the threshold sent his children scuttling like rabbits

to hidden lairs and dens. She remembered the dogs; the bright gun-barrel

above the chimney-piece; the steam of clothes hung to dry after many a

soaking in "soft" weather; the reek of the peat; the brown eyes and

steaming nostrils of the bullocks, that sometimes looked through the

kitchen window in icy winter twilights, as though they would willingly

change their byres for the warmth within.

Mrs. Blanchard enjoyed the thought that her son should reanimate these

scenes of her own childhood; and he, burning with energy and zeal, and

not dead to his own significance as a man of money, saw promises of

prosperity on either hand. It lay with him, he told his heart, to win

smiling fatness from this hungry region. Right well he knew how it came

about that those who had preceded him had failed, missed their

opportunities, fooled themselves, and flung away their chances.

Evidences of their ignorance stared at him from the curtains of the

mist, but he knew better; he was a man who had thought a bit in his time

and had his head screwed on the right way, thank God. These facts he

poured into his mother's ear, and she smiled thoughtfully, noted the

changes time had wrought, and indicated to him those things the landlord

might reasonably be expected to do before Will should sign and seal.

The survey ended, her son helped Damaris into a little market-cart,

which he had bought for her upon coming into his fortune. A staid pony,

also his purchase, completed the equipage, and presently Mrs. Blanchard

drove comfortably away; while Will, who yet proposed to tramp, for the

twentieth time, each acre of Newtake land, watched her depart, then

turned to continue his researches. A world of thought rested on his

brown face. Arrived at each little field, he licked his pencil, and made

notes in a massive new pocketbook. He strode along like a conqueror of

kingdoms, frowned and scratched his curly head as problem after problem

rose, smiled when he solved them, and entered the solution in his book.

For the wide world was full of young green, and this sanguine youth

soared lark-high in soul under his happy circumstances. Will breathed

out kindness to all mankind just at present, and now before that

approaching welfare he saw writ largely in beggarly Newtake, before the

rosy dawn which Hope spread over this cemetery of other men's dead

aspirations, he felt his heart swell to the world. Two clouds only

darkened his horizon then. One was the necessity of beginning the new

life without his life's partner; while the other, formerly tremendous

enough, had long since shrunk to a shadow on the horizon of the past.

His secret still remained, but that circumstance was too remote to

shadow the new enterprise. It existed, however, and its recurrence wove

occasional gloomy patterns into the web of Will Blanchard's thought.

CHAPTER III

OVER A RIDING-WHIP

Will completed his survey and already saw, in his mind's eye, a brave

masque of autumn gold spreading above the lean lands of Newtake. From

this spectacle to that of garnered harvests and great gleaming stacks

bursting with fatness the transition was natural and easy. He pictured

kine in the farmyard, many sheep upon the hills, and Phoebe with such

geese, ducks, and turkeys as should make her quite forget the poultry of

Monks Barton. Then, having built castles in the air until his

imagination was exhausted, Will shut the outer gate with the touch of

possession, turned a moment to see how Newtake looked from the roadway,

found only the shadow of it looming through the mist, and so departed,

whistling and slapping his gaiters with an ash sapling.

It happened that beside a gate which closed the moorland precincts to

prevent cattle from wandering, a horseman stood, and as the pedestrian

passed him in the gathering gloaming, he dropped his hunting-stock while

making an effort to open the gate without dismounting.

"Bide wheer you be!" said Will; "I'll pick un up an' ope the gate for

'e."

He did so and handed the whip back to its owner. Then each recognised

the other, and there was a moment of silence.

"'Tis you, Jan Grimbal, is it?" asked the younger. "I didn't knaw 'e in

the dimpsy light."

He hesitated, and his words when they came halted somewhat, but his

meaning was evident.

"I'm glad you'm back to home. I'll forget all what's gone, if you will.

'Twas give an' take, I s'pose. I took my awn anyway, an' you comed near

killing me for't, so we'm upsides now, eh? We'm men o' the world

likewise. So--so shall us shake hands an' let bygones be, Jan Grimbal?"

He half raised his hand, and looked up, with a smile at the corner of

his lip ready to jump into life if the rider should accept his

friendship. But Grimbal's response was otherwise.

To say little goodness dwelt in this man had been untrue, but recent

events and the first shattering reverse that life brought him proved

sufficient to sour his very soul and eclipse a sun which aforetime shone

with great geniality because unclouded. Fate hits such men particularly

hard when her delayed blow falls. Existences long attuned to success and

level fortune; lives which have passed through five-and-thirty years of

their allotted span without much sorrow, without sharp thorns in the

flesh, without those carking, gnawing trials of mind and body which Time

stores up for all humanity--such feel disaster when it does reach them

with a bitterness unknown by those who have been in misery's school from

youth. Poverty does not bite the poor as it bites him who has known

riches and afterwards fights destitution; feeble physical circumstances

do not crush the congenital invalid, but they often come near to break

the heart of a man who, until their black advent, has known nothing but

rude health; great reverses in the vital issues of life and fortune fail

to obliterate one who knows their faces of old, but the first enemy's

cannon on Time's road must ever bring ugly shock to him who has advanced

far and happily without meeting any such thing.

Grimbal's existence had been of a rough-and-ready sort shone over by

success. Philosophy he lacked, for life had never turned his mind that

way; religion was likewise absent from him; and his recent tremendous

disappointment thus thundered upon a mind devoid of any machinery to

resist it. The possession of Phoebe Lyddon had come to be an accepted

and accomplished fact; he chose her for his own, to share the good

things Fortune had showered into his lap--to share them and be a

crowning glory of them. The overthrow of this scheme at the moment of

realisation upset his estimate of life in general and set him adrift and

rudderless, in the hurricane of his first great reverse. Of selfish

temperament, and doubly so by the accident of consistent success, the

wintry wind of this calamity slew and then swept John Grimbal's common

sense before it, like a dead leaf. All that was worst in him rose to the

top upon his trouble, and since Will's marriage the bad had been winning

on the good and thrusting it deeper and deeper out of sight or immediate

possibility of recovery. At all times John Grimbal's inferior

characteristics were most prominently displayed, and superficial

students of character usually rated him lower than others really worse

than himself, but who had wit to parade their best traits. Now, however,

he rode and strode the country a mere scowling ruffian, with his

uppermost emotions still stamped on his face. The calamity also bred an

unsuspected sensitiveness in him, and he smarted often under the

reflection of what others must be thinking. His capability towards

vindictiveness proved very considerable. Formerly his anger against his

fellow-men had been as a thunder-storm, tremendous but brief in

duration; now, before this bolt of his own forging, a steady, malignant

activity germinated and spread through the whole tissue of his mind.

Those distractions open to a man of Grimbal's calibre presently blunted

the edge of his loss, and successful developments of business also

served to occupy him during the visit he paid to Africa; but no

interests as yet had arisen to obscure or dull his hatred of Will

Blanchard. The original blaze of rage sank to a steady, abiding fire,

less obviously tremendous than that first conflagration, but in reality

hotter. In a nature unsubtle, revenge will not flourish as a grand

passion for any length of time. It must reach its outlet quickly and

attain to its ambition without overmuch delay, else it shrivels and

withers to a mere stubborn, perhaps lifelong, enmity--a dwarfish, mulish

thing, devoid of any tragic splendour. But up to the point that John

Grimbal had reached as yet, his character, though commonplace in most

affairs, had unexpectedly quickened to a condition quite profound where

his revenge was concerned.

He still cherished the certainty of a crushing retaliation. He was glad

he had not done Blanchard any lifelong injury; he was glad the man yet

lived for time and him to busy themselves about; he was even glad (and

herein appeared the unsuspected subtlety) that Will had prospered and

come by a little show of fortune. Half unconsciously he hoped for the

boy something of his own experiences, and had determined with

himself--in a spirit very melodramatic but perfectly sincere at

present--to ruin his enemy if patience and determination could

accomplish it.

In this mood, with his wrongs sharpened by return to Chagford and his

purposes red-hot, John Grimbal now ran against his dearest foe, received

the horsewhip from him, and listened to his offer of peace.

He still kept silence and Will lowered the half-lifted arm and spoke

again.

"As you please. I can bide very easy without your gude word."

"That's well, then," said the other, in his big voice, as his hands

tightened. "We've met again. I'm glad I didn't break your neck, for your

heart's left to break, and by the living God I'll break it! I can wait.

I'm older than you, but young enough. Remember, I'll run you down sooner

or later. I've hunted most things, and men aren't the cleverest beasts

and you're not the cleverest man I've bested in my time. You beat me--I

know it--but it would have been better for you if you hadn't been born.

There's the truth for your country ears, you damned young hound. I'll

fight fair and I'll fight to the finish. Sport--that's what it is. The

birds and the beasts and the fish have their close time; but there won't

be any close time for you, not while I can think and work against you.

So now you know. D' you hear me?"

"Ess," said Will, meeting the other's fierce eyes; "I hear 'e, an' so

might the dead in Chagford buryin'-ground. You hollers loud enough. I

ban't 'feared of nothing a hatch-mouthed,[7] crooked-minded man, same as

you be, can do. An' if I'm a hound, you 'm a dirty red fox, an'

everybody knaws who comes out top when they meet. Steal my gal, would

'e? Gaw your ways, an' mend your ways, an' swallow your bile. I doan't

care a flicker o' wildfire for 'e!"

[7] _Hatch-mouthed_ = foul mouthed; profane.

John Grimbal heard only the beginning of this speech, for he turned his

back on Will and rode away while the younger man still shouted after

him. Blanchard was in a rage, and would have liked to make a third trial

of strength with his enemy on the spot, but the rider vanished and Will

quickly cooled as he went down the hill to Chagford. The remembrance of

this interview, for all his scorn, chilled him when he reflected on John

Grimbal's threats. He feared nothing indeed, but here was another cloud,

and a black one, blown violently back from below the horizon of his life

to the very zenith. Malignity of this type was strange to him and

differed widely from the petty bickerings, jealousies, and strifes of

ordinary country existence. It discouraged him to feel in his hour of

universal contentment that a strong, bitter foe would now be at hand,

forever watching to bring ruin on him at the first opportunity. As he

walked home he asked himself how he should feel and act in Grimbal's

shoes, and tried to look at the position from his enemy's standpoint. Of

course he told himself that he would have accepted defeat with right

philosophy. It was a just fix for a man to find himself in,--a proper

punishment for a mean act. Arguing thus, from the right side of the

hedge, he forgot what wiser men have forgotten, that there is no

disputing about man's affection for woman, there is no transposition of

the standpoint, there is no looking through another's eyes upon a girl.

Many have loved, and many have rendered vivid pictures of the emotion,

touched with insight of genius and universally proclaimed true to nature

from general experience; but no two men love alike, and neither you nor

another man can better say how a third feels under the yoke, estimate

his thrall, or foretell his actions, despite your own experience, than

can one sufferer from gout, though it has torn him half a hundred times,

gauge the qualities of another's torment under the same disease. Will

could not guess what John Grimbal had felt for Phoebe; he knew nothing

of the other's disposition, because, young in knowledge of the world and

a boy still, despite his age, it was beyond him to appreciate even

remotely the mind of a man fifteen years older than himself--a man of

very different temper and one whose life had been such as we have just

described.

Home went Blanchard, and kept his meeting secret. His mother, returning

long before him, was already in some argument with Chris concerning the

disposal of certain articles of furniture, the pristine splendour of

which had been worn off at Newtake five-and-thirty years before. At

Farmer Ford's death these things passed to his son, and he, not

requiring them, had made them over to Damaris.

"They was flam-new when first my parents married and comed to Newtake,

many a year ago; and now I want 'em to go back theer. They've seed three

generations, an' I'd be well pleased that a fourth should kick its li'l

boots out against them. They 'm stout enough yet. Sweat went to building

of chairs an' tables in them days; now it's steam. Besides, 'twill save

Will's pocket a tidy bit."

Chris, however, though she could deny Will nothing, was divided here,

for why should her mother part from those trifles which contributed to

the ample adornment of her cottage? Certain stout horsehair furniture

and a piano were the objects Mrs. Blanchard chiefly desired should go to

Newtake. The piano, indeed, had never been there before. It was a

present to Damaris from her dead husband, who purchased the instrument

second-hand for five pounds at a farm sale. Its wiry jingle spoke of

evolution from harpsichord or spinet to the modern instrument; its

yellow keys, from which the ivory in some cases was missing, and its

high back, stained silk front, and fretted veneer indicated age; while

above the keyboard a label, now growing indistinct, set forth that one

"William Harper, of Red Lion Street, Maker of piano-fortes to his late

Majesty" was responsible for the instrument very early in the century.

Now Will joined the discussion, but his mother would take no denial.

"These chairs and sofa be yours, and the piano's my present to Phoebe.

She'll play to you of a Sunday afternoon belike."

"An' it's here she'll do it; for my Sundays'll be spent along with you,

of coourse, 'cept when you comes up to my farm to spend 'em. That's what

I hope'll fall out; an' I want to see Miller theer, tu, after he've

found I'm right and he'm wrong."

But the event proved that, even in his new capacity as a man of money

and a landholder, Will was not to win much ground with Mr. Lyddon. Two

circumstances contributed to the continued conflict, and just as Phoebe

was congratulating herself and others upon the increasing amity between

her father and her husband matters fell out which caused the miller to

give up all hope of Will for the hundredth time. First came the

occupancy of Newtake at a rent Mr. Lyddon considered excessive; and then

followed a circumstance that touched the miller himself, for, by the

offer of two shillings more a week than he received at Monks Barton,

Will tempted into his service a labourer held in great esteem by his

father-in-law.

Sam Bonus appeared the incarnation of red Devon earth, built up on solid

beef and mutton. His tanned face was framed in crisp black hair that no

razor had ever touched; his eyes were deep-set and bright; his narrow

brow was wrinkled, not with thought, but as the ape's. A remarkably tall

and powerful frame supported Sam's little head. He laboured like a horse

and gave as little trouble, triumphed in feats of brute strength,

laughed at a day's work, never knew ache or pain. He had always greatly

admired Blanchard, and, faced with the tempting bait of a florin a week

more than his present wage, abandoned Monks Barton and readily followed

Will to the Moor. His defection was greatly deplored, and though Will

told Mr. Blee what he intended beforehand, and made no secret of his

design to secure Sam if possible, Billy discredited the information

until too late. Then the miller heard of his loss, and, not unnaturally,

took the business ill.

"Gormed if it ban't open robbery!" declared Mr. Blee, as he sat and

discussed the matter with his master one evening, "an' the thankless,

ill-convenient twoad to go to Blanchard, of all men!"

"He'll be out of work again soon enough. And he needn't come back to me

when he is. I won't take him on no more."

"'Twould be contrary to human nature if you did."

"Human nature!" snapped the miller, with extreme irritation. "'Twould

puzzle Solomon to say what's come over human nature of late days."

"'Tis a nut wi' a maggot in it," mused Billy: "three parts rotten, the

rest sweet. An' all owing to fantastic inventions an' new ways of

believin' in God wi'out church-gwaine, as parson said Sunday. Such

things do certainly Play hell with human nature, in a manner o'

speakin'. I reckon the uprising men an' women's wickeder than us, as

sucked our mothers in quieter times afore the railroads."

"Bonus is such a fule!" said Mr. Lyddon, harking back to his loss. "Yet

I thought he belonged to the gude old-fashioned sort."

"I told un he was out in his reckoning, that he'd be left in the cold

bimebye, so sure as Blanchard was Blanchard and Newtake was Newtake; but

he awnly girned his gert, ear-wide girn, an' said he knawed better."

"To think of more gude money bein' buried up theer! You've heard my view

of all ground wi' granite under it. Such a deal ought to have been done

wi' that thousand pound."

"Oughts are noughts, onless they've strokes to 'em," declared Billy.

"'Tis a poor lookout, for he'm the sort as buys experience in the

hardest market. Then, when it's got, he'll be a pauper man, with what he

knaws useless for want o' what's spent gettin' it. Theer's the thought

o' Miss Phoebe, tu,--Mrs. Blanchard, I should say. Caan't see her biding

up to Newtake nohow, come the hard weather."

"'Wedlock an' winter tames maids an' beastes,'" said Mr. Lyddon

bitterly. "A true saw that."

"Ess; an' when 'tis wedlock wi' Blanchard, an' winter on Dartymoor,

'twould tame the daughter of the Dowl, if he had wan."

Billy laughed at this thought. His back rounded as he sat in his chair,

his head seemed to rise off his lower jaw, and the yellow frill of hair

under his chin stood stiffly out.

"He's my son-in-law; you 'pear to forget that, Blee," said Mr. Lyddon;

"I'm sure I wish I could, if 'twas even now an' again."

Thereupon Billy straightened his face and cast both rancour and

merriment to the winds.

"Why, so he be; an' grey hairs should allus make allowance for the young

youths; though I ain't forgot that spadeful o' muck yet, an' never

shall. But theer's poison in bwoy's blood what awnly works out of the

brain come forty. I'm sure I wish nothing but well to un. He's got his

saving graces, same as all of us, if we could but see 'em; an' come what

may, God looks arter His awn chosen fules, so theer's hope even for

Blanchard." "Cold consolation," said Mr. Lyddon wearily; "but't is all

we've got. Two nights since I dreamt I saw un starvin' on a dunghill. 'T

was a parable, I judge, an' meant Newtake Farm."

CHAPTER IV

DEFEATED HOPES

Below Newtake Farm the river Teign wound, with many a foaming fall and

singing rapid, to confluence with her twin sister in the valley beneath.

Here, at a certain spot, above the forest and beneath the farm, stood

Martin Grimbal on a bright afternoon in May. Over his head rose a rowan,

in a soft cloud of serrated foliage, with clusters of grey-green flower

buds already foretelling the crimson to come; about his feet a silver

army of uncurling fronds brightened the earth and softened the sharp

edges of the boulders scattered down the coomb. Here the lover waited to

the music of a cuckoo, and his eyes ever turned towards a stile at the

edge of the pine woods, two hundred yards distant from him.

The hour was one of tremendous possibilities, because Fate had been

occupied with Martin through many days, and now he stood on the brink of

great joy or sorrow. Clement Hicks had never spoken to him. During his

quarrel with Chris, which lasted a fortnight, the bee-keeper purposely

abstained from doing her bidding, while after their reconciliation every

other matter in the world was swallowed up for a time in the delight of

renewed love-making. The girl, assuming throughout these long weeks that

Martin now knew all, had met him in frank and kindly spirit on those

occasions when he planned to enjoy her society, and this open warmth

awoke renewed heart for Grimbal, who into her genial friendship read

promise and from it recruited hope. His love now dominated his spiritual

being and filled his life. Grey granite was grey granite only, and no

more. During his long walks by pillar-stone, remote row, and lonely

circle, Chris, and Chris alone, occupied his brain. He debated the

advisability of approaching Will, then turned rather to the thought of

sounding Mrs. Blanchard, and finally nerved himself to right action and

determined to address Chris. He felt this present heart-shaking suspense

must be laid at rest, for the peace of his soul, and therefore he took

his courage in his hands and faced the ordeal.

That day Chris was going up to Newtake. She had not yet settled there,

though her brother and Sam Bonus were already upon the ground, but the

girl came and went, busying her fingers with a hundred small matters

that daily increased the comfort of the little farm. Her way lay usually

by the coomb, and Martin, having learned that she was visiting Will on

the occasion in question, set out before her and awaited her here,

beside the river, in a lonely spot between the moorland above and the

forest below. He felt physically nervous, yet hope brightened his mind,

though he tried to strangle it. Worn and weary with his long struggle,

he paced up and down, now looking to the stile, now casting dissatisfied

glances upon his own person. Shaving with more than usual care, he had

cut his chin deeply, and, though he knew it not, the wound had bled

again since he left home and ruined both his collar and a new tie, put

on for the occasion.

Presently he saw her. A sunbonnet bobbed at the stile and Chris

appeared, bearing a roll of chintz for Newtake blinds. In her other hand

she carried half a dozen bluebells from the woods, and she came with the

free gait acquired in keeping stride through long tramps with Will when

yet her frocks were short. Martin loved her characteristic speed in

walking. So Diana doubtless moved. The spring sunshine had found Chris

and the clear, soft brown of her cheek was the most beautiful thing in

nature to the antiquary. He knew her face so well now: the dainty poise

of her head, the light of her eyes, the dark curls that always clustered

in the same places, the little updrawing at the corner of her mouth as

she smiled, the sudden gleam of her teeth when she laughed, and the

abrupt transitions of her expression from repose to gladness, from

gladness back again into repose.

She saw the man before she reached him, and waved her bluebells to show

that she had done so. Then he rose from his granite seat and took off

his hat and stood with it off, while his heart thundered, his eye

watered, and his mouth twitched. But he was outwardly calm by the time

Chris reached him.

"What a surprise to find 'e here, Martin! Yet not much, neither, for

wheer the auld stones be, theer you 'm to be expected."

"How are you, Chris? But I needn't ask. Yes, I'm fond of the stones."

"Well you may be. They talk to 'e like friends, seemingly. An' even I

knaw a sight more 'bout 'em now. You've made me feel so differ'nt to

'em, you caan't think."

"For that matter," he answered, leaping at the chance, "you've made me

feel different to them."

"Why, how could I, Martin?"

"I'll tell you. Would you mind sitting down here, just for a moment? I

won't keep you. I've no right to ask for a minute of your time; but

there's dry moss upon it--I mean the stone; and I was waiting on

purpose, if you'll forgive me for waylaying you like this. There's a

little thing--a big thing, I mean--the biggest--too big for words

almost, yet it wants words--and yet sometimes it doesn't--at

least--I--would you sit here?"

He was breathing rather hard, and his words were tripping. Managing his

voice ill, the tones of it ran away from bass to shrill treble. She saw

it all at a glance, and realised that Martin had been blundering on, in

pure ignorance and pure love, all these weary weeks. She sat down

silently and her mind moved like light along the wide gamut of fifty

emotions in a second. Anger and sorrow strove together,--anger with Clem

and his callous, cynic silence, sorrow for the panting wretch before

her. Chris opened her mouth to speak, then realised where her flying

thoughts had taken her and that, as yet, Martin Grimbal had said

nothing. Her unmaidenly attitude and the sudden reflection that she was

about to refuse one before he had asked her, awoke a hysteric

inclination to laugh, then a longing to cry. But all the anxious-visaged

man before her noted was a blush that waved like auroral light from the

girl's neck to her cheek, from her cheek to her forehead. That he saw,

and thought it was love, and thanked the Lord in his clumsy fashion

aloud.

"God be praised! I do think you guess--I do think you guess! But oh, my

dear, my dear, you don't know what 's in my heart for you. My little

pearl of a Chris, can you care for such a bear of a man? Can you let me

labour all my life long to make your days good to you? I love you so--I

do. I never thought when the moment came I should find tongue to speak

it, but I have; and now I could say it fifty thousand times. I'd just be

proud to tie your shoe-string, Chris, my dear, and be your old slave

and--Chris! my Chris! I've hurt you; I've made you cry! Was I--was I all

wrong? Don't, don't--I'll go--Oh, my darling one, God knows I

wouldn't--"

He broke off blankly and stood half sorrowful, half joyous. He knew he

had no right as yet to go to the comfort of the girl now sobbing beside

him, but hope was not dead. And Chris, overcome by this outpouring of

love, now suffered very deep sorrow, while she turned away from him and

hid her face and wept. The poor distracted fool still failed to guess

the truth, for he knew tint tears are the outcome of happiness as well

as misery. He waited, open-mouthed, he murmured something--God knows

what--then he went close and thought to touch her waist, but feared and

laid his hand gently on her shoulder.

"Don't 'e!" she said; and he began to understand and to struggle with

himself to lessen her difficulty.

"Forgive me--forgive me if you can, Chris. Was I all wrong? Then I ought

to have known better--but even an old stick like me--before you, Chris.

Somehow I--but don't cry. I wouldn't have brought the tears to your eyes

for all the world--dense idiot I am--"

"No, no, no; no such thing 't all, Martin. 'Tis I was cruel not to see

you didn't knaw. You've been treated ill, an' I'm cryin' that such a

gude--gude, braave, big-hearted man as you, should be brought to this

for a fule of a gal like me. I ban't worthy a handshake from 'e, or a

kind word. An'--an'--Clem Hicks--Clem be tokened to me these two year

an' more. He'm the best man in the world; an' I hate un for not tellin'

'e--an'--an'--"

Chris sobbed herself to the end of her tears; and the man took his

trial--like a man. His only thought was the sadness his blunder had

brought with it for her. To misread her blush seemed in his humility a

crime. His consistent unselfishness blinded him, for an instant at

least, to his own grief. He blamed himself and asked pardon and prepared

to get away out of her sight as soon as possible.

"Forgive me, Chris--I needn't ask you twice, I know--such a stupid

thing--I didn't understand--I never observed: but more shame to me. I

ought to have seen, of course. Anybody else would--any man of proper

feeling."

"How could 'e see it with a secret chap like him? He ought to have told

'e; I bid un speak months since; an' I thought he had; an' I hate un for

not doing it!"

"But you mustn't. Don't cry any more, and forget all about it. I could

almost laugh to think how blind I've been. We'll both laugh next time we

meet. If you're happy, then I'll laugh always. That's all I care for.

Now I know you're happy again, I'm happy, too, Chris--honour bright.

And I'll be a friend still--remember that--always--to you--to you and

him."

"I hate un, I say."

"Why, he didn't give me credit for being such a bat--such a mole. Now I

must be away. We'll meet pretty soon, I expect. Just forget this

afternoon as though it had never been, even though it's such a jolly

sunny one. And remember me as a friend--a friend still for all my

foolishness. Good-by for the present. Good-by."

He nodded, making the parting a slight thing and not missing the

ludicrous in his anxiety to spare her pain. He went down the valley,

leaving her sitting alone. He assumed a jaunty air and did not look

round, but hastened off to the stile. Never in his most light-hearted

moments had he walked thus or struck right and left at the leaves and

shrubs with such a clumsy affectation of nonchalance. Thus he played the

fool until out of sight; then his head came down, and his feet dragged,

and his walk and mien grew years older than his age. He stopped

presently and stood still, staring upon the silence. Westering sunlight

winnowed through the underwood, splashed into its sombre depths and

brightened the sobriety of a grey carpet dotted with dead cones. Sweet

scents floated downward upon the sad whisper that lives in every pine

forest; then came suddenly a crisp rattle of little claws and a tiny

barking, where two red squirrels made love, high aloft, amid the grey

lichens and emerald haze of a great larch that gleamed like a green lamp

through the night of the dark surrounding foliage.

Martin Grimbal dropped his stick and flung down his body in the hushed

and hidden dreamland of the wood. Now he knew that his hope had lied to

him, that the judgment he prided himself upon, and which had prompted

him to this great deed, was at fault. The more than common tact and

delicacy of feeling he had sometimes suspected he possessed in rare,

exalted moments, were now shown vain ideas born from his own conceit;

and the event had proved him no more subtle, clever, or far-seeing than

other men. Indeed, he rated himself as an abject blunderer and thought

he saw how a great overwhelming fear, at the bottom of his worship of

Chris, had been the only true note in all that past war of emotions. But

he had refused to listen and pushed forward; and now he stood thus.

Looking back in the light of his defeat, his previous temerity amazed

him. His own ugliness, awkwardness, and general unfitness to be the

husband of Chris were ideas now thrust upward in all honesty to the top

of his mind. No mock modesty or simulated delicacy inspired them, for

after defeat a man is frank with himself. Whatever he may have pretended

before he puts his love to the test, however he may have blinded himself

as to his real feelings and beliefs before he offers his heart, after

the event has ended unfavourably his real soul stands naked before him

and, according to his character, he decides whether himself or the girl

is the fool. Grimbal criticised his own audacity with scanty compassion

now; and the thought of the tears of Chris made him clench one hand and

smash it hard again and again into the palm of the other. No passionate

protest rose in his mind against the selfish silence of Clement Hicks;

he only saw his own blindness and magnified it into an absolute offence

against Chris. Presently, as the sunlight sank lower, and the straight

stems of the pines glimmered red-gold against the deepening gloom,

Martin retraced the scene that was past and recalled her words and

actions, her tears, the trembling of her mouth, and that gesture when

the wild flowers dropped from her hand and her fingers went up to cover

her eyes. Then a sudden desire mastered him: to possess the purple of

her bluebell bouquet. He knew she would not pick it up again when he was

gone; so he returned, stood in that theatre of Fate beneath the rowan,

saw where her body had pressed the grass, and found the fading flowers.

Then he turned to tramp home, with the truth gnawing his heart at last.

The excitement was over, all flutter of hope and fear at rest. Only that

bitter fact of failure remained, with the knowledge that one, but

yesterday so essential and so near, had now vanished like a rainbow

beyond his reach.

Martin's eyes were opened in the light of this experience. John came

into his mind, and estimating his brother's sufferings by his own, the

stricken man found room in his sad heart for pity.

CHAPTER V

THE ZEAL OF SAM BONUS

Under conditions of spring and summer Newtake Farm flattered Will's

hopes not a little. He worked like a giant, appropriated some of that

credit belonging to fine weather, and viewed the future with very

considerable tranquillity. Of beasts he purchased wisely, being guided

in that matter by Mr. Lyddon; but for the rest he was content to take

his own advice. Already his ambition extended beyond the present limits

of his domain; already he contemplated the possibility of reclaiming

some of the outlying waste and enlarging his borders. If the Duchy might

spread greedy fingers and inclose "newtakes," why not the Venville

tenants? Many besides Will asked themselves that question; the position

was indeed fruitful of disputes in various districts, especially on

certain questions involving cattle; and no moorland Quarter breathed

forth greater discontent against the powers than that of which Chagford

was the central parish.

Sam Bonus, inspired by his master's sanguine survey of life, toiled

amain, believed all that Will predicted, and approved each enterprise he

planned; while as for Chris, in due time she settled at Newtake and

undertook woman's work there with her customary thoroughness and energy.

To her lot fell the poultry, the pair of fox-hound puppies that Will

undertook to keep for the neighbouring hunt, and all the interior

economy and control of the little household.

On Sundays Phoebe heard of the splendid doings at Newtake; upon which

she envied Chris her labours, and longed to be at Will's right hand. For

the present, however, Miller Lyddon refused his daughter permission even

to visit the farm; and she obeyed, despite her husband's indignant

protests.

Thus matters stood while the sun shone brightly from summer skies. Will,

when he visited Chagford market, talked to the grizzled farmers,

elaborated his experience, shook his head or nodded it knowingly as

they, in their turn, discussed the business of life, paid due respect to

their wisdom, and offered a little of his own in exchange for it. That

the older men lacked pluck was his secret conviction. The valley folk

were braver; but the upland agriculturists, all save himself, went in

fear. Their eyes were careworn, their caution extreme; behind the summer

they saw another shadow forever moving; and the annual struggle with

those ice-bound or water-logged months of the early year, while as yet

the Moor had nothing for their stock, left them wearied and spiritless

when the splendour of the summer came. They farmed furtively, snatching

at such good as appeared, distrusting their own husbandry, fattening the

land with reluctance, cowering under the shadow of withered hopes and

disappointments too numerous to count. Will pitied this mean spirit and,

unfamiliar with wet autumns and hard winters on the high land, laughed

at his fellow-countrymen. But they were kind and bid him be cautious and

keep his little nest-egg snug.

"Tie it up in stout leather, my son," said a farmer from Gidleigh. "Ay,

an' fasten the bag wi' a knot as'll take 'e half an hour to undo; an'

remember, the less you open it, the better for your peace of mind."

All of which good counsel Blanchard received with expressions of

gratitude, yet secretly held to be but the croaking of a past

generation, stranded far behind that wave of progress on which he

himself was advancing crest-high.

It happened one evening, when Clement Hicks visited Newtake to go for a

walk under the full moon with Chris, that he learnt she was away for a

few days. This fact had been mentioned to Clement; but he forgot it, and

now found himself here, with only Will and Sam Bonus for company. He

accepted the young farmer's invitation to supper, and the result proved

unlucky in more directions than one. During this meal Clem railed in

surly vein against the whole order of things as it affected himself, and

made egotistical complaint as to the hardness of life; then, when his

host began to offer advice, he grew savage and taunted Will with his own

unearned good fortune. Blanchard, weary after a day of tremendous

physical exertion, made sharp answer. He felt his old admiration for

Clem Hicks much lessened of late, and it nettled him not a little that

his friend should thus attribute his present position to the mere

accident of a windfall. He was heartily sick of the other's endless

complaints, and now spoke roughly and to the point.

"What the devil's the gude of this eternal bleat? You'm allus snarlin'

an' gnashin' your teeth 'gainst God, like a rat bitin' the stick that's

killin' it."

"And why should God kill me? You've grown so wise of late, perhaps you

know."

"Why shouldn't He? Why shouldn't He kill you, or any other man, if He

wants the room of un for a better? Not that I believe parson's stuff

more 'n you; but grizzlin' your guts to fiddlestrings won't mend your

fortune. Best to put your time into work, 'stead o' talk--same as me an'

Bonus. And as for my money, you knaw right well if theer'd been two

thousand 'stead of wan, I'd have shared it with Chris."

"Easy to say! If there had been two, you would have said, 'If it was

only four'! That's human nature."

"Ban't my nature, anyway, to tell a lie!" burst out Will.

"Perhaps it's your nature to do worse. What were you about last

Christmas?"

Blanchard set down knife and fork and looked the other in the face. None

had heard this, for Bonus, his meal ended, went off to the little tallet

over a cattle-byre which was his private apartment.

"You'd rip that up again--you, who swore never to open' your mouth upon

it?"

"You're frightened now."

"Not of you, anyway. But you'd best not to come up here no more. I'm

weary of you; I don't fear you worse than a blind worm; but such as you

are, you've grawed against me since my luck comed. I wish Chris would

drop you as easy as I can, for you'm teachin' her to waste her life,

same as you waste yours."

"Very well, I'll go. We're enemies henceforth, since you wish it so."

"Blamed if you ban't enough to weary Job! 'Enemies'! It's like a child

talkin'. 'Enemies'! D'you think I care a damn wan way or t'other? You'm

so bad as Jan Grimbal wi' his big play-actin' talk. He'm gwaine to cut

my tether some day. P'r'aps you'll go an' help un to do it! The past is

done, an' no man who weern't devil all through would go back on such a

oath as you sweared to me. An' you won't. As to what's to come, you

can't hurt a straight plain-dealer, same as me, though you'm free an'

welcome to try if you please to."

"The future may take care of itself; and for your straight speaking I'll

give you mine. Go your way and I'll go my way; but until you beg my

forgiveness for this night's talk I'll never cross your threshold again,

or speak to you, or think of you."

Clement rose from his unfinished food, picked up his hat, and vanished,

and Will, dismissing the matter with a toss of his head and a

contemptuous expiration of breath, gave the poet's plate of cold potato

and bacon to a sheep-dog and lighted his pipe.

Not ten hours later, while yet some irritation at the beekeeper's spleen

troubled Blanchard's thoughts as he laboured upon his land, a voice

saluted him from the highway and he saw a friend.

"An' gude-marnin' to you, Martin. Another braave day, sure 'nough. Climb

awver the hedge. You'm movin' early. Ban't eight o'clock."

"I'm off to the 'Grey Wethers,' those old ruined circles under Sittaford

Tor, you know. But I meant a visit to you as well. Bonus was in the

farmyard and brought me with him."

"Ess fay, us works, I tell 'e. We'm fightin' the rabbits now. The li'l

varmints have had it all theer way tu long; but this wire netting'll

keep 'em out the corn next year an' the turnips come autumn. How be you

fearin'? I aint seen 'e this longful time."

"Well, thank you; and as busy as you in my way. I'm going to write a

book about the Dartmoor stones."

"'S truth! Be you? Who'll read it?"

"Don't know yet. And, after all, I have found out little that sharper

eyes haven't discovered already. Still, it fills my time. And it is that

I'm here about."

"You can go down awver my land to the hut-circles an' welcome whenever

you mind to."

"Sure of it, and thank you; but it's another thing just now--your

brother-in-law to be. I think perhaps, if he has leisure, he might be

useful to me. A very clever fellow, Hicks."

But Will was in no humour to hear Clement praised just then, or suggest

schemes for his advancement.

"He'm a weak sapling of a man, if you ax me. Allus grumblin', an' soft

wi' it--as I knaw--none better," said Blanchard, watching Bonus struggle

with the rabbit netting.

"He's out of his element, I think--a student--a bookish man, like

myself."

"As like you as chalk's like cheese--no more. His temper, tu! A bull in

spring's a fule to him. I'm weary of him an' his cleverness."

"You see, if I may venture to say so, Chris--"

"I knaw all 'bout that. 'Tis like your gudeness to try an' put a li'l

money in his pocket wi'out stepping on his corns. They 'm tokened. Young

people 's so muddle-headed. Bees indeed! Nice things to keep a wife an'

bring up a fam'ly on! An' he do nothin' but write rhymes, an' tear 'em

up again, an' cuss his luck, wi'out tryin' to mend it. I thought

something of un wance, when I was no more 'n a bwoy, but as I get up in

years I see the emptiness of un."

"He would grow happy and sweeter-hearted if he could marry your sister."

"Not him! Of course, if it's got to be, it will be. I ban't gwaine to

see Chris graw into an auld maid. An' come bimebye, when I've saved a

few hunderd, I shall set 'em up myself. But she's makin' a big mistake,

an', to a friend, I doan't mind tellin' 'e 'tis so."

"I hope you're wrong. They'll be happy together. They have great love

each for the other. But, of course, that's nothing to do with me. I

merely want Hicks to undertake some clerical work for me, as a matter of

business, and I thought you might tell me the best way to tackle him

without hurting his feelings. He's a proud man, I fancy."

"Ess; an' pride's a purty fulish coat for poverty, ban't it? I've gived

that man as gude advice as ever I gived any man; but what's

well-thought-out wisdom to the likes of him? Get un a job if you mind

to. I shouldn't--not till he shaws better metal and grips the facts o'

life wi' a tighter hand."

"I'll sound him as delicately as I can. It may be that his self-respect

would strengthen if he found his talents appreciated and able to command

a little money. He wants something of that sort--eh?"

"Doan't knaw but what a hiding wouldn't be so gude for un as anything,"

mused Will. There was no animosity in the reflection. His ill-temper had

long since vanished, and he considered Clement as he might have

considered a young, wayward dog which had erred and brought itself

within reach of the lash.

"I was welted in my time hard an' often, an' be none the worse," he

continued.

Martin smiled and shook his head.

"Might have served him once; too late now for that remedy, I fear."

There was a brief pause, then Will changed the conversation abruptly.

"How's your brother Jan?" he asked.

"He's furnishing his new house and busy about the formation of a

volunteer corps. I met him not long since in Fingle Gorge."

"Be you friends now, if I may ax?"

"I tried to be. We live and learn. Things happened to me a while ago

that taught me what I didn't know. I spoke to him and reminded him of

the long years in Africa. Blood's thicker than water, Blanchard."

"So 'tis. What did he make of it?"

"He looked up and hesitated. Then he shook his head and set his face

against me, and said he would not have my friendship as a gift."

"He's a gude hater."

"Time will bring the best of him to the top again some day. I understand

him, I think. We possess more in common than people suppose. We feel

deeply and haven't a grain of philosophy between us."

"Well, I reckon I've allus been inclined to deep ways of thought myself;

and work up here, wi' nothing to break your thoughts but the sight of a

hawk or the twinkle of a rabbit's scut, be very ripening to the mind. If

awnly Phoebe was here! Sometimes I'm in a mood to ramp down-long an'

hale her home, whether or no. But I sweats the longing out o' me wi'

work."

"The day will soon come. Time drags with me just now, somehow, but it

races with you, I'll warrant. I must get on with my book, and see Hicks

and try and persuade him to help me."

"'Tis like your big nature to put it that way. You'rn tu soft-hearted a

man to dwell in a house all alone. Let the dead stones bide, Martin, an'

look round for a wife. Theer's more gude advice. Blamed if I doan't

advise everybody nowadays! Us must all come to it. Look round about an'

try to love a woman. 'T will surprise 'e an' spoil sleep if you can

bring yourself to it. But the cuddlin' of a soft gal doan't weaken man's

thews and sinews neither. It hardens 'em, I reckon, an' puts fight in

the most poor-spirited twoad as ever failed in love. 'Tis a manly thing,

an' 'boldens the heart like; an', arter she's said 'Yes' to 'e, you'll

find a wonnerful change come awver life. 'Tis all her, then. The most

awnself[8] man feels it more or less, an' gets shook out of his shell.

You'll knaw some day. Of course I speaks as wan auld in love an' married

into the bargain."

[8] _Awnself_=selfish.

"You speak from experience, I know. And is Phoebe as wise as you, Will?"

"Waitin' be harder for a wummon. They've less to busy the mind, an' less

mind to busy, for that matter."

"That's ungallant."

"I doan't knaw. 'Tis true, anyway. I shouldn't have failed in love wi'

her if she'd been cleverer'n me."

"Or she with you, perhaps?"

"P'r'aps not. Anyway as it stands we'm halves of a whole: made for man

and wife. I reckon I weern't wan to miss my way in love like some poor

fules, as wastes it wheer they might see't wasn't wanted if they'd got

eyes in their heads."

"What it is to be so wise!"

Will laughed joyously in his wisdom.

"Very gude of 'e to say that. 'Tis a happy thing to have sense enough.

Not but we larn an' larn."

"So we should. Well, I must be off now. I'm safe on the Moor to-day!"

"Ess, by the looks of it. Theer'll likely come some mist after noon, but

shouldn't be very thick."

So they parted, Blanchard having unconsciously sown the seed of an ugly

crop that would take long in reaping. His remarks concerning Clement

Hicks were safe enough with Martin, but another had heard them as he

worked within earshot of his master. Bonus, though his judgment was

scanty, entertained a profound admiration for Will; and thus it came

about, that a few days later, when in Chagford, he called at the "Green

Man" and made some grave mischief while he sang his master's praises. He

extolled the glorious promise of Newtake, and the great improvements

already visible thereon; he reflected not a little of Will's own

flamboyant manner to the secret entertainment of those gathered in the

bar, and presently he drew down upon himself some censure.

Abraham Chown, the police inspector, first shook his head and prophesied

speedy destruction of all these hopes; and then Gaffer Lezzard

criticised still more forcibly.

"All this big-mouthed talk's cracklin' of thorns under a potsherd,"

hesaid. "You an' him be just two childern playin' at shop in the gutter,

an' the gutter's wheer you'll find yourselves 'fore you think to. What

do the man _knaw?_ Nothin'."

"Blanchard's a far-seein' chap," answered Sam Bonus stoutly. "An' a gude

master; an' us'll stick together, fair or foul."

"You may think it, but wait," said a small man in the corner. Charles

Coomstock, nephew of the widow of that name already mentioned, was a

wheelwright by trade and went lame, owing to an accident with hot iron

in youth.

"Ax Clem," continued Mr. Coomstock. "For all his cranky ways he knaws

Blanchard better'n most of us, an' I heard un size up the chap t'other

day in a word. He said he hadn't wit enough to keep his brains sweet."

"He'm a braave wan to talk," fired back Bonus. "Him! A poor luny as

caan't scrape brass to keep a wife on. Blanchard, or me either, could

crack un in half like a dead stick."

"Not that that's anything for or against," declared Gaffer Lezzard.

"Power of hand's nought against brain."

"It gaws a tidy long way 'pon Dartymoor, however," declared Bonus. "An'

Blanchard doan't set no 'mazin' store on Hicks neither, if it comes to

words. I heard un say awnly t'other forenoon that the man was a weak

saplin', allus grumblin', an' might be better for a gude hiding."

Now Charles Coomstock did not love his cousin Clement. Indeed, none of

those who had, or imagined they had, any shadow of right to a place in

Mary Coomstock's will cared much for others similarly situated; but the

little wheelwright was by nature a spreader of rumours and reports--an

intelligencer, malignant from choice. He treasured this assertion,

therefore, together with one or two others. Sam, now at his third glass,

felt his heart warm to Will. He would have fought with tongue or fist on

his behalf, and presently added to the mischief he had already done.

"To shaw 'e, neighbours, just the man he is, I may tell 'e that a larned

piece like Martin Grimbal ackshually comed all the way to Newtake not

long since to ax advice of un. An' 'twas on the identical matter of this

same Hicks. Mr. Grimbal wanted to give un some work to do, 'bout a book

or some such item; an' Will he ups and sez, 'Doan't,' just short an'

straight like that theer. 'Doan't,' he sez. 'Let un shaw what's in un

first'; an' t'other nodded when he said it."

Having now attested his regard for the master of Newtake, Sam jogged

off. He was pleased with himself, proud of having silenced more than one

detractor, and as his little brain turned the matter over, his lips

parted in a grin.

Coomstock meanwhile had limped into the cottage where Clement lived with

his mother. He did not garble his news, for it needed no artistic touch;

and, with nice sense of his perfect and effective instrument, he

realised the weapon was amply sharp enough without whetting, and

employed the story as it came into his hand. But Mr. Coomstock was a

little surprised and disappointed at his cousin's reserve and

self-restraint. He had hoped for a hearty outburst of wrath and the

assurance of wide-spreading animosity, yet no such thing happened, and

the talebearer presently departed in some surprise. Mrs. Hicks, indeed,

had shrilled forth a torrent of indignation upon the sole subject equal

to raising such an emotion in her breast, for Clem was her only son. The

man, however, took it calmly, or appeared to do so; and even when

Charles Coomstock was gone he refused to discuss the matter more.

But had his cousin, with Asmodeus-flight, beheld Clement during the

subsequent hours which he spent alone, it is possible that the

wheelwright had felt amply repaid for his trouble. Not until dawn stole

grey along the village street; not until sparrows in the thatch above

him began their salutation to the morning; not until Chagford rookery

had sent forth a harmonious multitude to the hills and valleys did

Clement's aching eyes find sleep. For hours he tossed and turned, now

trembling with rage, now prompted by some golden thread in the tangled

mazes of his mind to discredit the thing reported. Blanchard, as it

seemed, had come deliberately and maliciously between him and an

opportunity to win work. He burnt to know what he should do; and, like a

flame of forked light against the sombre background of his passion, came

the thought of another who hated Blanchard too. Will's secret glowed and

gleamed like the writing on the wall; looking out, Hicks saw it stamped

on the dark earth and across the starry night; and he wished to God that

the letters might so remain to be read by the world when it wakened.

Finally he slept and dreamed that he had been to the Red House, that he

had spoken to John Grimbal, and returned home again with a bag of gold.

When his mother came to call him he was lying half uncovered in a wild

confusion of scattered bed-clothes; and his arms and body were jerking

as a dog's that dreams. She saw a sort of convulsion pinch and pucker

his face; then he made some inarticulate sounds--as it were a frantic

negation; and then the noise of his own cry awakened him. He looked

wildly round and lifted his hands as though he expected to find them

full.

"Where is it? Where is it? The bag of money? I won't--I can't--Where is

it, I say?"

"I wish I knawed, lovey. Dream-gawld, I'm afeared. You've bin lying

cold, an' that do allus breed bad thoughts in sleep. 'Tis late; I done

breakfast an hour ago. An' Okehampton day, tu. Coach'll be along in

twenty minutes."

He sighed and dragged the clothes over himself.

"You'd best go to-day, mother. The ride will do you good, and I have

plenty to fill my time at home."

Mrs. Hicks brightened perceptibly before this prospect. She was a

little, faded woman, with a brown face and red-rimmed, weak eyes, washed

by many years of sorrow to the palest nondescript colour. She crept

through the world with no ambition but to die out of the poorhouse, no

prayer but a petition that the parish might not bury her at the end, no

joy save in her son. Life at best was a dreary business for her, and an

occasional trip to Okehampton represented about the only brightness that

ever crept into it. Now she bustled off full of excitement to get the

honey, and, having put on a withered bonnet and black shawl, presently

stood and waited for the omnibus.

Her son dwelt with his thoughts that day, and for him there was no peace

or pleasure. Full twenty times he determined to visit Newtake at once

and have it out with Will; but his infirmity of purpose acted like a

drag upon this resolution, and his pride also contributed a force

against it. Once he actually started, and climbed up Middledown to reach

the Moor beyond; then he changed his mind again as new fires of enmity

swept through it. His wrongs rankled black and bitter; and, faint under

them, he presently turned and went home shivering though the day was

hot.

CHAPTER VI

A SWARM OF BEES

Above Chagford rise those lofty outposts of Dartmoor, named respectively

Nattadown and Middledown. The first lies nearer to the village, and upon

its side, beneath a fir wood which crowns one spur, spread steep wastes

of fern and furze. This spot was a favourite one with Clement Hicks, and

a fortnight after the incidents last related he sat there smoking his

pipe, while his eyes roved upon the scene subtended before him. The hill

fell abruptly away, and near the bottom glimmered whitewashed cots along

a winding road. Still lower down extended marshy common land, laced with

twinkling watercourses and dotted with geese; while beyond, in many a

rise and fall and verdant undulation, the country rolled onwards through

Teign valley and upwards towards the Moor. The expanse seen from this

lofty standpoint extended like a mighty map, here revealing a patchwork

of multicoloured fields, here exhibiting tracts of wild waste and wood,

here beautifully indicating by a misty line, seen across ascending

planes of forest, the course of the distant river, here revealing the

glitter of remote waters damaskeened with gold. Little farms and

outlying habitations were scattered upon the land; and beyond them,

rising steadily to the sky-line, the regions of the Moor revealed their

larger attributes, wider expanses, more savage and abrupt configurations

of barren heath and weathered tor. The day passed gradually from gloom

to brightness, and the distance, already bathed in light, gleamed out of

a more sombre setting, where the foreground still reflected the shadows

of departing clouds, like a picture of great sunshine framed in

darkness. But the last vapours quickly vanished; the day grew very hot

and, as the sky indicated noon, all things beneath Clement's eyes were

soaked in a splendour of June sunlight. He watched a black thread lying

across a meadow five miles away. First it stretched barely visible

athwart the distance green; in half an hour it thickened without

apparent means; within an hour it had absorbed an eighth part at least

of the entire space. Though the time was very unusual for tilling of

land, Hicks knew that the combined operations of three horses, a man,

and a plough were responsible for this apparition, and he speculated as

to how many tremendous physical and spiritual affairs of life are thus

wrought by agents not visible to the beholder. Thus were his own

thoughts twisted back to those speculations which now perpetually

haunted them like the incubus of a dream. What would Will Blanchard say

if he woke some morning to find his secret in John Grimbal's keeping?

And, did any such thing happen, there must certainly be a mystery about

it; for Blanchard could no more prove how his enemy came to learn his

secret than might some urban stranger guess how the dark line grew

without visible means on the arable ground under Gidleigh.

From these dangerous thoughts he was roused by the sight of a woman

struggling up the steep hill towards him. The figure came slowly on, and

moved with some difficulty. This much Hicks noted, and then suddenly

realised that he beheld his mother. She knew his haunt and doubtless

sought him now. Rising, therefore, he hastened to meet her and shorten

her arduous climb. Mrs. Hicks was breathless when Clement reached her,

and paused a while, with her hand pressed to her side, before she could

speak. At length she addressed him, still panting between the syllables.

"My heart's a pit-pat! Hurry, hurry, for the Lard's sake! The bees be

playin'[9] an' they'll call Johnson if you ban't theer directly minute!"

[9] _Playing_ = swarming.

Johnson, a thatcher, was the only other man in Chagford who shared any

knowledge of apiarian lore with Clement.

"Sorry you should have had the journey only for that, mother. 'Twas so

unlikely a morning, I never thought to hear of a swarm to-day. I'll

start at once, and you go home quietly. You're sadly out of breath.

Where is it?"

"To the Red House--Mr. Grimbal's. It may lead to the handlin' of his

hives for all us can say, if you do the job vitty, as you 'm bound to."

"John Grimbal's!"

Hicks stood still as though this announcement had turned him into stone.

"Ess fay! Why do 'e stand glazin' like that? A chap rode out for 'e 'pon

horseback; an' a bit o' time be lost a'ready. They 'm swarmin' in the

orchard, an' nobody knaws more 'n the dead what to be at."

"I won't go. Let them get Johnson."

"'Won't go'! An' five shillin' hangin' to it, an' Lard knaws what more

in time to come! 'Won't go'! An' my poor legs throbbin' something cruel

with climbin' for 'e!"

"I--I'm not going there--not to that man. I have reason."

"O my gude God!" burst out the old woman, "what'll 'e do next? An'

me--as worked so hard to find 'e--an' so auld as I am! Please, please,

Clem, for your mother--please. Theer's bin so little money in the house

of late days, an' less to come. Doan't, if you love me, as I knaws well

you do, turn your back 'pon the scant work as falls in best o' times."

The man reflected with troubled eyes, and his mother took his arm and

tried to pull him down the hill.

"Is John Grimbal at home?" he asked.

"How shude I knaw? An' what matter if he is? Your business is with the

bees, not him. An' you've got no quarrel with him because that Blanchard

have. After what Will done against you, you needn't be so squeamish as

to make his enemies yourn."

"My business is with the bees--as you say, mother," he answered slowly,

repeating her words.

"Coourse 'tis! Who knaws a half of what you knaw 'bout 'em? That's my

awn braave Clem! Why, there might be a mort o' gude money for a man like

you at the Red House!"

"I'll go. My business is with the bees. You walk along slowly, or sit

down a while and get your breath again. I'll hurry."

She praised him and blessed him, crying after him as he

departed,--"You'll find all set out for 'e--veil, an' gloves, an' a

couple of bee-butts to your hand."

The man did not reply, but soon stumbled down the steep hill and

vanished; then five-and-twenty minutes later, with the implements of his

trade, he stood at the gate of the Red House, entered, and hastened

along the newly planted avenue.

John Grimbal had not yet gone into residence, but he dwelt at present in

his home farm hard by; and from this direction he now appeared to meet

the bee-keeper. The spectacle of Grimbal, stern, grave, and older of

manner than formerly, impressed Hicks not a little. In silence, after

the first salutation, they proceeded towards an adjacent orchard; and

from here as they approached arose an extravagant and savage din, as

though a dozen baited dogs, each with a tin kettle at his tail, were

madly galloping down some stone-paved street, and hurtling one against

the other as they ran.

"They can stop that row," said Hicks. "'Tis an old-fashioned notion that

it hurries swarming, but I never found it do so."

"You know best, though beating on tin pots and cans at such a time's a

custom as old as the hills."

"And vain as many others equally old. I have a different method to hurry

swarming."

Now they passed over the snows of a million fallen petals, while yet

good store of flowers hung upon the trees. June basked in the heart of

the orchard and a delicious green sweetness and freshness marked the

moment. Crimson and cream, all splashed with sunlight, here bloomed

against a sky of summer blue, here took a shade from the new-born leaves

and a shadow from branch and bough. To the eye, a mottled, dimpled glory

of apple-blossom spread above grey trunks and twisted branches, shone

through deep vistas of the orchard, brightened all the distance; while

upon the ear, now growing and deepening, arose one sustained and musical

susurration of innumerable wings.

"You will be wise to stay here," said Hicks. He himself stopped a

moment, opened his bag, put on his veil and gloves, and tucked his

trousers inside his stockings.

"Not I. I wish to see the hiving."

Twenty yards distant a play of light and glint and twinkle of many

frantic bees converged upon one spot, as stars numerically increase

towards the heart of a cluster. The sky was full of flying insects, and

their wings sparkled brightly in the sun; though aloft, with only the

blue for background, they appeared as mere dark points filling the air

in every direction. The swarm hung at the very heart of a little glade.

Here two ancient apple-trees stood apart, and from one low bough,

stretched at right angles to the parent stem, and not devoid of leaves

and blossoms, there depended a grey-brown mass from which a twinkling,

flashing fire leaped forth as from gems bedded in the matrix. Each

transparent wing added to the dazzle under direct sunlight; the whole

agglomeration of life was in form like a bunch of grapes, and where it

thinned away to a point the bees dropped off by their own weight into

the grass below, then rose again and either flew aloft in wide and

circling flight or rushed headlong upon the swarm once more. Across the

iridescent cluster passed a gleam and glow of peacock and iris, opal and

mother-of-pearl; while from its heart ascended a deep murmur, telling of

tremendous and accumulated energy suddenly launched into this peaceful

glade of apple-blossom and ambient green. The frenzy of the moment held

all that little laborious people. There was none of the concerted action

to be observed at warping, or simultaneous motion of birds in air and

fishes in water; but each unit of the shining army dashed on its own

erratic orbit, flying and circling, rushing hither and thither, and

sooner or later returning to join the queen upon the bough.

The glory of the moment dominated one and all. It was their hour--a

brief, mad ecstasy in short lives of ceaseless toil. To-day they

desisted from their labours, and the wild-flowers of the waste places,

and the old-world flowers in cottage gardens were alike forgotten. Yet

their year had already seen much work and would see more. Sweet pollen

from many a bluebell and anemone was stored and sealed for a generation

unborn; the asphodels and violets, the velvet wallflower and yellow

crocuses had already yielded treasure; and now new honey jewels were

trembling in the trumpets of the honeysuckle, at the heart of the wild

rose, within the deep cups of the candid and orange lilies, amid the

fairy caps of columbines, and the petals of clove-pinks. There the bees

now living laboured, and those that followed would find their sweets in

the clover,--scarlet and purple and white,--in the foxgloves, in the

upland deserts of the heather with their oases of euphrasy and sweet

wild thyme.

"Is it a true swarm or a cast?" inquired John Grimbal.

"A swarm, without much question, though it dawned an unlikely day for an

old queen to leave the hive. Still, the weather came over splendid

enough by noon, and they knew it was going to. Where are your butts? You

see, young maiden queens go further afield than old ones. The latter

take but a short flight for choice."

"There they are," said Grimbal, pointing to a row of thatched hives not

far off. "So that should be an old queen, by your showing. Is she

there?"

"I fancy so by the look of them. If the queen doesn't join, the bees

break up, of course, and go back to the butt. But I've brought a couple

of queens with me."

"I've seen a good few drones about the board lately."

"Sure sign of swarming at this season. Inside, if you could look, you'd

find plenty of queen cells, and some capped over. You'd come across a

murder or two as well. The old queens make short work of the young ones

sometimes."

"Woman-like."

Hicks admitted the criticism was just. Then, being now upon his own

ground, he continued to talk, and talk well, until he won a surly

compliment from his employer.

"You're a bee-master, in truth! Nobody'll deny you that."

Clement laughed rather bitterly.

"Yes, a king of bees. Not a great kingdom for man to rule."

The other studied his dark, unhappy face. Trouble had quickened

Grimbal's own perceptions, and made him a more accurate judge of sorrow

when he saw it than of yore.

"You've tried to do greater things and failed, perhaps," he said.

"Why, perhaps I have. A man's a hive himself, I've thought sometimes--a

hive of swarming, seething thoughts and experiences and passions, that

come and go as easily as any bees, and store the heart and brain."

"Not with honey, I'll swear."

"No--gall mostly."

"And every hive's got a queen bee too, for that matter," said Grimbal,

rather pleased at his wit responsible for the image.

"Yes; and the queens take each other's places quick enough, for we're

fickle brutes."

"A strange swarm we hive in our hearts, God knows."

"And it eats out our hearts for our pains."

"You've found out that, have you?" asked John curiously.

"Long ago."

"Everybody does, sooner or later."

There was a pause. Overhead the multitude dwindled while the great

glimmering cluster on the tree correspondingly increased, and the fierce

humming of the bees was like the sound of a fire. Clement feared

nothing, but he had seen few face a hiving without some distrust. The

man beside him, however, stood with his hands in his pockets,

indifferent and quite unprotected.

"You will be wiser to stand farther away, Mr. Grimbal. You're unlikely

to come off scot-free if you keep so close."

"What do I care? I've been stung by worse than insects."

"And I also," answered Clement, with such evident passion that the other

grew a little interested. He had evidently pricked a sore point in this

moody creature.

"Was it a woman stung you?"

"No, no; don't heed me."

Clement was on guard over himself again. "Your business is with

bees"--his mother's words echoed in his mind to the pulsing monotone of

the swarm. He tried to change the subject, sent for a pail of water, and

drew a large syringe from his bag, though the circumstances really

rendered this unnecessary. But John Grimbal, always finding a sort of

pleasure in his own torment, took occasion to cross-question Clement.

"I suppose I'm laughed at still in Chagford, am I not? Not that it

matters to me."

"I don't think so; an object of envy, rather, for good wives are easier

to get than great riches."

"That's your opinion, is it? I'm not so sure. Are you married?"

"No."

"Going to be, I'll wager, if you think good wives can be picked off

blackberry bushes."

"I don't say that at all. But I am going to be married certainly. I'm

fortunate and unfortunate. I've won a prize, but--well, honey's cheap. I

must wait."

"D' you trust her? Is waiting so easy?"

"Yes, I trust her, as I trust the sun to swing up out of the east

to-morrow, to set in the west to-night. She's the only being of my own

breed I do trust. As for the other question, no--waiting isn't easy."

"Nor yet wise. I shouldn't wait. Tell me who she is. Women interest me,

and the taking of 'em in marriage."

Hicks hesitated. Here he was drifting helpless under this man's hard

eyes--helpless and yet not unwilling. He told himself that he was safe

enough and could put a stop on his mouth when he pleased. Besides, John

Grimbal was not only unaware that the bee-keeper knew anything against

Blanchard, but had yet to learn that anybody else did,--that there even

existed facts unfavourable to him. Something, however, told Hicks that

mention of the common enemy would result from this present meeting, and

the other's last word brought the danger, if danger it might be, a step

nearer. Clement hesitated before replying to the question; then he

answered it.

"Chris Blanchard," he said shortly, "though that won't interest you."

"But it does--a good deal. I've wondered, some time, why I didn't hear

my own brother was going to marry her. He got struck all of a heap

there, to my certain knowledge. However, he 's escaped. The Lord be good

to you, and I take my advice to marry back again. Think twice, if she's

made of the same stuff as her brother."

"No, by God! Is the moon made of the same stuff as the marsh lights?"

Concentrated bitterness rang in the words, and a man much less acute

than Grimbal had guessed he stood before an enemy of Will. John saw the

bee-keeper start at this crucial moment; he observed that Hicks had said

a thing he much regretted and uttered what he now wished unspoken. But

the confession was torn bare and laid out naked under Grimbal's eyes,

and he knew that another man besides himself hated Will. The discovery

made his face grow redder than usual. He pulled at his great moustache

and thrust it between his teeth and gnawed it. But he contrived to hide

the emotion in his mind from Clement Hicks, and the other did not

suspect, though he regretted his own passion. Grimbals next words

further disarmed him. He appeared to know nothing whatever about Will,

though his successful rival interested him still.

"They call the man Jack-o'-Lantern, don't they? Why?"

"I can't tell you. It may be, though, that he is erratic and uncertain

in his ways. You cannot predict what he will do next."

"That's nothing against him. He's farming on the Moor now, isn't he?"

"Yes."

"Where did he come from when he dropped out of the clouds to marry

Phoebe Lyddon?"

The question was not asked with the least idea of its enormous

significance. Grimbal had no notion that any mystery hung over that

autumn time during which he made love to Phoebe and Will was absent from

Chagford. He doubted not that for the asking he could learn how Will had

occupied himself; but the subject did not interest him, and he never

dreamed the period held a secret. The sudden consternation bred in Hicks

by this question astounded him not a little. Indeed, each man amazed the

other, Grimbal by his question, Hicks by the attitude which he assumed

before it.

"I'm sure I haven't the least idea," he answered; but his voice and

manner had already told Grimbal all he cared to learn at the moment; and

that was more than his wildest hopes had even risen to. He saw in the

other's face a hidden thing, and by his demeanour that it was an

important one. Indeed, the bee-keeper's hesitation and evident alarm

before this chance question proclaimed the secret vital. For the

present, and before Clement's evident alarm, Grimbal dismissed the

matter lightly; but he chose to say a few more words upon it, for the

express purpose of setting Hicks again at his ease.

"You don't like your future brother-in-law?"

"Yes, yes, I do. We've been friends all our lives--all our lives. I like

him well, and am going to marry his sister--only I see his faults, and

he sees mine--that's all."

"Take my advice and shut your eyes to his faults. That's the best way if

you are marrying into his family. I've got cause to think ill enough of

the scamp, as you know and everybody knows; but life's too short for

remembering ill turns."

A weight rolled off Clement's heart. For a moment he had feared that the

man knew something; but now he began to suspect Grimbal's question to be

what in reality it was--casual interrogation, without any shadow of

knowledge behind it. Hicks therefore breathed again and trusted that his

own emotion had not been very apparent. Then, taking the water, he shot

a thin shower into the air, an operation often employed to hasten

swarming, and possibly calculated to alarm the bees into apprehension of

rain.

"Do wasps ever get into the hives?" asked Mr. Grimbal abruptly.

"Aye, they do; and wax-moths and ants, and even mice. These things eat

the honey and riddle and ruin the comb. Then birds eat the bees, and

spiders catch them. Honey-bees do nothing but good that I can see, yet

Nature 's pleased to fill the world with their enemies. Queen and drone

and the poor unsexed workers--all have their troubles; and so has the

little world of the hive. Yet during the few weeks of a bee's life he

does an amount of work beyond imagination to guess at."

"And still finds time to steal from the hives of his fellows?"

"Why, yes, if the sweets are exposed and can be tasted for nothing. Most

of us might turn robbers on the same terms. Now I can take them, and a

splendid swarm, too--finest I've seen this year."

The business of getting the glittering bunch of bees into a hive was

then proceeded with, and soon Clement had shaken the mass into a big

straw butt, his performance being completely successful. In less than

half an hour all was done, and Hicks began to remove his veil and shake

a bee or two off the rim of his hat.

John Grimbal rubbed his cheek, where a bee had stung him under the eye,

and regarded Hicks thoughtfully.

"If you happen to want work at any time, it might be within my power to

find you some here," he said, handing the bee-master five shillings.

Clement thanked his employer and declared he would not forget the offer;

he then departed, and John Grimbal returned to his farm.

CHAPTER VII

AN OFFER OF MARRIAGE

Billy Blee, who has appeared thus far as a disinterested spectator of

other people's affairs, had yet his own active and personal interests in

life. Them he pursued, at odd times, and in odd ways, with admirable

pertinacity; and as a crisis is now upon him and chance knits the

outcome of it into the main fabric of this narrative, Billy and his

actions command attention.

Allusion has already been made, and that frequently, to one Widow

Coomstock, whose attractions of income, and the ancillary circumstance

of an ample though elderly person, had won for her certain admirers more

ancient than herself. Once butt-woman, or sextoness, of Chagford Church,

the lady had dwelt alone, as Miss Mary Reed, for fifty-five years--not

because opportunity to change her state was denied her, but owing to the

fact that experience of life rendered her averse to all family

responsibilities. Mary Reed had seen her sister, the present Mrs. Hicks,

take a husband, had watched the result of that step; and this, with a

hundred parallel instances of misery following on matrimony, had

determined her against it. But when old Benjamin Coomstock, the timber

merchant and coal-dealer, became a widower, this ripe maiden, long known

to him, was approached before his wife's grave became ready for a stone.

To Chagford's amazement he so far bemeaned himself as to offer the

sextoness his hand, and she accepted it. Then, left a widow after two

years with her husband, Mary Coomstock languished a while, and changed

her methods of life somewhat. The roomy dwelling-house of her late

partner became her property and a sufficient income went with it. Mr.

Coomstock's business had been sold in his lifetime; the money was

invested, and its amount no man knew, though rumour, which usually

magnifies such matters, spoke of a very handsome figure; and Mrs.

Coomstock's lavish manner of life lent confirmation to the report. But

though mundane affairs had thus progressed with her, the woman's

marriage was responsible for very grave mental and moral deterioration.

Prosperity, and the sudden exchange of a somewhat laborious life for the

ease and comfort of independence, played havoc with Widow Coomstock. She

grew lax, gross in habit and mind, self-indulgent, and ill-tempered.

When her husband died her old friends lost sight of her, while only

those who had reason to hope for a reward still kept in touch with her,

and indeed forced themselves upon her notice. Everybody predicted she

would take another husband; but, though it was now nearly eight years

since Mr. Coomstock's death, his widow still remained one. Gaffer

Lezzard and Billy Blee had long pursued her with varying advantage, and

the latter, though his proposals were declined, yet saw in each refusal

an indication to encourage future hope.

Now, urged thereto by whispers that Mr. Lezzard had grown the richer by

three hundred pounds on the death of a younger brother in Australia,

Billy determined upon another attack. He also was worth something--less

indeed than three hundred pounds; though, seeing that he had been

earning reasonably good wages for half a century, the fact argued but

poor thrift in Mr. Blee. Of course Gaffer Lezzard's alleged legacy could

hardly be a sum to count with Mrs. Coomstock, he told himself; yet his

rival was a man of wide experience and an oily tongue: while, apart from

any question of opposition, he felt that another offer of marriage might

now be made with decorum, seeing that it was a full year since the last.

Mr. Blee therefore begged for a half-holiday, put on his broadcloth,

blacked his boots, anointed his lion-monkey fringe and scanty locks with

pomatum, and set forth. Mrs. Coomstock's house stood on the hill rising

into the village from Chagford Bridge. A kitchen garden spread behind

it; in front pale purple poppies had the ill-kept garden to themselves.

As he approached, Mr. Blee felt a leaden weight about his newly polished

boots, and a distinct flutter at the heart, or in a less poetical

portion of his frame.

"Same auld feeling," he reflected. "Gormed if I ban't gettin' sweaty

'fore the plaace comes in sight! 'Tis just the sinkin' at the navel,

like what I had when I smoked my first pipe, five-and-forty years

agone!"

The approach of another man steadied Billy, and on recognising him Mr.

Blee forgot all about his former emotions and gasped in the clutch of a

new one. It was Mr. Lezzard, evidently under some impulse of genial

exhilaration. There hung an air of aggression about him, but, though he

moved like a conqueror, his gait was unsteady and his progress slow. He

had wit to guess Billy's errand, however, for he grinned, and leaning

against the hedge waved his stick in the air above his head.

"Aw, Jimmery! if it ban't Blee; an' prinked out for a weddin', tu, by

the looks of it!"

"Not yourn, anyway," snapped back the suitor.

"Well, us caan't say 'zactly--world 's full o' novelties."

"Best pull yourself together, Gaffer, or bad-hearted folks might say you

was bosky-eyed.[10] That ban't no novelty anyway, but 't is early yet to

be drunk--just three o'clock by the church."

[10] _Bosky-eyed_ = intoxicated.

Mr. Blee marched on without waiting for a reply. He knew Lezzard to be

more than seventy years old and usually regarded the ancient man's

rivalry with contempt; but he felt uneasy for a few moments, until the

front door of Mrs. Coomstock's dwelling was opened to him by the lady

herself.

"My stars! You? What a terrible coorious thing!" she said.

"Why for?"

"Come in the parlour. Theer! coorious ban't the word!"

She laughed, a silly laugh and loud. Then she shambled before him to the

sitting-room, and Billy, familiar enough with the apartment, noticed a

bottle of gin in an unusual position upon the table. The liquor stood,

with two glasses and a jug of water, between the Coomstock family Bible,

on its green worsted mat, and a glass shade containing the stuffed

carcass of a fox-terrier. The animal was moth-eaten and its eyes had

fallen out. It could be considered in no sense decorative; but sentiment

allowed the corpse this central position in a sorry scheme of adornment,

for the late timber merchant had loved it. Upon Mrs. Coomstock's parlour

walls hung Biblical German prints in frames of sickly yellow wood; along

the window-ledge geraniums and begonias flourished, though gardeners had

wondered to see their luxuriance, for the windows were seldom opened.

"'It never rains but it pours,'" said Widow Coomstock. She giggled again

and looked at Billy. She was very fat, and the red of her face deepened

to purple unevenly about the sides of her nose. Her eyes were bright and

black. She had opened a button or two at the top of her dress, and her

general appearance, from her grey hair to her slattern heels, was

disordered. Her cap had fallen off on to the ground, and Mr. Blee

noticed that her parting was as a broad turnpike road much tramped upon

by Time. The room smelt stuffy beyond its wont and reeked not only of

spirits but tobacco. This Billy sniffed inquiringly, and Mrs. Coomstock

observed the action. "'Twas Lezzard," she said. "I like to see a man in

comfort. You can smoke if you mind to. Coomstock always done it, and a

man's no man without, though a dirty habit wheer they doan't use a

spittoon."

She smiled, but to herself, and was lost in thought a moment. He saw her

eyes very bright and her head wagging. Then she looked at him and

laughed again.

"You'm a fine figure of a man, tu," she said, apropos of nothing in

particular. But the newcomer understood. He rumpled his hair and snorted

and frowned at the empty glasses.

"Have a drop?" suggested Mrs. Coomstock; but Billy, of opinion that his

love had already enjoyed refreshment sufficient for the time, refused

and answered her former remark.

"A fine figure?--yes, Mary Coomstock, though not so fine for a man as

you for a woman. Still, a warm-blooded chap an' younger than my years."

"I've got my share o' warm blood, tu, Billy."

It was apparent. Mrs. Coomstock's plump neck bulged in creases over the

dirty scrap of white linen that represented a collar, while her massive

bust seemed bursting through her apparel.

"Coourse," said Mr. Blee, "an' your share, an' more 'n your share o'

brains, tu. He had bad luck--Coomstock--the worse fortune as ever fell

to a Chaggyford man, I reckon."

"How do 'e come at that, then?"

"To get 'e, an' lose 'e again inside two year. That's ill luck if ever I

seen it. Death's a envious twoad. Two short year of you; an' then up

comes a tumour on his neck unbeknawnst, an' off he goes, like a spring

lamb."

"An' so he did. I waked from sleep an' bid un rise, but theer weern't no

more risin' for him till the Judgment."

"Death's no courtier. He'll let a day-labourer go so peaceful an'

butivul as a child full o' milk goes to sleep; while he'll take a gert

lord or dook, wi' lands an' moneys, an' strangle un by inches, an' give

un the hell of a twistin'. You caan't buy a easy death seemin'ly."

"A gude husband he was, but jealous," said Mrs. Coomstock, her thoughts

busy among past years; and Billy immediately fell in with this view.

"Then you'm well rid of un. Theer's as gude in the world alive any

minute as ever was afore or will be again."

"Let 'em stop in the world then. I doan't want 'em."

This sentiment amused the widow herself more than Billy. She laughed

uproariously, raised her glass to her lips unconsciously, found it

empty, grew instantly grave upon the discovery, set it down again, and

sighed.

"It's a wicked world," she said. "Sure as men's in a plaace they brings

trouble an' wickedness. An' yet I've heard theer's more women than men

on the airth when all's said."

"God A'mighty likes 'em best, I reckon," declared Mr. Blee.

"Not but what 't would be a lonesome plaace wi'out the lords of

creation," conceded the widow.

"Ess fay, you 'm right theer; but the beauty of things is that none need

n't be lonely, placed same as you be."

"'Once bit twice shy,'" said Mrs. Coomstock. Then she laughed again. "I

said them very words to Lezzard not an hour since."

"An' what might he have answered?" inquired Billy without, however,

showing particular interest to know.

"He said he wasn't bit. His wife was a proper creature."

"Bah! second-hand gudes--that's what Lezzard be--a widow-man an' eighty

if a day. A poor, coffin-ripe auld blid, wi' wan leg in the graave any

time this twenty year."

Mrs. Coomstock's frame heaved at this tremendous criticism. She gurgled

and gazed at Billy with her eyes watering and her mouth open.

"You say that! Eighty an' coffin-ripe!"

"Ban't no ontruth, neither. A man 's allus ready for his elm overcoat

arter threescore an' ten. I heard the noise of his breathin' paarts when

he had brown kitty in the fall three years ago, an' awnly thrawed it off

thanks to the gracious gudeness of Miller Lyddon, who sent rich stock

for soup by my hand. But to hear un, you might have thought theer was a

wapsies' nest in the man's lungs."

"I doan't want to be nuss to a chap at my time of life, in coourse."

"No fay; 't is the man's paart to look arter his wife, if you ax me. I

be a plain bachelor as never thought of a female serious 'fore I seed

you. An' I've got a heart in me, tu. Ban't no auld, rubbishy, worn-out

thing, neither, but a tough, love-tight heart--at least so 't was till I

seed you in your weeds eight year agone."

"Eight year a widow! An' so I have been. Well, Blee, you've got a

powerful command of words, anyways. That I'll grant you."

"'T is the gert subject, Mary."

He moved nearer and put down his hat and stick; she exhibited

trepidation, not wholly assumed. Then she helped herself to more

spirits.

"A drop I must have to steady me. You men make a woman's heart go

flutterin' all over her buzzom, like a flea under her--"

She stopped and laughed, then drank. Presently setting down the glass

again, she leered in a manner frankly animal at Mr. Blee, and told him

to say what he might have to say and be quick about it. He fired a

little at this invitation, licked his lips, cleared his throat, and cast

a nervous glance or two at the window. But nobody appeared; no

thunder-visaged Lezzard frowned over the geraniums. Gaffer indeed was

sound asleep, half a mile off, upon one of those seats set in the open

air for the pleasure and convenience of wayfarers about the village. So

Billy rose, crossed to the large sofa whereon Mrs. Coomstock sat,

plumped down boldly beside her and endeavoured to get his arm round the

wide central circumference of her person. She suffered this courageous

attempt without objection. Then Billy gently squeezed her, and she

wriggled and opened her mouth and shut her eyes.

"Say the word and do a wise thing," he urged. "Say the word, Mary, an'

think o' me here as master, a-keeping all your damn relations off by

word of command."

She laughed.

"When I be gone you'll see some sour looks, I reckon."

"Nothing doan't matter then; 't is while you 'm here I'd protect 'e

'gainst 'em. Look, see! ban't often I goes down on my knees, 'cause a

man risin' in years, same as me, can pray to God more dignified sittin';

but now I will." He slid gingerly down, and only a tremor showed the

stab his gallantry cost him.

"You 'm a masterful auld shaver, sure 'nough!" said Mrs. Coomstock,

regarding Billy with a look half fish like, half affectionate.

"Rise me up, then," he said. "Rise me up, an' do it quick. If you love

me, as I see you do by the faace of you, rise me up, Mary, an' say the

word wance for all time. I'll be a gude husband to 'e an' you'll bless

the day you took me, though I sez it as shouldn't."

She allowed her fat left hand, with the late Mr. Coomstock's

wedding-ring almost buried in her third finger, to remain with Billy's;

and by the aid of it and the sofa he now got on his legs again. Then he

sat down beside her once more and courageously set his yellow muzzle

against her red cheek. The widow remained passive under this caress, and

Mr. Blee, having kissed her thrice, rubbed his mouth and spoke.

"Theer! 'T is signed and sealed, an' I'll have no drawin' back now."

"But--but--Lezzard, Billy. I do like 'e--I caan't hide it from 'e, try

as I will--but him--"

"I knawed he was t'other. I tell you, forget un. His marryin' days be

awver. Dammy, the man's 'most chuckle headed wi' age! Let un go his way

an' say his prayers 'gainst the trump o' God. An' it'll take un his time

to pass Peter when all 's done--a bad auld chap in his day. Not that I'd

soil your ears with it."

"He said much the same 'bout you. When you was at Drewsteignton, twenty

year agone--"

"A lie--a wicked, strammin', gert lie, with no more truth to it than a

auld song! He 'm a venomous beast to call home such a thing arter all

these years."

"If I did take 'e, you'd be a gude an' faithful husband, Billy, not a

gad-about?"

"Cut my legs off if I go gaddin' further than to do your errands."

"An' you'll keep these here buzzin' parties off me? Cuss 'em! They make

my life a burden."

"Doan't fear that. I'll larn 'em!"

"Theer 's awnly wan I can bide of the whole lot--an' that's my awn

nephew, Clem Hicks. He'll drink his drop o' liquor an' keep his mouth

shut, an' listen to me a-talkin' as a young man should. T'others are

allus yelpin' out how fond they be of me, and how they'd go to the

world's end for me. I hate the sight of 'em."

"A time-servin' crew, Mary; an' Clement Hicks no better 'n the rest,

mark my word, though your sister's son. 'T is cupboard love wi' all. But

money ban't nothin' to me. I've been well contented with enough all my

life, though 't is few can say with truth that enough satisfies 'em."

"Lezzard said money was nothin' to him neither, having plenty of his

awn. 'T was my pusson, not my pocket, as he'd falled in love with."

"Burnish it all! Theer 's a shameful speech! 'Your pusson'! Him! I'll

tell you what Lezzard is--just a damn evil disposition kep' in by skin

an' bones--that's Lezzard. 'Your pusson'!"

"I'm afraid I've encouraged him a little. You've been so backward in

mentioning the subject of late. But I'm sure I didn't knaw as he'd got a

evil disposition."

"Well, 't is so. An' 't is awnly your bigness of heart, as wouldn't

hurt a beetle, makes you speak kind of the boozy auld sweep. I'll soon

shaw un wheer he's out if he thinks you 'm tinkering arter him!"

"He couldn't bring an action for breach, or anything o' that, could he?"

"At his time of life! What Justice would give ear to un? An' the shame

of it!"

"Perhaps he misunderstood. You men jump so at a conclusion."

"Leave that to me. I'll clear his brains double-quick; aye, an' make un

jump for somethin'!"

"Then I suppose it's got to be. I'm yourn, Billy, an' theer needn't be

any long waitin' neither. To think of another weddin' an' another

husband! Just a drop or I shall cry. It's such a supporting thing to a

lone female."

Whether Mrs. Coomstock meant marriage or Plymouth gin, Billy did not

stop to inquire. He helped her, filled Lezzard's empty glass for

himself, and then, finding his future wife thick of speech, bleared of

eye, and evidently disposed to slumber, he departed and left her to

sleep off her varied emotions.

"I'll mighty soon change all that," thought Mr. Blee. "To note a fine

woman in liquor 's the frightfullest sight in all nature, so to say. Not

but what with Lezzard a-pawin' of her 't was enough to drive her to it."

That night the lover announced his triumph, whereon Phoebe congratulated

him and Miller Lyddon shook his head.

"'T is an awful experiment, Billy, at your age," he declared.

"Why, so 't is; but I've weighed the subject in my mind for years and

years, an 't wasn't till Mary Coomstock comed to be widowed that I

thought I'd found the woman at last. 'T was lookin' tremendous high, I

knaw, but theer 't is; she'll have me. She 'm no young giglet neither,

as would lead me a devil's dance, but a pusson in full blooth with ripe

mind."

"She drinks. I doan't want to hurt your feelings; but everybody says it

is so," declared the miller.

"What everybody sez, nobody did ought to believe," returned Mr. Blee

stoutly. "She 'm a gude, lonely sawl, as wants a man round the house to

keep off her relations, same as us has a dog to keep down varmints in

general. Theer 's the Hickses, an' Chowns, an' Coomstocks all a-stickin'

up theer tails an' a-purrin' an' a-rubbin' theerselves against the

door-posts of the plaace like cats what smells feesh. I won't have none

of it. I'll dwell along wi' she an' play a husband's part, an' comfort

the decline of her like a man, I warn 'e."

"Why, Mrs. Coomstock 's not so auld as all that, Billy," said Phoebe.

"Chris has often told me she's only sixty-two or three."

But he shook his head.

"Ban't a subject for a loving man to say much on, awnly truth 's truth.

I seed it written in the Coomstock Bible wan day. Fifty-five she were

when she married first. Well, ban't in reason she twald the naked truth

'bout it, an' who'd blame her on such a delicate point? No, I'd judge

her as near my awn age as possible; an' to speak truth, not so well

preserved as what I be."

"How's Monks Barton gwaine to fare without 'e, Blee?" whined the miller.

"As to that, be gormed if I knaw how I'll fare wi'out the farm. But

love--well, theer 't is. Theer 's money to it, I knaw, but what do that

signify? Nothin' to me. You'll see me frequent as I ride here an'

theer--horse, saddle, stirrups, an' all complete; though God He knaws

wheer my knees'll go when my boots be fixed in stirrups. But a man must

use 'em if theer 's the dignity of money to be kept up. 'T is just wan

of them oncomfortable things riches brings with it."

While Miller Lyddon still argued with Billy against the step he now

designed, there arrived from Chagford the stout Mr. Chappie, with his

mouth full of news.

"More weddin's," he said. "I comed down-long to tell 'e, lest you

shouldn't knaw till to-morrow an' so fall behind the times. Widow

Coomstock 's thrawed up the sponge and gived herself to that

importuneous auld Lezzard. To think o' such a Methuselah as him--aulder

than the century--fillin' the eye o' that full-bodied--"

"It's a black lie--blacker 'n hell--an' if't was anybody but you brought

the news I'd hit un awver the jaw!" burst out Mr. Blee, in a fury.

"He tawld me hisself. He's tellin' everybody hisself. It comed to a

climax to-day. The auld bird's hoppin' all awver the village so proud as

a jackdaw as have stole a shiny button. He'm bustin' wi' it in fact."

"I'll bust un! An' his news, tu. An' you can say, when you'm axed, 't is

the foulest lie ever falled out of wicked lips."

Billy now took his hat and stick from their corner and marched to the

door without more words.

"No violence, mind now, no violence," begged Mr. Lyddon. "This

love-making 's like to wreck the end of my life, wan way or another,

yet. 'T is bad enough with the young; but when it comes to auld,

bald-headed fules like you an' Lezzard--"

"As to violence, I wouldn't touch un wi' the end of a dung-fork--I

wouldn't. But I'm gwaine to lay his lie wance an' for all. I be off to

parson this instant moment. An' when my banns of marriage be hollered

out next Sunday marnin', then us'll knaw who 'm gwaine to marry Mother

Coomstock an' who ban't. I can work out my awn salvation wi' fear an'

tremblin' so well as any other man; an' you'll see what that

God-forsaken auld piece looks like come Sunday when he hears what's done

an' caan't do nought but just swallow his gall an' chew 'pon it."

CHAPTER VIII

MR. BLEE FORGETS HIMSELF

The Rev. James Shorto-Champernowne made no difficulty about Billy's

banns of marriage, although he doubtless held a private opinion upon the

wisdom of such a step, and also knew that Mrs. Coomstock was now a very

different woman from the sextoness of former days. He expressed a hope,

however, that Mr. Blee would make his future wife become a regular

church-goer again after the ceremony; and Billy took it upon himself to

promise as much for her. There the matter ended until the following

Sunday, when a sensation, unparalleled in the archives of St. Michael's,

awaited the morning worshippers.

Under chiming of bells the customary congregation arrived, and a

perceptible wave of sensation swept from pew to pew at the appearance of

more than one unfamiliar face. Of regular attendants we may note Mrs.

Blanchard and Chris, Martin Grimbal, Mr. Lyddon, and his daughter. Mr.

Blee usually sat towards the back of the church at a point immediately

behind those benches devoted to the boys. Here he kept perfect order

among the lads, and had done so for many years. Occasionally it became

necessary to turn a youngster out of church, and Billy's procedure at

such a time was masterly; but of opinion to-day that he was a public

character, he chose a more conspicuous position, and accepted Mr.

Lyddon's invitation to take a seat in the miller's own pew. He felt he

owed this prominence, not only to himself, but to Mrs. Coomstock. She,

good soul, had been somewhat evasive and indefinite in her manner since

accepting Billy, and her condition of nerves on Sunday morning proved

such that she found herself quite unable to attend the house of prayer,

although she had promised to do so. She sent her two servants, however,

and, spending the time in private between spirtual and spirituous

consolations of Bible and bottle, the widow soon passed into a temporary

exaltation ending in unconsciousness. Thus her maids found her on

returning from church.

Excitement within the holy edifice reached fever-heat when a most

unwonted worshipper appeared in the venerable shape of Mr. Lezzard. He

was supported by his married daughter and his grandson. They sought and

found a very prominent position under the lectern, and it was

immediately apparent that no mere conventional attendance for the

purpose of praising their Maker had drawn Mr. Lezzard and his relations.

Indeed he had long been of the Baptist party, though it derived but

little lustre from him. Much whispering passed among the trio. Then his

daughter, having found the place she sought in a prayer-book, handed it

to Mr. Lezzard, and he made a big cross in pencil upon the page and bent

the volume backwards so that its binding cracked very audibly. Gaffer

then looked about him with a boldness he was far from feeling; but the

spectacle of Mr. Blee, hard by, fortified his spirit. He glared across

the aisle and Billy glared back.

Then the bells stopped, the organ droned, and there came a clatter of

iron nails on the tiled floor. Boys and men proceeded to the choir

stalls and Mr. Shorto-Champernowne fluttered behind, with his sermon in

his hand. Like a stately galleon of the olden time he swept along the

aisle, then reached his place, cast one keen glance over the assembled

congregation, and slowly sinking upon his hassock enveloped his face and

whiskers in snowy lawn and prayed a while.

The service began and that critical moment after the second lesson was

reached with dreadful celerity. Doctor Parsons, having read a chapter

from the New Testament, which he emerged from the congregation to do,

and which he did ill, though he prided himself upon his elocution,

returned to his seat as the Vicar rose, adjusted his double eyeglasses

and gave out a notice as follows:

"I publish the banns of marriage between William Blee, Bachelor, and

Mary Coomstock, Widow, both of this parish. If any of you know cause, or

just impediment, why these two persons should not be joined together in

holy matrimony, ye are to declare it. This is for the first time of

asking."

There was a momentary pause. Then, nudged by his daughter, who had grown

very pale, Gaffer Lezzard rose. His head shook and he presented the

appearance of a man upon the verge of palsy. He held up his hand,

struggled with his vocal organs and at last exploded these words,

sudden, tremulous, and shrill:

"I deny it an' I defy it! The wummon be mine!"

Mr. Lezzard succumbed instantly after this effort. Indeed, he went down

as though shot through the head. He wagged and gasped and whispered to

his grandson,--

"Wheer's the brandy to?"

Whereupon this boy produced a medicine bottle half full of spirits, and

his grandfather, with shaking fingers, removed the cork and drank the

contents. Meantime the Vicar had begun to speak; but he suffered another

interruption. Billy, tearing himself from the miller's restraining hand,

leapt to his feet, literally shaking with rage. He was dead to his

position, oblivious of every fact save that his banns of marriage had

been forbidden before the assembled Christians of Chagford. He had

waited to find a wife until he was sixty years old--for this!

"You--_you_ to do it! You to get up afore this rally o' gentlefolks an'

forbid my holy banns, you wrinkled, crinkled, baggering auld lizard!

Gormed if I doan't wring your--"

"Silence in the house of God!" thundered Mr. Shorto-Champernowne, with

tones so resonant that they woke rafter echoes the organ itself had

never roused. "Silence, and cease this sacrilegious brawling, or the

consequences will be unutterably serious! Let those involved," he

concluded more calmly, "appear before me in the vestry after divine

service is at an end."

Having frowned, in a very tragic manner, both on Mr. Blee and Mr.

Lezzard, the Vicar proceeded with the service; but though Gaffer

remained in his place Billy did not. He rose, jammed on his hat, glared

at everybody, and assumed an expression curiously similar to that of a

stone demon which grinned from the groining of two arches immediately

above him. He then departed, growling to himself and shaking his fists,

in another awful silence; for the Vicar ceased when he rose, and not

until Billy disappeared and his footfall was heard no more did the angry

clergyman proceed.

A buzz and hubbub, mostly of laughter, ascended when presently Mr.

Shorto-Champernowne's parishioners returned to the air; and any chance

spectator beholding them had certainly judged he stood before an

audience now dismissed from a theatre rather than the congregation of a

church.

"Glad Will weern't theer, I'm sure," said Mrs. Blanchard. "He'd 'a'

laughed out loud an' made bad worse. Chris did as 't was, awnly parson's

roarin' luckily drowned it. And Mr. Martin Grimbal, whose eye I catched,

was put to it to help smilin'."

"Ban't often he laughs, anyway," said Phoebe, who walked homewards with

her father and the Blanchards; whereon Chris, from being in a boisterous

vein of merriment, grew grave. Together all returned to the valley. Will

was due in half an hour from Newtake, and Phoebe, as a special favour,

had been permitted to dine at Mrs. Blanchard's cottage with her husband

and his family. Clement Hicks had also promised to be of the party; but

that was before the trouble of the previous week, and Chris knew he

would not come.

Meantime, Gaffer Lezzard, supported by two generations of his family,

explained his reasons for objecting to Mr. Blee's proposed marriage.

"Mrs. Coomstock be engaged, right and reg'lar, to me," he declared.

"She'd gived me her word 'fore ever Blee axed her. I seed her essterday,

to hear final 'pon the subjec', an' she tawld me straight, bein' sober

as you at the time, as 't was _me_ she wanted an' meant for to have. She

was excited t' other day an' not mistress of herself ezacally; an' the

crafty twoad took advantage of it, an' jawed, an' made her drink an'

drink till her didn't knaw what her was sayin' or doin'. But she'm mine,

an' she'll tell 'e same as what I do; so theer's an end on 't."

"I'll see Mrs. Coomstock," said the Vicar. "I, myself will visit her

to-morrow."

"Canst punish this man for tryin' to taake her from me?"

"Permit yourself no mean desires in the direction of revenge. For the

present I decline to say more upon the subject. If it were possible to

punish, and I am not prepared to say it is not, it would be for brawling

in the house of God. After an experience extending over forty years, I

may declare that I never saw any such disreputable and horrifying

spectacle."

So the Lezzard family withdrew and, on the following day, Mrs. Coomstock

passed through most painful experiences.

To the clergyman, with many sighs and tears, she explained that Mr.

Lezzard's character had been maligned by Mr. Blee, that before the

younger veteran she had almost feared for her life, and been driven to

accept him out of sheer terror at his importunity. But when facts came

to her ears afterwards, she found that Mr. Lezzard was in reality all he

had declared himself to be, and therefore returned to him, threw over

Mr. Blee, and begged the other to forbid the banns, if as she secretly

learnt, though not from Billy himself, they were to be called on that

Sunday. The poor woman's ears tingled under Mr. Shorto-Champernowne's

sonorous reproof; but he departed at last, and by the time that Billy

called, during the same day, she had imbibed Dutch courage sufficient to

face him and tell him she had changed her mind. She had erred--she

confessed it. She had been far from well at the time and, upon

reconsideration of the proposal, had felt she would never be able to

make Mr. Blee happy, or enjoy happiness with him.

As a matter of fact, Mrs. Coomstock had accepted both suitors on one and

the same afternoon. First Gaffer, who had made repeated but rather vague

allusion to a sum of three hundred pounds in ready money, was taken

definitely; while upon his departure, the widow, only dimly conscious of

what was settled with her former admirer, said, "Yes" to Billy in his

turn. Had a third suitor called on that event-ful afternoon, it is quite

possible Mrs. Coomstock would have accepted him also.

The conversation with Mr. Blee was of short duration, and ended by

Billy calling down a comprehensive curse on the faithless one and

returning to Monks Barton. He had attached little importance to

Lezzard's public protest, upon subsequent consideration and after the

first shock of hearing it; but there was no possibility of doubting what

he now learned from Mrs. Coomstock's own lips. That she had in reality

changed her mind appeared only too certain.

So he went home again in the last extremity of fury, and Phoebe, who was

alone at the time, found herself swept by the hurricane of his wrath. He

entered snorting and puffing, flung his hat on the settle, his stick

into the corner; then, dropping into a seat by the fire, he began taking

off his gaiters with much snuffling and mumbling and repeated

inarticulate explosions of breath. This cat-like splutter always

indicated deep feeling in Mr. Blee, and Phoebe asked with concern what

was the matter now.

"Matter? Tchut--Tchut--Theer ban't no God--that's what's the matter!"

"Billy! How can you?"

"She'm gwaine to marry t'other, arter all! From her awn lips I've heard

it! That's what I get for being a church member from the womb! That's my

reward! God, indeed! Be them the ways o' a plain-dealin' God, who knaws

what's doin' in human hearts? No fay! Bunkum an' rot! I'll never lift my

voice in hymn nor psalm no more, nor pray a line o' prayer again. Who be

I to be treated like that? Drunken auld cat! I cussed her--I cussed her!

Wouldn't marry her now if she axed wi' her mouth in the dirt. Wheer's

justice to? Tell me that. Me in church, keepin' order 'mong the damn

boys generation arter generation, and him never inside the door since he

buried his wife. An' parson siding wi' un, I'll wager. Mother Coomstock

'll give un hell's delights, that's wan gude thought. A precious pair

of 'em! Tchut! Gar!"

"I doan't really think you could have loved Mrs. Coomstock overmuch,

Billy, if you can talk so ugly an' crooked 'bout her," said Phoebe.

"I did, I tell 'e--for years an' years. I went down on my knees to the

bitch--I wish I hadn't; I'll be sorry for that to my dying day. I kissed

her, tu,--s' elp me, I did. You mightn't think it, but I did--a faace

like a frost-bitten beetroot, as 't is!"

"Doan't 'e, please, say such horrible things. You must be wise about it.

You see, they say Mr. Lezzard has more money than you. At least, so Mrs.

Coomstock told her nephew, Clement Hicks. Every one of her relations is

savage about it."

"Well they may be. Why doan't they lock her up? If she ban't mad, nobody

ever was. 'Money'! Lezzard! Lying auld--auld--Tchut! Not money enough to

pay for a graave to hide his rotten bones, I lay. Oh, 't is enough

to--theer, what 's the use of talkin'? Tchut--Tchut!"

At this point Phoebe, fearing even greater extravagances in Mr. Blee's

language, left him to consider his misfortunes alone. Long he continued

in the profoundest indignation, and it was not until Miller Lyddon

returned, heard the news, and heartily congratulated Billy on a merciful

escape, that the old man grew a little calmer under his disappointment,

and moderated the bitterness and profanity of his remarks.

CHAPTER IX

A DIFFERENCE WITH THE DUCHY

Newtake Farm, by reason of Will's recent occupancy, could offer no very

considerable return during his first year as tenant; but that he

understood and accepted, and the tribulation which now fell upon him was

of his own making. To begin with, Sam Bonus vanished from the scene. On

learning, soon after the event, that Bonus had discussed Hicks and

himself at Chagford, and detailed his private conversation with Martin

Grimbal, Blanchard, in a fury, swept off to the loft where his man

slept, roused him from rest, threw down the balance of his wages, and

dismissed him on the spot. He would hear no word in explanation, and

having administered a passionate rebuke, departed as he had come, like a

whirlwind. Sam, smarting under this injustice, found the devil wake in

him through that sleepless night, and had there stood rick or stack

within reach of revenge, he might have dealt his master a return blow

before morning. As usual, after the lapse of hours, Will cooled down,

modified his first fiery indignation, and determined, yet without

changing his mind, to give Bonus an opportunity of explaining the thing

he had done. Chris had brought the news from Clement himself, and Will,

knowing that his personal relations with Clement were already strained,

felt that in justice to his servant he must be heard upon the question.

But, when he sought Sam Bonus, though still the dawn was only grey, he

found the world fuller for him by another enemy, for the man had taken

him at his word and departed. During that day and the next Will made

some effort to see Bonus, but nothing came of it, so, dismissing the

matter from his mind, he hired a new labourer--one Teddy Chown, son of

Abraham Chown, the Inspector of Police--and pursued his way.

Then his unbounded energy led him into difficulties of a graver sort.

Will had long cast covetous eyes on a tract of moorland immediately

adjoining Newtake, and there being little to do at the moment, he

conceived the adventurous design of reclaiming it. The patch was an acre

and a half in extent--a beggarly, barren region, where the heather

thinned away and the black earth shone with water and disintegrated

granite. Quartz particles glimmered over it; at the centre black pools

of stagnant water marked an abandoned peat cutting; any spot less

calculated to attract an agricultural eye would have been hard to

imagine; but Blanchard set to work, began to fill the greedy quag in the

midst with tons of soil, and soon caused the place to look

business-like--at least in his own estimation. As for the Duchy, he did

not trouble himself. The Duchy itself was always reclaiming land without

considering the rights and wrongs of the discontented Venville tenants,

and Will knew of many a "newtake" besides this he contemplated. Indeed,

had not the whole farm, of which he was now master, been rescued from

the Moor in time past? He worked hard, therefore, and his new assistant,

though not a Bonus, proved stout and active. Chris, who still dwelt with

her brother, was sworn to secrecy respecting Will's venture; and so

lonely a region did the farm occupy that not until he had put a good

month of work into the adjacent waste were any of those in authority

aware of the young farmer's performance.

A day came when the new land was cleaned, partly ploughed, and wholly

surrounded by a fence of split stumps, presently to be connected by

wires. At these Chown was working, while Will had just arrived with a

load of earth to add to the many tons already poured upon that hungry

central patch. He held the tailboard of the cart in his hand and was

about to remove it; when, looking up, his heart fluttered a moment

despite his sturdy consciousness of right. On the moor above him rode

grey old Vogwell, the Duchy's man. His long beard fluttered in the wind,

and Will heard the thud of his horse's hoofs as he cantered quickly to

the scene, passed between two of the stakes, and drew up alongside

Blanchard.

"Marnin', Mr. Vogwell! Fine weather, to be sure, an' gude for the peat

next month; but bad for roots, an' no mistake. Will 'e have a drink?"

Mr. Vogwell gazed sternly about him, then fixed his little bright eyes

on the culprit.

"What do this mean, Will Blanchard?"

"Well, why not? Duchy steals all the gude land from Venwell men; why for

shouldn't us taake a little of the bad? This here weern't no gude to

man or mouse. Ban't 'nough green stuff for a rabbit 'pon it. So I just

thought I'd give it a lick an' a promise o' more later on."

"'A lick an' a promise'! You've wasted a month's work on it, to the

least."

"Well, p'raps I have--though ban't wasted. Do 'e think, Mr. Vogwell, as

the Duchy might be disposed to give me a hand?"

Will generally tackled difficulties in this audacious fashion, and a

laugh already began to brighten his eye; but the other quenched it.

"You fool! You knawed you was doin' wrong better'n I can tell you--an'

such a plaace! A babe could see you 'm workin' awver living springs. You

caan't fill un even now in the drouth, an' come autumn an' rain 't will

all be bog again."

"Nothing of the sort," flamed out Will, quite forgetting his recent

assertion as to the poverty of the place. "Do 'e think, you, as awnly

rides awver the Moor, knaws more about soil than I as works on it?

'Twill be gude proofy land bimebye--so good as any Princetown way, wheer

the prison men reclaim, an' wheer theer's grass this minute as carries a

bullock to the acre. First I'll plant rye, then swedes, then maybe more

swedes, then barley; an', with the barley, I'll sow the permanent grass

to follow. That's gude rotation of crops for Dartymoor, as I knaw an'

you doan't; an' if the Duchy encloses the best to rob our things[11],

why for shouldn't we--"

[11] _Things_ = beasts; sheep and cattle.

"That'll do. I caan't bide here listenin' to your child's-talk all the

marnin'. What Duchy does an' doan't do is for higher 'n you or me to

decide. If this was any man's work but yours I'd tell Duchy this night;

but bein' you, I'll keep mute. Awnly mind, when I comes this way a

fortnight hence, let me see these postes gone an' your plough an' cart

t' other side that wall. An' you'll thank me, when you've come to more

sense, for stoppin' this wild-goose chase. Now I'll have a drop o'

cider, if it's all the same to you."

Will opened a stone jar which lay under his coat at hand, and answered

as he poured cider into a horn mug for Mr. Vogwell--

"Here's your drink; but I won't take your orders, so I tell 'e. Damn the

Duchy, as steals moor an' common wheer it pleases an' then grudges a man

his toil."

"That's the spirit as'll land 'e in the poorhouse, Will Blanchard," said

Mr. Vogwell calmly; "and that's such a job as might send 'e to the

County Asylum," he added, pointing to the operations around him. "As to

damning Duchy," he continued, "you might as well damn the sun or moon.

They'd care as little. Theer 'm some varmints so small that, though they

bite 'e with all their might, you never knaw it; an' so 't is wi' you

an' Duchy. Mind now, a fortnight. Thank 'e--so gude cider as ever I

tasted; an' doan't 'e tear an' rage, my son. What's the use?"

"'Twould be use, though, if us all raged together."

"But you won't get none to follow. 'Tis all talk. Duchy haven't got no

bones to break or sawl to lose; an' moormen haven't got brains enough to

do aught in the matter but jaw."

"An' all for a royal prince, as doan't knaw difference between yether

an' fuzz, I lay," growled Will. "Small blame to moormen for being

radical-minded these days. Who wouldn't, treated same as us?"

"Best not talk on such high subjects, Will Blanchard, or you might get

in trouble. A fortnight, mind. Gude marnin' to 'e."

The Duchy's man rode off and Will stood angry and irresolute. Then,

seeing Mr. Vogwell was still observing him, he ostentatiously turned to

the cart and tipped up his load of earth. But when the representative of

power had disappeared--his horse and himself apparently sinking into

rather than behind a heather ridge--Will's energy died and his mood

changed. He had fooled himself about this enterprise until the present,

but he could no longer do so. Now he sat down on the earth he had

brought, let his horse drag the cart after it, as it wandered in search

of some green thing, and suffered a storm of futile indignation to

darken his spirit.

Blanchard's unseasoned mind had, in truth, scarcely reached the second

milestone upon the road of man's experience. Some arrive early at the

mental standpoint where the five senses meet and merge in that sixth or

common sense, which may be defined as an integral of the others, and

which is manifested by those who possess it in a just application of all

the experience won from life. But of common sense Will had none. He

could understand laziness and wickedness being made to suffer; he could

read Nature's more self-evident lessons blazoned across every meadow,

displayed in every living organism--that error is instantly punished,

that poor food starves the best seed, that too much water is as bad as

too little, that the race is to the strong, and so forth; but he could

not understand why hard work should go unrewarded, why good intentions

should breed bad results, why the effect of energy, self-denial, right

ambitions, and other excellent qualities is governed by chance; why the

prizes in the great lottery fall to the wise, not to the well-meaning.

He knew himself for a hard worker and a man who accomplished, in all

honesty, the best within his power. What his hand found to do he did

with his might; and the fact that his head, as often as not, prompted

his hand to the wrong thing escaped him. He regarded his life as

exemplary, felt that he was doing all that might in reason be demanded,

and confidently looked towards Providence to do the rest. To find

Providence unwilling to help him brought a wave of riotous indignation

through his mind on each occasion of making that discovery. These waves,

sweeping at irregular intervals over Will, left the mark of their high

tides, and his mind, now swinging like a pendulum before this last

buffet dealt by Fate in semblance of the Duchy's man, plunged him into a

huge discontent with all things. He was ripe for mischief and would have

quarrelled with his shadow; but he did worse--he quarrelled with his

mother.

She visited him that afternoon, viewed his shattered scheme, and

listened as Will poured the great outrage upon her ear. Coming up at his

express invitation to learn the secret, which he had kept from her that

her joy might be the greater, Mrs. Blanchard only arrived in time to see

his disappointment. She knew the Duchy for a bad enemy, and perhaps at

the bottom of her conservative heart felt no particular delight at the

spectacle of Newtake enlarging its borders. She therefore held that

everything was for the best, and counselled patience; whereupon her son,

with a month's wasted toil staring him in the face, rebelled and took

her unconcerned demeanour ill. Damaris also brought a letter from

Phoebe, and this added fuel to the flame. Will dwelt upon his wife's

absence bitterly.

"Job's self never suffered that, for I read 'bout what he went through

awnly last night, for somethin' to kill an hour in the evenin'. An' I

won't suffer it. It's contrary to nature, an' if Phoebe ban't here come

winter I'll go down an' bring her, willy-nilly."

"Time'll pass soon enough, my son. Next summer will be here quick. Then

her'll have grawin' corn to look at and fine crops risin', an' more

things feedin' on the Moor in sight of her eyes. You see, upland farms

do look a little thin to them who have lived all their time in the

fatness of the valleys."

"If I was bidin' in one of them stone roundy-poundies, with nothin' but

a dog-kennel for a home, she ought to be shoulder to shoulder wi' me.

Did you leave my faither cause other people didn't love un?"

"That was differ'nt. Theer s Miller Lyddon. I could much wish you seed

more of him an' let un come by a better 'pinion of 'e. 'T s awnly

worldly wisdom, true; but--"

"I'm sick to death o' worldly wisdom! What's it done for me? I stand to

work nine an' ten hour a day, an' not wi'out my share o' worldly wisdom,

neither. Then I'm played with an' left to whistle, I ban't gwaine to

think so much, I tell 'e. It awnly hurts a man's head, an' keeps him

wakin' o' nights. Life's guess-work, by the looks of it, an' a fule's so

like to draw a prize as the wisest."

"That's not the talk as'll make Newtake pay, Will. You 'm worse than

poor Blee to Monks Barton. He's gwaine round givin' out theer ban't no

God 't all, 'cause Mrs. Coomstock took auld Lezzard 'stead of him."

"You may laugh if you like, mother. 'Tis the fashion to laugh at me

seemin'ly. But I doan't care. Awnly you'll be sorry some day, so sure as

you sit in thicky chair. Now, as you've nothin' but blame, best to go

back home. I'll put your pony in the shafts. 'Twas a pity you corned so

far for so little."

He went off, his breast heaving, while the woman followed him with her

eyes and smiled when he was out of sight. She knew him so well, and

already pictured her repentant son next Sunday. Then Will would be at

his mother's cottage, and cut the bit of beef at dinner, and fuss over

her comfort according to his custom.

She went into the farmyard and took the pony from him and led it back

into the stall. Then she returned to him and put her arm through his and

spoke.

"Light your pipe, lovey, an' walk a li'l way along down to the stones on

the hill, wheer you was born. Your auld mother wants to talk to 'e."

CHAPTER X

CONNECTING LINKS

Spaces of time extending over rather more than a year may now be

dismissed in a chapter.

Chris Blanchard, distracted between Will and her lover, stayed on at

Newtake after the estrangement, with a hope that she might succeed in

healing the breach between them; but her importunity failed of its good

object, and there came an August night when she found her own position

at her brother's farm grow no longer tenable.

The blinds were up, and rays from the lamp shot a broad band of light

into the farmyard, while now and again great white moths struck soft

blows against the closed window, then vanished again into the night.

Will smoked and Chris pleaded until a point, beyond which her brother's

patience could not go, was reached. Irritation grew and grew before her

ceaseless entreaty on Clement's behalf; for the thousandth time she

begged him to write a letter of apology and explanation of the trouble

bred by Sam Bonus; and he, suddenly rising, smashed down his clay pipe

and swore by all his gods he would hear the name of Hicks mentioned in

his house no more. Thus challenged to choose between her lover and her

brother, the girl did not hesitate. Something of Will's own spirit

informed her; she took him at his word and returned home next morning,

leaving him to manage his own household affairs henceforth as best he

might.

Upon the way to Chagford Chris chanced to meet with Martin Grimbal, and,

having long since accepted his offer of friendship, she did not hesitate

to tell him of her present sorrow and invite his sympathy. From

ignorance rather than selfishness did Chris take Martin literally when

he had hoped in the past they might remain friends, and their

intercourse was always maintained by her when chance put one in the

other's way--at a cost to the man beyond her power to guess.

Now he walked beside her, and she explained how only a word was wanting

between Will and Clement which neither would speak. Hicks had forgiven

Will, but he refused to visit Newtake until he received an apology from

the master of it; and Blanchard bore no ill-will to Clement, but

declined to apologise for the past. These facts Martin listened to,

while the blood beat like a tide within his temples, and a mist dimmed

his eyes as the girl laid her brown hand upon his arm now and again, to

accentuate a point. At such moments the truth tightened upon his soul

and much distressed him.

The antiquary had abandoned any attempt to forget Chris, or cease from

worshipping her with all his heart and soul; but the emotion now muzzled

and chained out of sight he held of nobler composition than that earlier

love which yearned for possession. Those dreary months that dragged

between the present and his first disappointment had served as

foundations for new developments of character in the man. He existed

through a period of unutterable despair and loneliness; then the fruits

of bygone battles fought and won came to his aid, and long-past years of

self-denial and self-control fortified his spirit. The reasonableness of

Martin Grimbal lifted him slowly but steadily from the ashes of

disappointment; even his natural humility helped him, and he told

himself he had no more than his desert. Presently, with efforts the very

vigour of which served as tonic to character, he began to wrestle at the

granite again and resume his archaeologic studies. Speaking in general

terms, his mind was notably sweetened and widened by his experience;

and, resulting from his own failure to reach happiness, there awoke in

him a charity and sympathy for others, a fellow-feeling with humanity,

remarkable in one whose enthusiasm for human nature was not large, whose

ruling passion, until the circumstance of love tinctured it, had led him

by ways which the bulk of men had pronounced arid and unsatisfying. Now

this larger insight was making a finer character of him and planting,

even at the core of his professional pursuits, something deeper than is

generally to be found there. His experience, in fact, was telling upon

his work, and he began slowly to combine with the labour of the

yard-measure and the pencil, the spade and the camera, just thoughts on

the subject of those human generations who ruled the Moor aforetime, who

lived and loved and laboured there full many a day before Saxon keel

first grated on British shingle.

To Chris did Martin listen attentively. Until the present time he had

taken Will's advice and made no offer of work to Clement; but now he

determined to do so, although he knew this action must mean speedy

marriage for Chris. Love, that often enough can shake a lifetime of

morality, that can set ethics and right conduct and duty playing a

devil's dance in the victim's soul, that can change the practised

customs of a man's life and send cherished opinions, accepted beliefs,

and approved dogmas spinning into chaos before its fiery onslaught--love

did not thus overpower Martin Grimbal. His old-fashioned mind was no

armour against it, and in that the passion proved true; religion

appeared similarly powerless to influence him; yet now his extreme

humility, his natural sense of justice and the dimensions of his passion

itself combined to lead him by a lofty road. Chris desired another man,

and Martin Grimbal, loving her to that point where her perfect happiness

dominated and, indeed, became his own, determined that his love should

bear fruit worthy of its object.

This kindly design was frustrated, however, and the antiquary himself

denied power to achieve the good action that he proposed, for on

visiting Clement in person and inviting his aid in the clerical portions

of a considerable work on moorland antiquities, the poet refused to

assist.

"You come too late," he said coldly. "I would not help you now if I

could, Martin Grimbal. Don't imagine pride or any such motive keeps me

from doing so. The true reason you may guess."

"Indeed! I can do nothing of the sort. What reason is there against your

accepting an offer to do remunerative and intellectual work in your

leisure hours--work that may last ten years for all I can see to the

contrary?"

"The reason is that you invited another man's judgment upon me, instead

of taking your own. Better follow Will Blanchard's advice still. Don't

think I'm blind. It is Chris who has made you do this."

"You're a very difficult man to deal with, really. Consider my

suggestion, Hicks, and all it might mean. I desire nothing but your

welfare."

"Which is only to say you are offering me charity."

Martin looked at the other quietly, then took his hat and departed. At

the door he said a last word.

"I don't want to think this is final. You would be very useful to me, or

I should not have asked you to aid my labour. Let me hear from you

within a week."

But Clement was firm in his folly; while, although they met on more than

one occasion, and John Grimbal repeated his offer of regular work, the

bee-keeper refused that proposal, also. He made some small sums out of

the Red House hives, but would not undertake any regular daily labour

there. Clement's refusal of Martin resulted from his own weak pride and

self-conscious stupidity; but a more subtle tangle of conflicting

motives was responsible for his action in respect of the elder Grimbal's

invitation. Some loyalty to the man whom he so cordially disliked still

inhabited his mind, and with it a very considerable distrust of himself.

He partly suspected the reason of John Grimbal's offer of work, and the

possibility of sudden temptation provoking from him utterance of words

best left unsaid could not be ignored after his former experience at the

hiving of the swarm.

So he went his way and told nobody--not even Chris--of these

opportunities and his action concerning them. Such reticence made two

women sad. Chris, after her conversation with Martin, doubted not but

that he would make some effort, and, hearing nothing as time passed,

assumed he had changed his mind; while Mrs. Hicks, who had greatly hoped

that Clement's visit to the Red House might result in regular

employment, felt disappointed when no such thing occurred.

The union of Mr. Lezzard and Mrs. Coomstock was duly accomplished to a

chorus of frantic expostulation on the part of those interested in the

widow's fortune. Mr. Shorto-Champernowne, having convinced himself that

the old woman was in earnest, could find no sufficient reason for doing

otherwise than he was asked, and finally united the couple. To Newton

Abbot they went for their honeymoon, and tribulation haunted them from

the first. Mrs. Lezzard refused her husband permission to inquire any

particulars of her affairs from her lawyer--a young man who had

succeeded Mr. Joel Ford--while the Gaffer, on his side, parried all his

lady's endeavours to learn more of the small fortune concerning which he

had spoken not seldom before marriage. Presently they returned to

Chagford, and life resolved itself into an unlovely thing for both of

them. Time brought no better understanding or mutual confidence; on the

contrary, they never ceased from wrangling over money and Mrs. Lezzard's

increasing propensity towards drink. The old man suffered most, and as

his alleged three hundred pounds did not appear, being, indeed, a mere

lover's effort of imagination, his wife bitterly resented marriage under

such false pretences, and was never weary of protesting. Of her own

affairs she refused to tell her husband anything, but as Mr. Lezzard was

found to possess no money at all, it became necessary to provide him

with a bare competence for the credit of the family. He did his best to

win a little more regard and consideration, in the hope that when his

wife passed away the reward of devotion might be reaped; but she never

forgave him, expressed the conviction that she would outlive him by many

years, and exhausted her ingenuity to make the old man rue his bargain.

Only one experience, and that repeated as surely as Mr. Blee met Mr.

Lezzard, was more trying to the latter than all the accumulated

misfortune of his sorry state--Gaffer's own miseries appeared absolutely

trivial by comparison with Mr. Blee's comments upon them.

With another year Blanchard and Hicks became in some sort reconciled,

though the former friendship was never renewed. The winter proved a

severe one, and Will experienced a steady drain on his capital, but he

comforted himself in thoughts of the spring, watched his wheat dapple

the dark ground with green, and also foretold exceptional crops of hay

when summer should return. The great event of his wife's advent at

Newtake occupied most of his reflections; while as for Phoebe herself

the matter was never out of her mind. She lived for the day in June that

should see her by her husband's side; but Miller Lyddon showed no

knowledge of the significance of Phoebe's twenty-first birthday; and

when Will brought up the matter, upon an occasion of meeting with his

father-in-law, the miller deprecated any haste.

"Time enough--time enough," he said. "You doan't want no wife to Newtake

these years to come, while I _do_ want a darter to home."

So Phoebe, albeit the course of operations was fully planned, forbore to

tell her father anything, and suffered the day to drift nearer and

nearer without expressly indicating the event it was to witness.

CHAPTER XI

TOGETHER

Though not free from various temporal problems that daily demanded

solution, Will very readily allowed his mind a holiday from all affairs

of business during the fortnight that preceded his wife's arrival at

Newtake. What whitewash could do was done; a carpet, long since

purchased but not laid down till now, adorned the miniature parlour;

while out of doors, becoming suddenly conscious that not a blossom would

greet Phoebe's eyes, Will set about the manufacture of a flower-bed

under the kitchen window, bound the plat with neat red tiles, and

planted therein half a dozen larkspurs--Phoebe's favourite flower--with

other happy beauties of early summer. The effort looked raw and unhappy,

however, and as ill luck would have it, these various plants did not

take kindly to their changed life, and greeted Phoebe with hanging

heads.

But the great morning came at last, and Will, rising, with the curious

thought that he would never sleep in the middle of his bed again, donned

his best dark-brown velveteens and a new pair of leathern gaiters, then

walked out into the air, where Chown was milking the cows. The day

dawned as brightly as the events it heralded, and Will, knowing that his

mother and Chris would be early at Newtake, strolled out to meet them.

Over against the farm rose moorland crowned by stone, and from off their

granite couches grey mists blushing to red now rose with lazy

deliberation and vanished under the sun's kiss. A vast, sweet,

diamond-twinkling freshness filled the Moor; blue shadows lay in the

dewy coombs, and sun-fires gleamed along the heather ridges. No

heath-bell as yet had budded, but the flame of the whins splashed many

undulations, and the tender foliage of the whortleberry, where it grew

on exposed granite, was nearly scarlet and flashed jewel-bright in the

rich texture of the waste. Will saw his cattle pass to their haunts,

sniffed the savour of them on the wind, and enjoyed the thought of being

their possessor; then his eyes turned to the valley and the road which

wound upwards from it under great light. A speck at length appeared

three parts of a mile distant and away started Blauchard, springing down

the hillside to intercept it. His heart sang within him; here was a

glorious day that could never come again, and he meant to live it

gloriously.

"Marnin', mother! Marnin', Chris! Let me get in between 'e. Breakfast

will be most ready by time we'm home. I knawed you d keep your word such

a rare fashion day!"

Will soon sat between the two women, while Mrs. Blanchard's pony

regulated its own pace and three tongues chattered behind it. A dozen

brown paper parcels occupied the body of the little cart, for Damaris

had insisted that the wedding feast should be of her providing. It was

proposed that Chris and her mother should spend the day at Newtake and

depart after drinking tea; while Phoebe was to arrive in a fly at one

o'clock.

After breakfast Chris busied herself indoors and occupied her quick

fingers in putting a dozen finishing touches; while Mrs. Blanchard

walked round the farm beside Will, viewed with outspoken approval or

secret distrust those evidences of success and failure spread about her,

and passed the abandoned attempt to reclaim land without a word or sign

that she remembered. Will crowed like a happy child; his mother poured

advice into his unheeding ears; and then a cart lumbered up with a great

surprise in it. True to her intention Mrs. Blanchard had chosen the day

of Phoebe 's arrival to send the old piano to Newtake, and now it was

triumphantly trundled into the parlour, while Will protested and

admired. It added not a little to the solid splendour of the apartment,

and Mrs. Blanchard viewed it with placid but genuine satisfaction. Its

tarnished veneer and red face looked like an old honest friend, so Will

declared, and he doubted not that his wife would rejoice as he did.

Presently the cart destined to bring Phoebe's boxes started for Chagford

under Ted Chown's direction. It was a new cart, and the owner hoped that

sight of it, with "William Blanchard, Newtake," nobly displayed on the

tail-board, would please his father-in-law.

Meantime, at Monks Barton the great day had likewise dawned, but Phoebe,

from cowardice rather than philosophy, did not mention what was to

happen until the appearance of Chown made it necessary to do so.

Mr. Blee was the first to stand bewildered before Ted's blunt

announcement that he had come for Mrs. Blanchard's luggage.

"What luggage? What the douce be talkin' 'bout?" he asked.

"Why, everything, I s'pose. She 'm comin' home to-day--that's knawn,

ban't it?"

"Gormed if 'tis! Not by me, anyways--nor Miller, neither."

Then Phoebe appeared and Billy heard the truth.

"My! An' to keep it that quiet! Theer'll be a tidy upstore when Miller

comes to hear tell--"

But Mr. Lyddon was at the door and Phoebe answered his questioning eyes.

"My birthday, dear faither. You must remember--why, you was the first to

give me joy of it! Twenty-one to-day, an' I must go--I must--'tis my

duty afore everything."

The old man's jaw fell and he looked the picture of sorrowful surprise.

"But--but to spring it like this! Why to-day? Why to-day? It's madness

and it's cruelty to fly from your home the first living moment you've

got the power. I'd counted on a merry evenin,' tu, an' axed more 'n wan

to drink your gude health."

"Many's the merry evenings us'll have, dear faither, please God; but a

husband's a husband. He've been that wonnerful patient, tu, for such as

him. 'T was my fault for not remindin' you. An' yet I did, now an'

again, but you wouldn't see it. Yet you knawed in your heart, an' I

didn't like to pain 'e dwellin' on it overmuch."

"How did I knaw? I didn't knaw nothin' 't all 'bout it. How should I? Me

grawin' aulder an' aulder, an' leanin' more an' more 'pon 'e at every

turn. An' him no friend to me--he 's never sought to win me--he 's--"

"Doan't 'e taake on 'bout Will, dearie; you'll come to knaw un better

bimebye. I ban't gwaine so far arter all; an' it's got to be."

Then the miller worked himself into a passion, dared Chown to take his

daughter's boxes, and made a scene very painful to witness and quite

futile in its effect. Phoebe could be strong at times, and a life's

knowledge of her father helped her now. She told Chown to get the boxes

and bade Billy help him; she then followed Mr. Lyddon, who was rambling

away, according to his custom at moments of great sorrow, to pour his

troubles into any ear that would listen. She put her arm through his,

drew him to the riverside and spoke words that showed she had developed

mentally of late. She was a woman with her father, cooed pleasantly to

him, foretold good things, and implored him to have greater care of his

health and her love than to court illness by this display of passion.

Such treatment had sufficed to calm the miller in many of his moods, for

she possessed great power to soothe him, and Mr. Lyddon now set

increased store upon his daughter's judgment; but to-day, before this

dreadful calamity, every word and affectionate device was fruitless and

only made the matter worse. He stormed on, and Phoebe's superior manner

vanished as he did so, for she could only play such a part if quite

unopposed in it. Now her father silenced her, frightened her, and dared

her to leave him; but his tragic temper changed when they returned to

the farm and he found his daughter's goods were really gone. Then the

old man grew very silent, for the inexorable certainty of the thing

about to happen was brought home to him at last.

Before a closed hackney carriage from the hotel arrived to carry Phoebe

to Newtake, Miller Lyddon passed through a variety of moods, and another

outburst succeeded his sentimental silence. When the vehicle was at the

gate, however, his daughter found tears in his eyes upon entering the

kitchen suddenly to wish him "good-by." But he brushed them away at

sight of her, and spoke roughly and told her to be gone and find the

difference between a good father and a bad husband.

"Go to the misery of your awn choosin'; go to him an' the rubbish-heap

he calls a farm! Thankless an' ontrue,--go,--an' look to me in the

future to keep you out of the poorhouse and no more. An' that for your

mother's sake--not yourn."

"Oh, Faither!" she cried, "doan't let them be the last words I hear 'pon

your lips. 'T is cruel, for sure I've been a gude darter to 'e, or tried

to be--an'--an'--please, dear faither, just say you wish us well--me an'

my husband. Please say that much. I doan't ax more."

But he rose and left her without any answer. It was then Phoebe's turn

to weep, and blinded with tears she slipped and hurt her knee getting

into the coach. Billy thereupon offered his aid, helped her, handed her

little white fox terrier m after her, and saw that the door was properly

closed.

"Be o' good cheer," he said, "though I caan't offer 'e much prospects of

easy life in double harness wi' Will Blanchard. But, as I used to say in

my church-gwaine days, 'God tempers the wind to the shorn lamb.' Be it

as 'twill, I dare say theer 's many peaceful years o' calm,

black-wearin' widowhood afore 'e yet, for chaps like him do shorten

theer days a deal by such a tearin', high-coloured, passionate way of

life."

Mr. Blee opened the gate, the maids waved their handkerchiefs and wept,

and not far distant, as he heard the vehicle containing his daughter

depart, Mr. Lyddon would have given half that he had to recall the

spoken word. Phoebe once gone, his anger vanished and his love for her

won on him like sunshine after storm. Angry, indeed, he still was, but

with himself.

For Phoebe, curiosity and love dried her tears as she passed upward

towards the Moor. Then, the wild land reached, she put her head out of

the window and saw Newtake beech trees in the distance. Already the

foliage of them seemed a little tattered and thin, and their meagreness

of vesture and solitary appearance depressed the spectator again before

she arrived at them.

But the gate, thrown widely open, was reached at last, and there stood

Will and Mrs. Blanchard, Chris, Ted Chown, and the great bobtailed

sheep-dog, "Ship," to welcome her. With much emotion poor Phoebe

alighted, tottered and fell into the bear-hug of her husband, while the

women also kissed her and murmured over her in their sweet, broad Devon

tongue. Then something made Will laugh, and his merriment struck the

right note; but Ship fell foul of Phoebe's little terrier and there was

a growl, then a yelp and a scuffling, dusty battle amid frightened

fowls, whose protests added to the tumult. Upon this conflict descended

Will's sapling with sounding thuds administered impartially, and from

the skirmish the smaller beast emerged lame and crying, while the

sheep-dog licked the blood off his nose and went to heel with a red

light glimmering through his pale blue eyes.

Happiness returned indoors and Phoebe, all blushes and praises,

inspected her new home and the preparations made within it for her

pleasure. Perhaps she simulated more joy than the moment brought, for

such a day, dreamed of through years, was sure in its realisation to

prove something of an anti-climax after the cruel nature of all such

events. Despite Chris and her ceaseless efforts to keep joy at the

flood, a listlessness stole over the little party as the day wore on.

Phoebe found her voice not to be relied upon and felt herself drifting

into that state between laughter and tears which craves solitude for its

exhibition. The cows came home to be milked, and there seemed but few of

them after the great procession at Monks Barton. Yet Will demanded her

separate praises for each beast. In the little garden he had made,

budding flowers, untimely transplanted, hung their heads. But she

admired with extravagant adjectives, and picked a blossom and set it in

her dress. Anon the sun set, with no soft lights and shadows amidst the

valley trees she knew, when sunset and twilight played hide-and-seek

beside the river, but slowly, solemnly, in hard, clean, illimitable

glory upon horizons of granite and heather. The peat glowed as though it

were red-hot, and night brooded on the eastern face of every hill. Only

a jangling bell broke the startling stillness then, and, through long

weeks afterwards the girl yearned for the song of the river, as one who

has long slept by another's side sadly yearns for the sound of their

breathing by night, when they are taken away. Phoebe had little

imagination, but she guessed already that the life before her must

differ widely from that spent under her father's roof. Despite the

sunshine of the time and the real joy of being united to her husband at

last, she saw on every side more evidences of practical life than she

had before anticipated. But these braced her rather than not, and she

told herself truly that the sadness at bottom of her heart just then was

wholly begotten of the past and her departure from home. Deep unrest

came upon her as she walked with her husband and listened to his glad

voice. She longed greatly to be alone with him that her heart might be

relieved. She wanted his arms round her; she wanted to cry and let him

kiss the tears away.

Damaris Blanchard very fully understood much that was passing through

her daugher-in-law's mind, and she hastened her departure after an early

cup of tea. She took a last look at all the good things she had provided

for the wedding supper--a meal she declared must not be shared with Will

and Phoebe--and so made ready to depart. It was then her turn, and her

bosom throbbed with just one dumb, fleeting shadow of fear that found

words before her second thought had time to suppress them.

"You won't love me no less, eh, Will?" she whispered, holding his hand

between hers; and he saw her grey eyes almost frightened in the

gloaming.

"My God, no! No, mother; a man must have a dirty li'l heart in un if it

ban't big enough to hold mother an' wife."

She gripped his hand tighter.

"Ess fay, I knaw, I knaw; but doan't 'e put your mother first

now,--ban't nature. God bless an' keep the both of 'e. 'Twill allus be

my prayer."

The cart rattled away, Chris driving, and such silence as Phoebe had

never known held the darkening land. She noted a yellow star against the

sombre ridge of the world, felt Will's arm round her and turned to him,

seeking that comfort and support her nature cried out for.

Infinitely tender and loving was her husband then, and jubilant, too, at

first; but a little later, when Chown had been packed off to his own

apartment, with not a few delicacies he had never bargained for, the

conversation flagged and the banquet also.

The table was laden with two capons, a ham, a great sugared cake, a

whole Dutch cheese, an old-fashioned cut-glass decanter containing brown

sherry, and two green wine-glasses for its reception; yet these luxuries

tempted neither husband nor wife to much enjoyment of them. Indeed

Phoebe's obvious lowness of spirits presently found its echo in Will.

The silences grew longer and longer; then the husband set down his knife

and fork, and leaving the head of the table went round to his wife's

side and took her hand and squeezed it, but did not speak. She turned to

him and he saw her shut her eyes and give a little shiver. Then a tear

flashed upon her lashes and twinkled boldly down, followed by another.

"Phoebe! My awn li'l wummon! This be a wisht home-comin'! What the

plague's the matter wi' us?"

"Doan't 'e mind, dear heart. I'm happy as a bird under these silly

tears. But 'twas the leavin' o' faither, an' him so hard, an' me lovin'

him so dear, an'--an'--"

"Doan't 'e break your heart 'bout him. He'll come round right enough.

'Twas awnly the pang o' your gwaine away, like the drawin' of a tooth."

"Everybody else in the world knaws I ought to be here," sobbed Phoebe,

"but faither, he won't see it. An' I caan't get un out of my mind

to-night, sitting that mournfui an' desolate, wi' his ear deaf to

Billy's noise an' his thoughts up here."

"If he won't onderstand the ways of marriage, blessed if I see how we

can make him. Surely to God, 'twas time I had my awn?"

"Ess, dear Will, but coming to-day, 'pon top of my gert joy, faither's

sorrow seemed so terrible-like."

"He'll get awver it, an' so will you, bless you. Drink up some of this

braave stuff mother left. Sherry 't is, real wine, as will comfort 'e,

my li'l love. 'Tis I be gwaine to make your happiness henceforward,

mind; an' as for Miller, he belongs to an auld-fashioned generation of

mankind, and it's our place to make allowances. Auld folk doan't knaw

an' won't larn. But he'll come to knaw wan solid thing, if no more; an'

that is as his darter'll have so gude a husband as she've got faither,

though I sez it."

"'Tis just what he said I shouldn't, Will."

"Nevermind, forgive un, an' drink up your wine; 'twill hearten 'e."

A dog barked, a gate clinked, and there came the sound of a horse's

hoofs, then of a man dismounting.

Will told the rest of the story afterwards to Mrs. Blanchard.

"''Tis faither,' cries Phoebe, an' turns so pale as a whitewashed wall

in moonlight. 'Never!' I sez. But she knawed the step of un, an'

twinkled up from off her chair, an' 'fore ever the auld man reached the

door, 't was awpen. In he comed, like a lamb o' gentleness, an' said

never a word for a bit, then fetched out a little purse wi' twenty gawld

sovereigns in it. An' us all had some fine talk for more'n an hour, an'

he was proper faither to me, if you'll credit it; an' he drinked a glass

o' your wine, mother, an' said he never tasted none better and not much

so gude. Then us seed un off, an' Phoebe cried again, poor twoad, but

for sheer happiness this time. So now the future's clear as sunlight,

an' we'm all friends--'cept here an' theer."

CHAPTER XII

THROUGH ONE GREAT DAY

Just within the woods of Teign Valley, at a point not far distant from

that where Will Blanchard met John Grimbal for the first time, and

wrestled with him beside the river, there rises a tall bank, covered

with fern, shadowed by oak trees. A mossy bridle-path winds below, while

beyond it, seen through a screen of wych-elms and hazel, extend the

outlying meadows of Monks Barton.

Upon this bank, making "sunshine in a shady place," reclined Chris,

beneath a harmony of many greens, where the single, double, and triple

shadows of the manifold leaves above her created a complex play of light

and shade all splashed and gemmed with little sun discs. Drowsy noon-day

peace marked the hour; Chris had some work in her hand, but was not

engaged upon it; and Clement, who lolled beside her, likewise did

nothing. His eyes were upon a mare and foal in the meadow below. The

matron proceeded slowly, grazing as she went, while her lanky youngster

nibbled at this or that inviting tuft, then raced joyously in wide

circles and, returning, sought his mother's milk with the selfish

roughness of youth.

"Happy as birds, they be," said Chris, referring to the young pair at

Newtake. "It do make me long for us to be man an' wife, Clem, when I see

'em."

"We're that now, save for the hocus-pocus of the parsons you set such

store by."

"No, I'll never believe it makes no difference."

"A cumbrous, stupid, human contrivance like marriage! Was ever man and

woman happier for being bound that way? Can free things feel their

hearts beat closer because they are chained to one another by an effete

dogma?"

"I doan't onderstand all that talk, sweetheart, an' you knaw I don't;

but till some wise body invents a better-fashion way of joining man an'

maid than marriage, us must taake it as 'tis."

"There is a better way--Nature's."

She shook her head.

"If us could dwell in a hole at a tree-root, an' eat roots an' berries;

but we'm thinking creatures in a Christian land."

She stretched herself out comfortably and smiled up at him where he sat

with his chin in his hands. Then, looking down, he saw the delicious

outline of her and his eyes grew hot.

"God's love! How long must it be?" he cried; then, before she could

speak, he clipped her passionately to him and hugged her closely.

"Dearie, you'm squeezin' my breath out o' me!" cried Chris, well used to

these sudden storms and not averse to them. "We must bide patient an'

hold in our hearts," she said, lying in his arms with her face close to

his. "'Twill be all the more butivul when we'm mated. Ess fay! I love 'e

allus, but I love 'e better in this fiery mood than on the ice-cold days

when you won't so much as hold my hand."

"The cold mood's the better notwithstanding, and colder yet would be

better yet, and clay-cold best of all."

But he held her still, and pressed his beard against her brown neck.

Then the sound of a trotting horse reached his ears, he started up,

looked below, and saw John Grimbal passing by. Their eyes met, for the

horseman chanced to glance up as Clement thrust his head above the fern;

but Chris was invisible and remained so.

Grimbal stopped and greeted the bee-keeper.

"Have you forgotten your undertaking to see my hives once a month?"

"No, I meant coming next week."

"Well, as it happens I want to speak with you, and the present time's as

good as another. I suppose you were only lying there dreaming?"

"That's all. I'll come and walk along beside your horse."

He squeezed his sweetheart's hand, whispered a promise to return

immediately, then rose and stumbled down the bank, leaving Chris throned

aloft in the fern. For a considerable time John Grimbal said nothing,

then he began suddenly,--

"I suppose you know the Applebirds are leaving my farm?"

"Yes, Mrs. Applebird told my mother. Going to Sticklepath."

"Not easy to get a tenant to take their place."

"Is it not? Such a farm as yours? I should have thought there need be no

difficulty."

"There are tenants and tenants. How would you like it--you and your

mother? Then you could marry and be comfortable. No doubt Chris

Blanchard would make a splendid farmer's wife."

"It would be like walking into paradise for me; but--"

"The rent needn't bother you. My first care is a good tenant. Besides,

rent may take other shapes than pounds, shillings, and pence."

Hicks started.

"I see," he said; "you can't forget the chance word I spoke in anger so

long ago."

"I can't, because it happened to be just the word I wanted to hear. My

quarrel with Will Blanchard's no business of yours. The man's your enemy

too; and you're a fool to stand in your own light, You know something

that I don't know, concerning those weeks during which he disappeared.

Well, tell me. You can only live your life once. Why let it run to rot

when the Red House Farm wants a tenant? A man you despise, too."

"No. I promised. Besides, you wouldn't be contented with the knowledge;

you'd act on it."

Grimbal showed a lightning-quick perception of this admission; and

Hicks, too late, saw that the other had realised its force. Then he made

an effort to modify his assertion.

"When I say 'you'd act on it,' I mean that you might try to, though I

much doubt really if anything I could tell you would damage Blanchard."

"If you think that, then there can be no conscientious objection to

telling me. Besides, I don't say I should act on the knowledge. I don't

say I shall or I shall not. All you ve got to do is to say whether

you'll take the Red House Farm at a nominal rent from Michaelmas."

"No, man, no. You've met me in a bad moment, too, if you only knew. But

think of it--brother and sister; and I, in order to marry the woman,

betray the man. That's what it comes to. Such things don't happen."

"You re speaking plainly, at any rate. We ought to understand each other

to-day, if ever. I'll make you the same offer for less return. Tell me

where he was during those weeks--that's all. You needn't tell what he

was doing."

"If you knew one, you'd find out the other. Once and for all, I'll tell

you nothing. By an accidental question you discovered that I knew

something. That was not my fault. But more you never will know from

me--farm or no farm."

"You're a fool for your pains. And the end will be the same. The

information must reach me. You're a coward at heart, for it's fear, not

any tomfoolery of morals, that keeps your mouth shut. Don't deceive

yourself. I've often talked with you before to-day, and I know you think

as I do."

"What's that to do with it?"

"Everything. 'Good' and 'evil' are only two words, and what is man's

good and what is man's evil takes something cleverer than man to know.

It's no nonsense of 'right' and 'wrong' that's keeping you from a happy

home and a wife. What is it then?"

Hicks was silent a moment, then made answer.

"I don't know. I don't know any more than you do. Something has come

over me; I can't tell you what. I'm more surprised than you are at my

silence; but there it is. Why the devil I don't speak I don't know. I

only know I'm not going to. Our characters are beyond our own power to

understand."

"If you don't know, I'll tell you. You're frightened that he will find

out. You're afraid of him."

"It's vain trying to anger me into speaking," answered the other,

showing not a little anger the while; "I'm dumb henceforward."

"I hope you'll let your brain influence you towards reason. 'Tis a

fool's trick to turn your back on the chance of a lifetime. Better think

twice. And second thoughts are like to prove best worth following. You

know where to find me at any rate. I'll give you six weeks to decide

about it."

John Grimbal waited, hoping that Hicks might yet change his mind before

he took his leave; but the bee-keeper made no answer. His companion

therefore broke into a sharp trot and left him. Whereupon Clement stood

still a moment, then he turned back and, forgetting all about Chris,

proceeded slowly homewards to Chagford, deep in thought and heartily

astonished at himself. No one could have prompted his enemy to a more

critical moment for this great attack; no demon could have sent the

master of the Red House with a more tempting proposal; and yet Hicks

found himself resisting the lure without any particular effort or

struggle. On the one side this man had offered him all the things his

blood and brain craved; on the other his life still stretched drearily

forward, and nothing in it indicated he was nearer his ambition by a

hair's-breadth than a year before. Yet he refused to pay the price. It

amazed him to find his determination so fixed against betrayal of Will.

He honestly wondered at himself. The decision was bred from a curious

condition of mind quite beyond his power to comprehend. He certainly

recoiled from exposure of Blanchard's secret, yet coldly asked himself

what unsuspected strand of character held him back. It was not fear and

it was not regard for his sweetheart's brother; he did not know what it

was. He scoffed at the ideas of honour or conscience. These abstractions

had possessed weight in earlier years, but not now. And yet, while he

assured himself that no tie of temporal or eternal interest kept him

silent, the temptation to tell seemed much less on this occasion than in

the past when he took a swarm of John Grimbal's bees. Then, indeed, his

mind was aflame with bitter provocation. He affected a cynical attitude

to the position and laughed without mirth at a theory that suddenly

appeared in his mind. Perchance this steadfastness of purpose resulted,

after all, from that artificial thing, "conscience," which men catch at

the impressionable age when they have infantile ailments and pray at a

mother's knee. If so, surely reason must banish such folly before

another dawn and send him hot-foot at daybreak to the Red House. He

would wait and watch himself and see.

His reflections were here cut short, for a shrill voice broke in upon

them, and Clement, now within a hundred yards of his own cottage door,

saw Mr. Lezzard before him.

"At last I've found 'e! Been huntin' this longful time, tu. The Missis

wants 'e--your aunt I should say."

"Wants me?"

"Ess. 'T is wan o' her bad days, wi' her liver an' lights a bitin' at

her like savage creatures. She'm set on seein' you, an' if I go

home-along without 'e, she'll awnly cuss."

"What can she want me for?"

"She 's sick 'n' taken a turn for the wuss, last few days. Doctor

Parsons doan't reckon she can hold out much longer. 'Tis the

drink--she'm soaked in it, like a sponge."

"I'll come," said Hicks, and half an hour later he approached his aunt's

dwelling and entered it.

Mrs. Lezzard was now sunk into a condition of chronic crapulence which

could only end in one way. Her husband had been ordered again and again

to keep all liquor from her, but, truth to tell, he made no very

sustained effort to do so. The old man was sufficiently oppressed by his

own physical troubles, and as the only happiness earth now held for him

must depend on the departure of his wife, he watched her drinking

herself to death without concern and even smiled in secret at the

possibility of some happy, quiet, and affluent years when she was gone.

Mrs. Lezzard lay on the sofa in her parlour, and a great peony-coloured

face with coal-black eyes in it greeted Clement. She gave him her hand

and bid her husband be gone. Then, when Gaffer had vanished, his wife

turned to her nephew.

"I've sent for you, Clem Hicks, for more reasons than wan. I be gwaine

down the hill fast, along o' marryin' this cursed mommet[12] of a man,

Lezzard. He lied about his money--him a pauper all the time; and now he

waits and watches me o' nights, when he thinks I'm drunk or dreamin' an'

I ban't neither. He watches, wi' his auld, mangy poll shakin', an' the

night-lamp flingin' the black shadow of un 'gainst the bed curtain an'

shawin' wheer his wan front tooth sticks up like a yellow stone in a

charred field. Blast un to hell! He'm waitin' for my money, an' I've

told un he's to have it. But 'twas only to make the sting bite deeper

when the time comes. Not a penny--not a farthing--him or any of 'em."

[12] _Mommet_ = scarecrow.

"Don't get angry with him. He's not worth it. Tell me if I can help you

and how. You'll be up and about again soon, I hope."

"Never. Not me. Doctor Parsons be to blame. I hate that man. He knawed

it was weakness of heart that called for drink after Coonistock died;

an' he let me go on an' on--just to gain his own dark ends. You'll see,

you'll see. But that reminds me. Of all my relations you an' your

mother's all I care for; because you'm of my awn blood an' you've let me

bide, an' haven't been allus watchin' an' waitin' an' divin' me to the

bottle. An' the man I was fule enough to take in his dotage be worst of

all."

"Forget about these things. Anger's bad for you."

"Forget! Well, so I will forget, when I ve told 'e. I had the young man

what does my business, since old Ford died, awver here last week, an'

what there is will be yourn--every stiver yourn. Not the business, of

course; that was sold when Coonistock died; but what I could leave I

have. You expected nothin,' an' by God! you shall have all!"

She saw his face and hastened to lessen the force of the announcement in

some degree.

"Ban't much, mind, far less than you might think for--far less. Theer's

things I was driven to do--a lone woman wi'out a soul to care. An' wan

was--but you'll hear in gude time, you'll hear. It concerns Doctor

Parsons."

"I can't believe my senses. If you only knew what happened to me this

morning. And if you only knew what absolute paupers we are--mother and

I. Not that I would confess it to any living soul but you. And how can I

thank you? Words are such vain things."

"Ban't no call to thank me. 'Tis more from hatred of t' others than love

of you, when all's said. An' it ban't no gert gold mine. But I'd like to

be laid along wi' Coomstock; an' doan't, for God's love, bury Lezzard

wi' me; an' I want them words on auld George Mundy's graave set 'pon

mine--not just writ, but cut in a slate or some such lasting thing. 'Tis

a tidy tomb he've got, wi' a cherub angel, an' I'd like the same. You'll

find a copy o' the words in the desk there. My maid took it down last

Sunday. I minded the general meaning, but couldn't call home the rhymes.

Read it out, will 'e?"

Clement opened the desk, and found and read the paper. It contained a

verse not uncommon upon the tombstones of the last rural generation in

Devon:

"Ye standers-by, the thread is spun;

All pomp and pride I e'er did shun;

Rich and poor alike must die;

Peasants and kings in dust must lie;

The best physicians cannot save

Themselves or patients from the Grave."

"Them's the words, an' I've chose 'em so as Doctor Parsons shall have a

smack in the faace when I'm gone. Not that he's wan o' the 'best

physicians' by a mighty long way; but he'll knaw I was thinking of him,

an' gnash his teeth, I hope, every time he sees the stone. I owe him

that--an' more 'n that, as you'll see when I'm gone."

"You mustn't talk of going, aunt--not for many a day. You're a young

woman for these parts. You must take care--that's all."

But he saw death in her face while he spoke, and could scarcely hide the

frantic jubilation her promise had awakened in him. The news swept him

along on a flood of novel thoughts. Coming as it did immediately upon

his refusal to betray Will Blanchard, the circumstance looked, even in

the eyes of Hicks, like a reward, an interposition of Providence on his

behalf. He doubted not but that the bulk of mankind would so regard it.

There arose within him old-fashioned ideas concerning right and

wrong--clear notions that brought a current of air through his mind and

blew away much rotting foliage and evil fruit. This sun-dawn of

prosperity transformed the man for a moment, even awoke some just

ethical thoughts in him.

His reverie was interrupted, for, on the way from Mrs. Lezzard's home,

Clement met Doctor Parsons himself and asked concerning his aunt's true

condition.

"She gave you the facts as they are," declared the medical man. "Nothing

can save her. She's had _delirium tremens_ Lord knows how often. A

fortnight to a month--that's all. Nature loves these forlorn hopes and

tinkers away at them in a manner that often causes me to rub my eyes.

But you can't make bricks without straw. Nature will find the game 's up

in a few days; then she'll waste no more time, and your aunt will be

gone."

Home went Clement Hicks, placed his mother in a whirl of mental

rejoicing at this tremendous news, then set out for Chris. Their compact

of the morning--that she should await his return in the woods--he quite

forgot; but Mrs. Blanchard reminded him and added that Chris had

returned in no very good humour, then trudged up to Newtake to see

Phoebe. Cool and calm the widow stood before Clement's announcement,

expressed her gratification, and gave him joy of the promised change in

his life.

"Glad enough am I to hear tell of this. But you'll act just--eh? You

won't forget that poor auld blid, Lezzard? If she'm gwaine to leave un

out the account altogether, he'll be worse off than the foxes. His son's

gone to foreign paarts an' his darter's lyin'-in--not that her husband

would spare a crust o' bread for auld Lezzard, best o' times."

"Trust me to do what's right. Now I'll go and see after Chris."

"An' make it up with Will while sun shines on 'e. It's so easy, come

gude fortune, to feel your heart swellin' out to others."

"We are good friends now."

"Do'e think I doan't knaw better? Your quarrel's patched for the sake of

us women. Have a real make-up, I mean."

"I will, then. I'll be what I was to him, if he'll let me. I'll forgive

everything that's past--everything and every body."

"So do. An' doan't 'e tell no more of them hard sayings 'gainst powers

an' principalities an' Providence. Us be all looked arter, 'cording to

the unknawn planning of God. How's Mrs. Lezzard?"

"She'll be dead in a fortnight--perhaps less. As likely as not I might

marry Chris before the next new moon."

"Doan't think 'pon that yet. Be cool, an' keep your heart in bounds. 'T

is allus the way wi' such as you, who never hope nothing. Theer comes a

matter as takes 'em out of themselves, then they get drunk with hope,

all of a sudden, an' flies higher than the most sanguine folks, an'

builds castles 'pon clouds. Theer's the diggin' of a graave between you

and Chris yet. Doan't forget that."

"You can't evade solid facts."

"No, but solid facts, seen close, often put on a differ'nt faace to what

they did far-ways off."

"You won't dishearten me, mother; I'm a happy man for once."

"Be you? God forbid I should cloud 'e then; awnly keep wise as well as

happy, an' doan't fill Chris with tu gert a shaw of pomps an'

splendours. Put it away till it comes. Our dreams 'bout the future 's

allus a long sight better or worse than the future itself."

"Don't forbid dreaming. That's the sole happiness I've ever had until

now."

"Happiness, you call it? 'T is awnly a painted tinsel o' the mind, and

coming from it into reality is like waking arter tu much drink. So I've

heard my husband say scores o' times--him bein' a man much given to

overhopefulness in his younger days--same as Will is now."

Clement departed, and presently found himself with the cooler breezes of

the high lands upon his hot forehead. They put him in mind of Mrs.

Blanchard again, and their tendency, as hers had been, was to moderate

his ardour; but that seemed impossible just now. Magnificent sunshine

spread over the great wastes of the Moor; and through it, long before he

reached Newtake, Clement saw his sweetheart returning. For a little time

he seemed intoxicated and no longer his own master. The fires of the

morning woke in him again at sight of her. They met and kissed, and he

promised her some terrific news, but did not tell it then. He lived in

the butterfly fever of the moment, and presently imparted the fever to

her. They left the road and got away into the lonely heather; then he

told her that they would be man and wife within a fortnight.

They sat close together, far from every eye, in the shade of a thorn

bush that rose beside a lonely stone.

"Within the very shadow of marriage, and you are frightened of me still!

Frightened to let me pick an apple over the orchard wall when I am going

through the gate for my own the next moment! Listen! I hear our wedding

bells!"

Only the little lizard and the hovering hawk with gold eyes saw them.

"Our wedding bells!" said Chris.

Towards set of sun Hicks saw his sweetheart to her mother's cottage. His

ecstatic joys were sobered now, and his gratitude a little lessened.

"To think what marvels o' happiness be in store for us, Clem, my awn!"

"Yes--not more than we deserve, either. God knows, if there 's any

justice, it was your turn and mine to come by a little of the happiness

that falls to the lot of men and women."

"I doan't see how highest heaven's gwaine to be better than our married

life, so long as you love me."

"Heaven! Don't compare them. What's eternity if you're half a ghost,

half a bird? That's the bribe thrown out,--to be a cold-blooded, perfect

thing, and passionless as a musical box. Give me hot blood that flows

and throbs; give me love, and a woman's breast to lean on. One great day

on earth, such as this has been, is better than a million ages of

sexless perfection in heaven. A vain reward it was that Christ offered.

It seemed highest perfection to Him, doubtless; but He judged the world

by Himself. The Camel-driver was wiser. He promised actual, healthy

flesh in paradise--flesh that should never know an ache or pain--eternal

flesh, and the joys of it. We can understand that, but where's the joy

of being a spirit? I cling to the flesh I have, for I know that Nature

will very soon want back the dust she has lent me."

CHAPTER XIII

THE WILL

Agreeably to the prediction of Doctor Parsons, Mrs. Lezzard's journey

was ended in less than three weeks of her conversation with Clement

Hicks. Then came a night when she made an ugly end; and with morning a

group of gossips stood about the drawn blinds, licked their lips over

the details, and generally derived that satisfaction from death common

to their class. Indeed, this ghoulish gusto is not restricted to humble

folk alone. The instinct lies somewhere at the root of human nature,

together with many another morbid vein and trait not readily to be

analysed or understood. Only educated persons conceal it.

"She had deliriums just at the end," said Martha, her maid. "She called

out in a voice as I never heard afore, an' mistook her husband for the

Dowl."

"Poor sawl! Death's such a struggle at the finish for the full-blooded

kind. Doctor tawld me that if she'd had the leastest bit o'liver left,

he could 'a' saved her; but 'twas all soaked up by neat brandy, leaving

nought but a vacuum or some such fatal thing."

"Her hadn't the use of her innards for a full fortnight! Think o' that!

Aw. dallybuttons! It do make me cream all awver to hear tell of!"

So they piled horror upon horror; then came Clement Hicks, as one having

authority, and bade them begone. The ill-omened fowls hopped off;

relations began to collect; there was an atmosphere of suppressed

electricity about the place, and certain women openly criticised the

prominent attitude Hicks saw fit to assume. This, however, did not

trouble him. He wrote to the lawyer at Newton, fixed a day for the

funeral, and then turned his attention to Mr. Lezzard. The ancient

resented Clement's interference not a little, but Hicks speedily

convinced him that his animosity mattered nothing. The bee-keeper found

this little taste of power not unpleasant. He knew that everything was

his own property, and he enjoyed the hate and suspicion in the eyes of

those about him. The hungry crowd haunted him, but he refused it any

information. Mr. Lezzard picked a quarrel, but he speedily silenced the

old man, and told him frankly that upon his good behaviour must depend

his future position. Crushed and mystified, the widower whispered to

those interested with himself in his wife's estate; and so, before the

reading of the will, there slowly grew a very deep suspicion and hearty

hatred of Clement Hicks. None had considered him in connection with Mrs.

Lezzard's fortune, for he always kept aloof from her; but women cannot

easily shut their lips over such tremendous matters of news, and so it

came about that some whisper from Chris or dark utterance from old Mrs.

Hicks got wind, and a rumour grew that the bee-keeper was the dead

woman's heir.

Facts contributed colour to the suspicion, for it was known that Clement

had of late given Chris one or two pretty presents, and a ring that cost

gold. His savings were suspected to justify 110 such luxuries; yet that

a speedy change in his manner of life might be expected was also

manifest from the fact that he had been looking into the question of a

new stone cottage, on the edge of the Moor, where the heather in high

summer would ripple to the very doors of his beehives.

The distrust created by these facts was quickly set at rest, for Mrs.

Lezzard sank under ground within four days of her dissolution; then,

after the eating of funeral baked meats, those interested assembled in

the parlour to hear the will. The crowd whispered and growled, and

looked gloomily across at Hicks and the little figure of his mother who

had come in rusty black to witness his triumph. Then a young lawyer from

Newton adjusted his spectacles, rustled his papers, and poured himself

out a glass of grocer's port before proceeding. But his task involved no

strain upon him, and was indeed completed within five minutes. Black

disappointment, dismay, and despair were the seeds sown by that

unimpassioned voice; and at his conclusion a silence as blank as any

that reigned in the ears of the dead fell upon those who listened--on

those who had hoped so much and were confronted with so little.

"The will is remarkably concise. Mrs. Lezzard makes sundry bitter

statements which I think none will blame me for not repeating, though

all may see them here who desire so to do; she then constitutes Mr.

Clement Hicks, her nephew, sole residuary legatee. There is no

condition, no codicil; but I have regretfully to add that Mr. Hicks wins

little but this barren expression of good-will from the testatrix; for

the sufficient reason that she had nothing to leave. She laboured under

various delusions, among others that her financial position was very

different from what is the case. Upon her first husband's death, Mrs.

Coomstock, as she was then, made an arrangement with my late senior

partner, Mr. Joel Ford, and purchased an annuity. This absorbed nearly

all her capital; the rest she lost in an undesirable speculation of her

own choosing. I am amazed at the present extent of her obligations. This

dwelling-house, for instance, is mortgaged to her medical man, Doctor

Parsons, of Chagford. There is barely money to meet the debts. Some

fifty or sixty pounds in my hands will be absorbed by the calls of the

estate. Mrs. Lezzard's tastes--I sorrow to say it--were expensive in

some directions. There is an item of ten pounds twelve shillings

for--for brandy, if I may be pardoned for speaking plainly. The funeral

also appears to have been conducted on a scale more lavish than

circumstances warranted. However, there should be sufficient to defray

the cost, and I am sure nobody will blame Mr. Hicks for showing this

last respect to an amiable if eccentric woman. There is nothing to add

except that I shall be delighted to answer any questions--any questions

at all."

A few moments later, the lawyer mounted his dog-cart and rattled off to

enjoy a pleasant drive homeward.

Then the company spoke its mind, and Mary Lezzard's clay might well have

turned under that bitter hornet-buzz of vituperation. Some said little,

but had not strength or self-command to hide tears; some cursed and

swore. Mr. Lezzard wept unheeded; Mrs. Hicks likewise wept. Clement sat

staring into the flushed faces and angry eyes, neither seeing the rage

manifested before him, nor hearing the coarse volleys of reproach. Then

in his turn he attracted attention; and hard words, wasted on the dead,

hurtled like hail round his ears, with acid laughter, and bitter sneers

at his own tremendous awakening. Stung to the quick, the lame

wheelwright, Charles Coomstock, gloated on the spectacle of Clement's

dark hour, and heaped abuse upon his round-eyed, miserable mother. The

raw of his own wound found a sort of salve in this attack; and all the

other poor, coarse creatures similarly found comfort in their

disappointment from a sight of more terrific mortification than their

own. Venomous utterances fell about Clement Hicks, but he neither heard

nor heeded: his mind was far away with Chris, and the small shot of the

Coomstocks and the thunder of the Chowns alike flew harmlessly past him.

He saw his sweetheart's sorrow, and her grief, as yet unborn, was the

only fact that much hurt him now. The gall in his own soul only began to

sicken him when his eye rested on his mother. Then he rose and departed

to his home, while the little, snuffling woman ran at his heels, like a

dog.

Not until he had escaped the tempest of voices, and was hidden from the

world, did the bee-keeper allow his own cruel disappointment to appear.

Then, while his mother wept, he lifted up his voice and cursed God. As

his relations had won comfort by swearing at him, so now he soothed his

soul unconsciously in blasphemies. Then followed a silence, and his

mother dared to blame him and remind him of an error.

"You wouldn't turn the bee-butts when she died, though I begged and

prayed of 'e. Oh, if you'd awnly done what an auld woman, an' she your

mother, had told 'e! Not so much as a piece of crape would 'e suffer me

to tie 'pon 'em. An' I knawed all the while the hidden power o' bees."

Presently he left her, and went to tell Chris. She greeted him eagerly,

then turned pale and even terrified as she saw the black news in his

face.

"Just a gull and laughing-stock for the gods again, that's all, Chris.

How easily they fool us from their thrones, don't they? And our pitiful

hopes and ambitions and poor pathetic little plans for happiness shrivel

and die, and strew their stinking corpses along the road that was going

to be so gorgeous. The time to spill the cup is when the lip begins to

tremble and water for it--not sooner--the gods know! And now all's

changed--excepting only the memory of things done that had better been

left undone."

"But--but we shall be married at once, Clem?"

He shook his head.

"How can you ask it? My poor little all--twenty pounds--is gone on

twopenny-halfpenny presents during the past week or two. It seemed so

little compared to the fortune that was coming. It's all over. The great

day is further off by twenty pounds than it was before that poor drunken

old fool lied to me. Yet she didn't lie either; she only forgot; you

can't swim in brandy for nothing."

Fear, not disappointment, dominated the woman before him as she heard.

Sheer terror made her grip his arm and scream to him hysterically. Then

she wept wild, savage tears and called to God to kill her quickly. For a

time she parried every question, but an outburst so strangely unlike

Chris Blanchard had its roots deeper than the crushing temporary

disaster which he had brought with him. Clement, suspecting, importuned