.. -*- encoding: utf-8 -*-

.. meta::
   :PG.Id: 46926
   :PG.Title: The Virgin in Judgment
   :PG.Released: 2014-09-21
   :PG.Rights: Public Domain
   :PG.Producer: Al Haines
   :DC.Creator: Eden Phillpotts
   :DC.Title: The Virgin in Judgment
   :DC.Language: en
   :DC.Created: 1908
   :coverpage: images/img-cover.jpg

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THE VIRGIN IN JUDGMENT
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      THE VIRGIN IN JUDGMENT

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      BY

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      EDEN PHILLPOTTS

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      Author of "The Portreeve," "The Secret Woman,"
      "Children of the Mist," etc.

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      NEW YORK
      MOFFAT, YARD AND COMPANY
      1908

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      Copyright, 1908, BY
      MOFFAT, YARD AND COMPANY
      NEW YORK

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      Published, October, 1908

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   CONTENTS

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   BOOK I

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   CHAPTER

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I.  `Crepuscule`_
II.  `Warren House`_
III.  `Harmony in Russet`_
IV.  `Coombeshead`_
V.  `The Virgin and the Dogs`_
VI.  `The Host of 'The Corner House'`_
VII.  `Dennycoombe Wood`_
VIII.  `In Pixies' House`_
IX.  `The Dogs of War`_
X.  `Some Interviews`_
XI.  `Mr. Fogo is Shocked`_
XII.  `For the Good Cause`_
XIII.  `The Fight`_

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   BOOK II

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I.  `'Meavy Cot'`_
II.  `Bartley Doubtful`_
III.  `Preparations`_
IV.  `The Wedding`_
V.  `Arrival of Rhoda`_
VI.  `Repulse`_
VII.  `Eylesbarrow`_
VIII.  `Triumph of Billy Screech`_
IX.  `Common Sense and Beer`_
X.  `Crazywell`_
XI.  `Reproof`_
XII.  `The Courage of Mr. Snell`_
XIII.  `Rhoda Passes By`_

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   BOOK III

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I.  `Mystery`_
II.  `A Pessimist`_
III.  `The Voice from the Pool`_
IV.  `Points of View`_
V.  `End of a Romance`_
VI.  `Virgo--Libra`_
VII.  `A Sharp Tongue`_
VIII.  `Under the Trees`_
IX.  `Darkness at 'The Corner House'`_
X.  `Third Time of Asking`_
XI.  `Bad News of Mr. Bowden`_
XII.  `Rhoda and Margaret`_
XIII.  `The Search`_
XIV.  `David and Rhoda`_
XV.  `Night Tenebrious`_

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.. _`CREPUSCULE`:

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   BOOK I

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   THE VIRGIN IN JUDGMENT

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   CHAPTER I

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   CREPUSCULE

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Night stirred behind the eastern hills and a
desert place burnt with fading splendour in the
hour before sunset.  The rolling miles of Ringmoor
Down lay clad at this season in a wan integument of
dead grass.  Colourless as water, it simulated that
element and reflected the tone of dawn or evening, sky or
cloud; now sulked; now shone; now marked the passage
of the wind with waves of light.

Ringmoor extends near the west quarter of
Dartmoor Forest like an ocean of alternate trough and
mound, built by the breath of storms.  This region,
indeed, shares something with the restless resting-places
of the sea; and one may figure it as finally frozen into
its present austerity by action of western winds that
aforetime laboured without ceasing here on the bosom
of a plastic earth.  Only the primary forces model with
such splendid economy of design, or present
achievements so unadorned, yet so complete.  The marvel of
Ringmoor demanded unnumbered centuries of
elemental collaboration before it spread, consummate and
accomplished, under men's eyes.  Rage of solar flame
and fury of floods; the systole and diastole of Earth's
own mighty heart-beat; the blast of inner fires, the
rigour of age-long ice-caps--all have gone to mould
this incarnate simplicity.  Nor can Nature's achievement
yet be gauged, for man himself must ascend to
subtler perception before he shall gather the meaning of
this moor.

The expanse is magnificently naked, yet sufficing;
it is absolutely featureless, but never poverty-stricken.
To the confines of a river it extends, and ceases there;
yet that sudden wild uplifting of broken hills beyond;
their dark, rocky places full of story; their porphyry
pinnacles and precipices haunted by the legends and
the spirits of old strike not so deeply into human sense
as Ringmoor's vast monochrome fading slowly at the
edge of night; fading as a cloudless sky fades; as
light fades on the eyes of the semi-blind; fading
without one stock or stone or man or beast to break the
inexorable tenor of its way.

Upon some souls this huge monotony, thus mingling
with the universal at eventide, casts fear; to others it
is a manifestation precious as the presence of a friend;
and for those whose working life brings them here, the
waste's immensities at noon or night are one; its
highways are their highways, and indifferently they move
upon its bosom with the other ephemeral existences that
haunt it.  Yet by none of these people is Ringmoor
truly felt or truly seen.  Cultured minds weave pathetic
fallacies and so pass by; while for the native this spot
is first a grazing ground and last a recurrent incident
of stern spaces to be compassed and recompassed on his
own pilgrimage--to the young a weariness and to the
old a grief.

Now light suffered a change.  There was no detail
to die, but a general fleeting radiance failed swiftly to
the thick pallor that precedes darkness.  Each perished
grass-stem, of many millions that clad the waste,
reflected the sky and paled its little lamp as the heavens
paled.  Then sobriety of dusk eliminated even the sweep
and billow of the heath, and reduced all to a spectacle of
withered and waning grey, that stretched formless,
vague, vast, toward boundaries unseen.

It was at this stage in the unfolding phenomenon of
night that life moved upon the void; a black, amorphous
smudge crawled out of the gloom and crept tardily
along.  At length its form, as a double star seen
through a telescope, divided and revealed a brace of
animals, one of which staggered slowly on four legs,
while the other went on two.  A man led a horse by a
halter; and the horse was old and black, bent,
broken-kneed and worn out; while the man was also bent and
ancient of his kind.  Neither could travel very fast, and
one was at the end of his life's journey, while the other
had a small measure of years still assured.

Death thus moved across Ringmoor and trod a
familiar rut in the wilderness; because, under the
darkness eastward, was a bourn for beasts that had ceased to
possess any living value.  Through extinction only they
served their masters for the last time and made
profitable this final funeral march.  The horse stopped,
turned and seemed to ask a question with his eyes.

"Get on!" said the man.  "There ban't much
further for you to go."

The brute dragged towards peace and his hind hoofs
struck sometimes and sounded the dull and dreary note
of his own death bell; the old man sighed because he
was very weary.  Then from the fringe of night sprang
young life and met this forlorn procession.  A tall girl
appeared and three collie dogs galloped and circled
about her.  Noting the man, they ran up to him,
barked and wagged their tails in greeting.

"Be that anybody from Ditsworthy?" asked the
traveller of the female shadow.

"'Tis I--Rhoda Bowden.  I thought as you might
be pretty tired and came to shorten your journey--that
is if you'm old Mr. Elford from Good-a-Meavy."

"I am the man, and never older than to-night."

He stopped and rubbed his leg.  The girl stood over
him by half a foot.  She was tall and straight, but in
the murk one could see no more than her outlines, her
pale sun-bonnet and a pale face under it.

"Have you got the money?" said the man.

"Yes--ten shillings."

She spoke slowly, with a voice uncommon deep for a
young woman.

"Not twelve?"

"No."

The ancient made a sound that indicated disappointment
and annoyance.

"And the price of the halter?"

"We don't want that.  One of my brothers will
bring it back to you next time they be down-along."

He handed her the rope and took a coin from her.
Then he brought a little leathern purse from his breeches
pocket and put the money into it.

"You're sure your faither didn't say twelve?"

"No."

"He's a hard man.  Good-night to you."

"'Tis the right price for a dead horse.  Good-night."

The ancient had no farewell word for his beast, and
the companions of twelve years parted for ever.  The
girl took her way with the old horse; the man turned
in his tracks moodily, chattering to himself.

"Warrener did ought to have give twelve," he said
again and again as he went homewards.  By furze
banks and waste places and the confines of woods he
passed, and then he stopped where a star twinkled
above the gloomy summits of spruce firs.  Beneath
them there peered out a thatched cottage, but no light
shone from its face.  The patriarch entered with his
frosty news, and almost instantly a female voice, shrill
and full of trouble, struck upon the night.

"It did ought to have been twelve!"

Owls cried to each other across the forest and
seemed to echo the lamentation.





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.. _`WARREN HOUSE`:

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   CHAPTER II


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   WARREN HOUSE

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A river destined to name the greatest port in the
west country, makes humble advent at Plym Head
near the Beam of Cater in mid-Dartmoor.  Westward
under the Harter Tors and south by the Abbot's Way
to Plym Steps the streamlet flows; then she gathers
volume and melody to enter a land of vanished men.
By the lodges of the old stone people and amid
monuments lifted in a neolithic age; beside the graves of
heroes and under the Hill of Giants, Plym passes and
threads the rocky wilderness with silver.  And then,
suddenly, a modern dwelling lifts beside her--a building
of stern aspect and most lonely site.  Round about for
miles the warrens of Ditsworthy extend, and countless
thousands of the coney folk flourish.  The district is
tunnelled and tracked by them; the characteristics of
the heath are altered.  For the turf, nibbled close at
seasons, shows no death, but spreads in a uniform
far-flung cloth of velvet, always close shorn and
always green.  Its texture may not be rivalled by any
pasture known, and so fine has it become under this
cropping of centuries that the very grass itself seems
to have suffered dwarfing and reduction to a fairy-like
tenuity Of blade.  Grey lichens are woven through the
herbage here and there, and sometimes these silvery
filigranes dominate the turf and create fair harmonies
with the rosy ling in summer and the red brake-fern
of the fall.

Inflexible Ringmoor approaches Ditsworthy on one
side; while beyond it roll the warrens.  Shell Top and
Pen Beacon are the highest adjacent peaks of the Moor;
and through the midst runs Plym with the solitary,
stern Warren House lifted upon its northern bank.

A gnarled but lofty ash has defied the upland weather
and grown to maturity above this dwelling.  It rises
wan in the sombre waste and towers above the squat
homestead beneath it.  Granite walls run round about,
and the metropolis of the rabbits, with natural and
artificial burrows, extends to the very confines of the
building.  A cabbage-plot and a croft or two complete man's
work here; while at nearer approach the house, that
looked but a spot seen upon such an immense stage, is
found to be of considerable size.  And this is well,
because, at the date of these doings, it was called upon
to hold a large family.

Fifty years ago Elias Bowden reigned at Ditsworthy,
and with his wife, nine children, and ten dogs, lived an
arduous, prosperous existence on the product of the
warrens and other moorland industries.  Rabbits were
more valuable then than now, and Mr. Bowden received
half a crown a couple, where his successors to-day can
make but tenpence.

Elias and his boys and girls did the whole work of
Ditsworthy.  All had their duties, and even the
youngest children--twin sons now aged nine--were taught
to make netting and help with the traps.  There were
six sons and three daughters in the family; and the
males were called after mighty captains, because Elias
loved valour above all virtues.  Such friendships as
happen in large families existed among the children,
and the closest and keenest of these associations was
that between the eldest boy and second girl.  David
Bowden was eight-and-twenty and Rhoda was twenty-one.
A very unusual fraternity obtained between them,
and the man's welfare meant far more to his sister than
any other mundane interest.  After David came Joshua,
the master of the trappers, aged twenty-five; and he
and the eldest girl, Sophia--a widow who had returned
childless and moneyless to her home after two years of
married life--were sworn friends.  Then, a year
younger than Rhoda, appeared Dorcas--a "sport" as
Mr. Bowden called her, for she was the only red child
he had gotten.  The two boys, Napoleon and Wellington,
aged thirteen and fifteen, shared the special regard
of Dorcas; while the twins were mutually sufficing.
One was called Samson and the other Richard--after
the first English monarch of that name.  Mrs. Bowden
had lost three children in infancy, and deplored the fact
to this day.  When work at the warren pressed in
autumn, and the family scarce found leisure to sleep,
the mother of this flock might frequently be heard
uttering a futile regret.

"If only my son Drake had been spared," she often
cried at moments of stress; and this saying became so
familiar among the people round about, that when a
man or woman breathed some utterly vain aspiration,
another would frequently cap it thus and say, "Ah,
if only my son Drake had been spared!"

A distinguishing characteristic of this family was its
taciturnity.  The Bowdens wasted few words.  Red
Dorcas and her father, however, proved an exception to
this rule; for she chattered much; and he enjoyed a
joke and could make and take one.  Of his other girls,
Rhoda was most silent.  She, too, alone might claim
beauty.  Sophia was homely.  She had a narrow,
fowl-like face inherited from her mother; and Dorcas
suffered from weak eyes; but Rhoda, in addition to her
straight and splendid frame, was well favoured.  Her
features were large, but very regular; her contours were
round without promise of future fatness; her nose and
mouth were especially beautiful; but her chin was a
little heavy.  Rhoda's hair was pale brown and in tone
not specially attractive; but she possessed a great
wealth of it; her feet and hands were large, yet finely
modelled; her eyes had more than enough of virginal
chill in their cool and pale grey depths.  David
somewhat resembled her.  He was a clean-cut and sturdy
man, standing his sister's height of five feet nine inches,
and having a slow-featured face--handsome after a
conventional type, yet lacking much expression or
charm for the physiognomist.  He shared his thoughts
with Rhoda, but none else.  Neither parent pretended
to know much about him, but both understood that it
would not be long before he left Ditsworthy.  David
was learned in sheep and ponies, and he proposed to
begin life on his own account as a breeder of them.  At
present his work was with his father's sheep and cattle,
for Elias ran stock on the moor.  As for Rhoda, her
duties lay with the dogs, and she usually had two or
three galloping after her; while often she might be seen
carrying squeaking, new-born puppies in her arms,
while an anxious bitch, with drooping dugs, gazed up
at the precious burden.

Sober-minded and busy were these folk.  Elias had
few illusions.  In only one minor particular was he
superstitious; he hated to see a white rabbit on the
warrens.  Brown and yellow, grey, and sometimes black,
were the inhabitants of the great burrows, but it seldom
happened that a white one was observed.  Occasionally
they appeared, however, and occasionally they were
caught.  Elias never permitted them to be killed.  The
master's lapse from rationality in this matter was
respected, and if anybody ever saw a white rabbit, the
incident was kept secret.

Enemies the warren had, and foxes took a generous
toll; but the hunt recompensed Mr. Bowden for this
inconvenience, although it was suspected that his
estimates of loss were fanciful.  Once the usual fees had
been delayed by oversight, and Sir Guy Flamank,
M.F.H. and Lord of the Manor, was only reminded of his
lapse on meeting Elias at "The Corner House,"
Sheepstor.

"Ah!" said the sportsman, "and how's Mr. Bowden
faring?  I've forgot Ditsworthy of late."

"Foxes haven't," was all the warrener replied.  And
yet a sight of the honeycombed and tunnelled miles of
the burrows might have justified an opinion that all the
foxes of Devonshire could have done no lasting hurt
here.  In legions the rabbits lived.  They swarmed,
leapt from under the foot, bobbed with twinkling of
white scuts through the fern and heather, sat up, all
ears, on every little knap and hillock, drummed with
their pads upon the hollow ground, scurried away in
scattered companies and simultaneously vanished down
a hundred holes at sight of dog or man.

This, then, was the place and these were the people,
animals and things that Plym encompassed with her
growing volume before she thundered in many a
cataract and shouting waterfall through the declivities
beneath Dewerstone and left Dartmoor.  Much beauty
she brings to the lowlands; much beauty she finds there.
The hanging woods are very fair; and the great shining
reaches where the salmon lie; and those placid places
where Plym draws down the grey and azure of the
firmament and spreads it among the water-meadows.  She
flows through Bickleigh Vale and by Cann Quarry;
she passes her own bridge, and anon, entering the waters
of Laira, passes unmarked away to the salt blue sea;
but she laves no scene more pregnant than these plains
where the stone men sleep; she passes no monument
heavier weighted with grandeur of eld than that titan
menhir of Thrushelcombe by Ditsworthy, where, deep set
in the prehistoric past, it stands sentinel over a hero's
grave.  Great beyond the common folk was he who won
this memorial--a warrior and leader at the least; or
perchance some prophet who wrought men's deeds into
the gaunt beginnings of art and song, fired his clan to
the battle with glorious fury, and welcomed them again
with pæan of joy or dirge of mourning.  But one
chooses rather to think that these tumuli held ashes of
the men who fought and conquered; who lifted their
lodges to supremacy; who bulked as large in the eyes of
the neoliths as their gravestones bulk in ours.  The
saga and the singer both are good; but deeds must first
be done.

Of Plym also it may be said that nowhere in all its
journey does it skirt a home of living men more
sequestered and distinguished than the broad, low-roofed and
granite-walled Warren House of Ditsworthy.  Notable
and spacious mansions rise as the stream flows into
civilisation; abodes, that have entered into history, lift their
heads adjacent to its flood; but none among them is so
unique and distinctive; and none at any period has
sheltered a family more eager, strenuous and full of the
strife and joy of living than Elias Bowden and his brood.





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.. _`HARMONY IN RUSSET`:

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   CHAPTER III


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   HARMONY IN RUSSET

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Sheepstor lies beneath the granite hill that
names it like a lamb between a lion's paws.  Chance
never played artist to better purpose, for of the grey
roofs and whitewashed walls that make this little village,
there is scarcely one to be wished away.  Cots and
farm-buildings, byres and ricks cluster round about the
church; a few conifers thrust dark spire and branch
between the houses, and fields slope upward behind the
hamlet to the shaggy fringes of the tor.  A medley of
autumnal orange and copper and brown now splashes
the hills everywhere round about; and great beeches,
that hem in the churchyard and bull-ring, echo the
splendour of the time and spread one pall of radiant
foliage on all the graves together.  Behind the church,
knee-deep in thick-set spinneys, ascends the giant bulk
of Sheep's Tor, shouldering enormous from leagues of
red brake-fern, like a ragged, grey dragon that lifts
suddenly from its lair.  The saddle of the hill falls
westerly in a more gentle slope, and sunset paints
wonderful pictures there; while beyond, breaking very blue
through the haze of distance, Lether Tor and Sharp
Tor's misty heights inclose the horizon.

A river runs through the village, and at this noon
hour in late November the brook made all the music to
be heard; for not a sound rose but that of the murmuring
water, and not any sight of conscious life was to be
noted.  Clear sunshine after rain beat upon the great
hill; its ruddy pelt glowed like fire under the blue sky,
and beneath the mass a church tower, whose ancient
crockets burnt with red-gold lichens, sprang stiffly up.
Sheepstor village might now be seen through a lattice
of naked boughs, fair of form in their mingled reticulations
and pale as silvery gauze against the sunlight.
Their fretwork was touched to flame where yellow or
scarlet leaves still clung and spattered the branches.
Yet no particular opulence of colour was registered.
All the tones remained delicate and tender.  The village
seen afar off, seemed painted with subdued greys, pale
yellows and warm duns; but at approach its deserted
street was proved a haunt for sunshine and glittered
with reflected light and moisture.

One cottage near the lich-gate of the churchyard
had served to challenge particular attention.  The
building was of stone, but little of the fabric save one
chimney-stack appeared, for on the south side a huge
ivy-tod overwhelmed all with shining green; to the north
a cotoneaster of uncommon proportions wrapped the
house in a close embrace, covered the walls and spread
over the roof also.  Its dense, stiff sprays of dark
foliage were laden with crimson berries; they hung
brilliantly over the white face of the cottage and made
heavy brows for the door and windows.  A leafless lilac
stuck up pale branches on one side of the entrance;
stacks of dry fern stood on the other; and these hues
were carried to earth and echoed in higher notes by
some buff Orpington fowls upon the roadway, and a
red setter asleep at the cottage door.  Over all this
genial and spirited colour profound silence reigned; and
then the mystery of the deserted village was solved by
sudden drone of organ music from the church.  It
happened to be Sunday, and most of those not engaged at
kitchen fires were attending service.

At last, however, a human being appeared and a man
came out from the cottage of cotoneasters with a metal
pail in his hand.  He wore Sunday black but had not
yet donned his coat, and his shirt-sleeves were rolled
up to his elbows.  His fore-arms were somewhat slight,
but hard and brown; and his face had charmed any
student of faces by its obvious kindness of heart and
innate merriment of disposition.  Bartley Crocker was
thin and tall.  He stood about six feet, yet weighed
not quite eleven stone.  He was, however, tough and
very energetic where it pleased him so to be.  Small
black whiskers clung beneath his ears, while the rest of
his face was shorn.  His upper lip was short, his mouth
full and rather feeble, his colour clear and pale.  His
eyes were small, somewhat sly, and the home of laughter.
He was five-and-twenty and lived with a widowed
mother and a maiden aunt under the berried roof of the
cottage.  The Crockers kept cows and poultry, and
Bartley was a good son to his mother, though not a
good friend to himself.  He had a mind, quick but not
deep, and his feelings were keen but transitory.  He
belonged to the order of Esau, won wide friendship, yet
woke a measure of impatience among reflecting people,
in that he spent his time to such poor purpose and
wasted an unusually good education and a splendid
native gift of nervous energy on the sports of the field.
He had, in fact, become a man without putting away
childish things--an achievement as rare among rustics
as it is common under conditions of university
education.  Yet nobody but his mother ever blamed him to
his face, and the tone of her voice always robbed her
reproaches of the least forceful quality.  She was proud
of him; she knew that the men could not quarrel with
him and that the girls were all his friends.

Bartley filled a pail with water from the brook, and
then carried it home.  His mother was in church; his
Aunt, Susan Saunders, prepared dinner.  The man
now completed his costume, put on a collar and a red
tie, donned his coat and a soft felt "wide-awake" hat.
He then went into the churchyard, sat upon a tomb
exactly in front of the principal door and there waited,
without self-consciousness, for the congregation to
emerge.  Anon the people came--a stream of old men
and maidens, women and children.  Ancient beavers
shone in the sun, plaid shawls covered aged shoulders;
there was greeting and clatter of tongues in the
vernacular; the young creatures, released from their futile
imprisonment, ran hither and thither, and whooped and
shouted--without apparent merriment, but simply in
obedience to a natural call for swift movement of
growing legs and arms and full inflation of lungs.  The
lively company streamed away and Bartley gave fifty
of the folk "good-morning."  Some chid him for not
attending the service.  At last there came his mother.
She resembled her son but little, and looked younger
than her years.  Nanny Crocker was more black than
grey.  She had dark brown eyes, a high-coloured face,
a full bosom and a square, sturdy body, well moulded
to display the enormous pattern of a red, black and blue
shawl.  Beside her walked Mr. Charles Moses, the
vicar's churchwarden--a married man with a grey
beard and crystallised opinions, who on week-days
pursued the business of a shoemaker.

"Where's Margaret?" asked young Crocker.  But
his mother could not answer him.

"I thought she'd have found me and prayed along
with me, in the pew behind the font, that catches heat
from the stove, where I always go winter time,"
explained Mrs. Crocker.  "She never comed, however.
Haven't she arrived home?"

"No," said Bartley.  "But 'twas a promise to dinner,
and since there's no message, without doubt she's
on the way.  I'll up over Yellowmead and meet her."

His mother nodded and went forward, escorted by
the shoemaker; people in knots and strings thinned
off by this gate and that; then came forth the imposing
company of the Bowdens, for Sheepstor was their
parish, and wet or fine, hot or cold, they weekly worshipped
there.  Only on rare occasions, when some fierce
blizzard banked white drifts ten feet deep between
Ditsworthy and the outer world, did Elias abstain and hold
long services in the Warren House kitchen, lighted by
the glare of the snow-blink from without.

To-day he came first, with his widowed daughter
Sophia.  Then followed David and Rhoda, Napoleon
and Wellington, Samson and Richard, in the order
named.  Joshua was not present, as he had gone to
spend the day with friends; and Dorcas kept at home to
help her mother with dinner.

The Bowdens were well known to Bartley, and he
bade them "good-morning" in amiable fashion.  He
shook hands with Sophia and Rhoda, and nodded to
Elias and David.  None of the family showed particular
pleasure in the young man's company, but this did
not trouble him.  Their way was his for a while, and
therefore he walked beside David and Rhoda and
prattled cheerfully now to one, now to the other.

"How those boys grow!" he said.  "A brave couple
and so like as a pair of tabby kittens.  They'll go taller
than you, David.  You can see it by their long feet."

"Very like they will," said David.

The other's ruling instinct was to please.  He
addressed Rhoda.  In common with most young men he
admired her exceedingly; but the emotion was not
returned.  Rhoda seldom smiled upon men; yet, on the
other hand, she never scowled at them.  Her attitude
was one of high indifference, and none saw much more
than that; yet much more existed, and Rhoda's aloof
posture, instead of concealing normal maiden interest in
the opposite sex, as Bartley and other subtle students
suspected, in reality hid a vague general aversion
from it.

"If I may make bold to say so, Miss Rhoda, those
feathers in your beautiful hat beat anything I've ever
seen," declared Mr. Crocker.

"'Tis a foreign bird what used to be in a case,"
answered she.  "The mould was getting over it, so I
thought I'd use its wings for my hat afore they went to
pieces."

"A very witty idea.  And what might the bird be?"

"Couldn't tell you."

"I wonder, now, supposing I was to shoot a kingfisher,
if you'd like him to put in your hat when this
here bird be done for?"

"No, thank you."

"If she wants a kingfisher, I can get her one," said
David.

Bartley tried again.

"I hear that yellow-bearded chap, the leat man,
Simon Snell, be taking up with your Dorcas.  That's
great news, I do declare, if 'tis true."

A very faint tinge of colour touched Rhoda's cheeks.

"It isn't," she said.

"Ah, well--can't say I'm sorry.  He's rather a dull
dog--good as gold, but as tasteless as an egg without
salt."

"Simon Snell can stand to work--that's something,"
said David, in his uncompromising way.

But Mr. Crocker ignored the allusion.  He looked at
and talked to Rhoda.  The pleasure of seeing her
beautiful face and of watching that little wave of
rose-colour wax and wane in her cheeks, was worth her
brother's snub.  He had often been at the greatest
difficulty to abstain from compliments to Rhoda; but
there was that in her bearing and consistent reserve
that frightened him and all others from personality.
Even to praise her hat had required courage.

Elias called Rhoda, and Bartley was not sorry to
reach the point where their ways parted.  He went to
meet a maiden of other clay than this.  Yet Rhoda
always excited a very lively emotion in the youth by
virtue of her originality, handsome person and
self-sufficing qualities.  When any girl made it clear to
Bartley that she took no sort of interest in him, the
remarkable fact woke quite a contrary attitude to her
in his own ardent spirit.

Where a row of stepping-stones crossed Sheepstor
brook under avenues of-beech-trees above the village,
Bartley left the Bowdens with a final proposal of
friendliness.

"Hounds meet at Cadworthy Bridge come Monday
week.  Hope I'll see you then, if not sooner, Miss
Rhoda."

"Thank you, but I shan't go.  Fox-hunting's nought
to us."

"Well, good-bye, then," answered he.  "I'm walking
this way to meet Madge Stanbury from Coombeshead.
She's coming to eat her dinner along with us."

A silence more than usually formidable followed the
announcement, and it was now not Rhoda but David
who appeared to be concerned.  He frowned, and even
snorted.  Actual anger flashed from his eyes, but he
turned them on his sister, not on Mr. Crocker.

Rhoda it was who spoke after a very lengthy peace.

"If that's so, there's no call for you to go over to
Coombeshead after dinner, David.  Belike Margaret
Stanbury's forgot."

"I was axed to tea, and I shall go to tea," he
answered in a dogged and sulky voice.  "We've no right
to say she's forgot."

"That's true," Rhoda admitted.

Bartley wished them "good-bye" again and left
them.  He skipped over the stream and climbed the
hill to Sheep's Tor's eastern slopes, while they went up
through steep lanes, furze-brakes and stunted trees to
the great tableland of the Moor.

Mr. Crocker once turned a moment; and, as he did
so, he marked the Bowden clan plodding on in evident
silence to Ditsworthy.

"Good God! 'tis like a funeral party after they've
got rid of their dead," he thought.

Ten minutes later a dark spot on the heath increased,
approached swiftly and turned into a woman.  Such
haste had she made that her heart throbbed almost
painfully.  She pressed her hands to it and could not
speak for a little while.  Her face was bright and
revealed an eager but a very sensitive spirit.  There was
something restless and birdlike about her, and
something unutterably sweet; for this girl's temper was
woven of pure altruism.  Welfare of others, by a sort
of fine instinct, had long since become her welfare.

She was four-and-twenty, of good height and a dark
complexion.  Perhaps her boundless energy preserved
her from growing stout and kept her as she was--a
fine woman of ripe and flowing figure with a round,
beautiful neck and noble arms.  Her hair, parted down
the middle in the old fashion, was black and without
natural gloss; her eyebrows were full and perfect in
shape and her eyes shone with the light of a large and
sanguine heart.  Her face was well shaped and her
mouth very gentle.  Margaret Stanbury possessed a
temperament of fire.  She made intuition serve for
reason, and instinct take the place of logic.  Her capacity
both for joy and grief was unusual in her class.

"Whatever will your people say, Bartley?" she
gasped.  "They'll never forgive me, I'm sure."

"No bad news, I hope?"

"Yes, but there is.  Mother scalded herself just as I
was starting to church, so I had to stop and cook the
dinner.  And, what's far worse, I've kept you from
yours."

"We'll soon make up for lost time," he answered.  "I
hope your mother suffered but little pain and will soon
be well."

"She makes nought of it; but of course I couldn't
leave her to mess about with a lame hand."

"Of course not; of course not.  I wish you hadn't
hurried so.  You've set yourself all in a twitter."

Nevertheless he much admired the beautiful rise and
fall of her tight Sunday frock.  It was as pleasant a
circumstance in its way as Rhoda's ghostly blush when
he had mentioned Simon Snell.





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.. _`COOMBESHEAD`:

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   CHAPTER IV


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   COOMBESHEAD

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The character of Margaret Stanbury affected
very diversely those who came in contact with it.
Her never-failing desire to be helping others was
sometimes welcomed, sometimes tolerated and sometimes
resented.  Most people have no objection to being spoiled,
and mothers of sick children, old bedridden folk and
invalids welcomed Margaret gladly enough, and
accepted her gifts of service or food--sometimes as a
privilege, sometimes, after a few repetitions, as a right.
But others only endured her attentions for the love they
bore her, and because they knew that she joyed to be
with the careworn and suffering.  A residue of
independent people were indifferent to her.  These wished
her away, when she sought to share their tribulations or
lessen their labours.

Nanny Crocker and her sister Susan belonged to the
last category.  They hated fuss and they mistrusted
sympathy.  They were complete in themselves--comfortable,
superior, selfish.  They liked Margaret Stanbury
so much that they held her worthy of Bartley;
and he liked her as well as a man might who had known
her all his life.  His mother had settled with Susan
that her son was husband-old, and this visit from Madge
might be said to open the campaign.

The old women took cold stock of her as she ate her
dinner.  To an outsider they had suggested two elderly
lizards, with wrinkled skins and large experience,
studying a song-thrush on a bough.  Madge trilled and
chirruped from the simple goodness of her heart; they,
in their deeper shrewdness, listened; she had much to
say of many people and not an unkind word of any;
but unfailingly they qualified her generous estimate of
fellow-creatures.

After the meal Margaret declared that she must start
immediately for home to keep an appointment; and she
took with her Bartley Crocker himself and an elaborate
prescription for scalds.  Then, when they had gone,
Susan and Nanny discussed the girl without sentiment
or imagination, yet not without common sense.

They differed somewhat, but not in the conclusion.
Both felt that though too prone to let her heart run
away with her head, Madge would make a good wife
for their man.  The suspicion was that she might not
be quite firm enough with him.  That, however,
appeared inevitable.  Mrs. Crocker felt that Bartley must
certainly be humoured.  No woman born would ever
deny him his own way or cloud his spirit with opposition.
Susan feared that the girl had expensive tastes
and an instinct which carried generosity to absurd
lengths; but the mother of Bartley believed that, once
married, this lavish benevolence would centre upon
Margaret's husband and find all necessary scope for its
activity in that quarter.

Meantime Bartley's own attitude had to be considered,
and upon that point his parent and his aunt were
satisfied.  He had been attentive to Margaret at dinner
and more than usually polite.

"It only remains to see what the girl thinks," said
Susan; but her sister held that problem determined.

"She goes without saying, I should fancy, even if
Bartley was different to what he is.  He's only to drop
the handkerchief.  The girl's no fool.  Catch a
Stanbury refusing a Crocker!"

"I doubt he'll ask her afore Christmas."

"May or may not.  That's not our job.  'Tis for
us to bid her here now and again, and I may even get
out to Coombeshead presently and pay her mother a
visit.  Of course Mrs. Stanbury and her husband will
be hot for it."

Thus, despite their large worldly wisdom and knowledge
of their fellow-folk, these elderly sisters, cheered
by Sunday dinner, took a rosy view of the future and
held the things which they desired to happen as good
as accomplished.  They even debated upon a new home
for Bartley and wondered where it had better be chosen.

The man meantime was moving at one point of that
great trio of tors known hereabout as "the Triangle."  The
heights of Sheep's Tor, Lether Tor and Down Tor
are equidistant, and once upon a time, in the hollowed
midst of them, Nature's hand held a lake.  Then its
granite barriers were swept away and the cup ran
empty.  Hereafter Meavy river flowed through the
midst of meadows and, at the time of these incidents,
continued to do so.  It was not until nearly fifty years
later that thirsty men rebuilt the cup to hold sweet
water for their towns.

Across the river went Margaret and Bartley; then
they turned and, by a detour, set their faces towards
her home.  Their talk was light and cheerful.  It
ranged over many subjects, including love, but no
note of any close, personal regard marked the
conversation.

"What do you think of Rhoda Bowden?" he asked,
and Margaret answered slowly:

"I think a lot of her.  She's a solemn sort of girl
and goeth so grand-like!  She'm different to most of
us--so tall and sweeping in her walk.  Maidens mostly
mince in their going; but she swingeth along like a man."

"She's a jolly fine girl, Madge."

"David be terrible fond of her."

"Yes, he is.  I saw that this morning before dinner.
And I got actually a touch of pink into her cheek
to-day, if you'll believe it."

"You're that bowldacious always--enough to make
any girl blush with your nonsense."

"Not at all.  I wouldn't say anything outright--but
I just mentioned Simon Snell of all men, and I'll
swear Miss Rhoda flickered up!"

"You never know what natures catch heat from each
other.  I don't reckon Rhoda's fond of men."

"And surely Snell would never dare to be fond of girls."

"And yet, for just that reason, they might be drawn
together."

By chance the man of whom they spoke appeared a
little farther on their way.  He was a large-boned,
ox-eyed labourer, with a baby's face on adult shoulders.
Not a wrinkle of thought, not a sensual line was ruled
upon his round cheeks or brow.  A yellow beard and
moustache hid the lower part of his face.  His skin
was clear and high-coloured; his nose was thin; his
forehead was high and narrow.

"Give you good-afternoon," said Mr. Snell.  He
spoke in a thin, colourless voice and his face revealed
no expression but a sort of ovine placidity.

Bartley winked at Madge.

"And how be all at Ditsworthy Warren House,
Simon?" he asked.

"I was there last Thursday.  They was all well then.
I'm going there now to drink tea with--"

"With Miss Rhoda--eh?  Or is it Miss Dorcas?"

The shadowy ghost of a smile touched Simon's mild face.

"What a dashing way you have of mentioning the
females!  I never could do it, I'm sure.  'Tis about
some spaniel pups as I be going up over.  Give you
good-afternoon."

He stalked away, calm, solemn, inane.

Mr. Snell was engaged upon the Plymouth water leat.
His neighbours regarded him as a harmless joke.  It
might have been said of him, as of the owl, that he was
not humourous himself, but the cause of humour in
others.

"I always think there's a lot of sense hidden in
Simon, for all you men laugh at him," said Margaret.

"Then give up thinking so," answered Bartley, "for
you're wrong.  That baby-eyed creature have just
brain-power to keep him out of the lunatic asylum and
no more.  His head is as empty as a deaf nut.  He's
never growed up.  There's nought behind that great
bush of a beard but a stupid child.  He's only the
image of a man; and you'll never hear him say a sensible
thing, unless 'tis the echo of somebody else.  He don't
know no more about human creatures than that gate."

"A childlike spirit have its own virtues.  He'd never
do a bad thing."

"He'd never do anything--good or bad.  He's like
a ploughing horse or a machine.  Lord, the times I've
tried to shock a swear or surprise a laugh out of that
chap!  Yet if ever Rhoda Bowden showed me a spark
of herself, 'twas when I said I thought Simon was after
her red sister."

"'Twas only because you angered her thinking of
such a thing."

"How d'you like David Bowden?" he asked suddenly,
and the question signified much to them both.  For
Bartley had been not a little astonished to hear that
David was going to drink tea at Coombeshead.  The
eldest son of Elias was an unsociable man and little
given to visiting.  Yet this visit, as Mr. Crocker had
observed after church, meant a good deal to young
Bowden.  Now he desired to know what it might mean
to Margaret.

Her merry manner changed and a nervousness,
natural to her and never far from the surface of her
character, asserted itself.

"What a chap you are for sudden questions that go
off like a rat-trap!  Mr. David is coming to drink tea
along with us to-night."

"That's why you're in such a hurry."

"Why not?"

"No reason at all.  David Bowden's rather a grim
sort of man; but he's got all the virtues except a gentle
tongue.  I speak better of him than he would of me,
however."

"I'm sure not.  He's never said a word against you
that I ever heard."

"You've heard him pretty often then?  Well, he
despises me, Madge.  Because I don't stick to work
like he does.  Don't you get too fond of that man.
He's a kill-joy."

She gasped and changed colour, but he did not notice
it.  All that Bartley had needed to turn his attention
seriously to this girl was some spice of rivalry; and now
it promised to appear.  They walked along to
Nosworthy Bridge, and from that spot Margaret's distant
home was visible.

Like a picture set between two great masses of
fruiting white-horn, Dennycoombe spread eastward into
Dartmoor and climbed upward through glory of sinking
light upon autumnal colour.  To the west Sheep's Tor's
larch-clad shoulder sloped in pale gold mottled with
green, while northerly Down Tor broke the withered
fern.  Between them lay a valley of lemon light washed
with blue hazes and stained by great darkness where
the shadows fell.  Many a little dingle opened on either
hand of the glen; and here twinkled water, where a
brook leapt downward; and here shone dwindling
raiment of beech and oak.

Coombeshead Farm, the home of the Stanburys, stood
at the apex of this gorge and lay under Coombeshead
Tor.  Still higher against the sky rolled Eylesbarrow,
its enormous and simple outline broken only by the
fangs of an old ruin; while flying clouds, that shone in
opposition to the sunset, crowned all with welter of
mingled light and gloom.  The modest farmhouse clung
like a grey nest into the tawny harmonies of the hill,
and above it rose blue smoke.

"You'll come to tea?" said Madge; but Bartley
shook his head.

"Two's company, three's none," he said.

"But we're all at home."

"No, no; I've had my luck--mustn't be greedy.  One
thing I will swear: David Bowden won't make you laugh
as often at your tea as I did at your dinner--will he
now?"

"We've all got our different qualities."

"I tell you he's a kill-joy," repeated Bartley; but
Margaret shook her head.

"Not to me--never to me," she said frankly.

This fearless confession reduced the man to silence.
Then, while he considered the position and felt that, if
he desired Margaret, the time for serious love-making
had come, there approached the sturdy shape of young
Bowden himself.

They were now more than half-way up the valley,
and David had seen them long ago.  He advanced to
meet them, took no notice of Bartley, but shook
Margaret's hand and spoke while he did so.

"It was ordained that I should drink a dish of tea
along with your people this afternoon; but if you've
forgot it, I can go again."

"No fay!  Of course 'twasn't forgotten.  Why ever
should you think so, Mr. David?"

"Because Bartley here--however, I'm sorry I spoke,
since 'tis as 'tis."

"Not often you say more than be needed in words,"
remarked Mr. Crocker.  But he spoke mechanically.
His observation was entirely bestowed upon Margaret's
attitude towards Bowden.  That she liked him was
sufficiently clear.  Her face was the brighter for his
coming and she began to talk to him of certain interests
not familiar to Bartley.  Then she remembered herself
and turned to the younger man again.

"But what's this to you, Bartley?  Nought, I'm sure."

He had remarked that she addressed David by his
Christian name, but with the affix of ceremony.

"Anything that interests you interests me, Madge,"
he answered.  "But I'll leave you here and go
back-along through the woods."

"Better come on, now you're so near, and have tea
with us."

"What does David say?"

"Ban't my business," answered Mr. Bowden.

The men looked at each other straight in the eyes
and grasped the situation.  Then Bartley shook hands
with Margaret and left them.

Bowden made no comment on Mr. Crocker.  Indeed
he did not speak at all until they had almost reached
the homestead of Coombeshead.  Then, suddenly,
without preliminaries, he dragged a little square-nosed
spaniel puppy out of his pocket, where it had been lying
fast asleep.

"'Tis weaned and ready to begin learning," he said.
"Your brother Bart will soon teach it how to behave.
But mind you let him.  Don't you try to bring it up.
You'll only spoil it.  No woman I ever knowed, except
Rhoda, could train a dog."

The little thing licked Madge's face while she kissed
its nose.

"A dinky dear!  Thank you, thank you, Mr. David.
'Twill be a great treasure to me."

He set his teeth and asked for a privilege.  He had
evidently meant to accompany this gift with a petition.

"And if I may make so bold, I want for you to call
me 'David,' instead of 'Mr. David.'"

He looked at her almost sternly as he spoke.  His
voice was slow, deep and resonant.

"Of course--David."

He nodded and the shadow of a smile passed over his face.

"Thank you kindly," he said.

The pup occupied Margaret's attention and hid the
flush upon her cheek.  Then they entered together, to
find the rest of the Stanbury family sitting very
patiently waiting for their tea.

Bartholomew Stanbury and his son, Bartholomew,
were men of like instincts and outlook.  Coombeshead
Farm had but little land and the farmer was very poor;
but father and son only grumbled in the privacy of the
family circle, and presented a sturdy and indifferent
attitude to the world.  They were tall, well-made men,
flaxen of colour and scanty of hair.  Their eyes were
blue; their expressions were frank; their intelligence
was small and their physical courage great.  Save for
the difference represented by thirty years of time, father
and son could hardly have been more alike; but
Bartholomew Stanbury, though little more than fifty was
already very bald and round in the shoulders; while
"Bart," as the younger man was always called without
addition, stood straight, and though his face was
hairless, save for a thin moustache, a good sandy crop
covered his poll.

Both men rose as Madge and David appeared; both
wrinkled their narrow foreheads and both smiled with
precisely the same expression.  The Stanburys had set
their hopes on a possible match with the more prosperous
and powerful Bowdens.  Bartholomew, indeed, held
that his daughter's happiness must be assured if she
could win such a husband as David.

"Call your mother, Bart," said Mr. Stanbury, "and
we'll have tea.  Haven't seen 'e this longful time, David,
but I hope all's well to home and the rabbits running
heavy."

"Never better," answered young Bowden.

"As for us, can't say it's been all to the good,"
declared the farmer.  "Never knowed a fairer or hotter
summer, but in August the maggots got in the sheep's
backs something cruel.  Bart here was out after 'em
all his time--wasn't you, Bart?"

Bart had a habit of patting his chin and nodding
when he spoke.  He did so now.

"Yes, I was," said Bart.  "A terrible brave show of
maggots, sure enough."

Mrs. Stanbury appeared, and it might be seen that
while her son resembled his father, it was from the
mother that Margaret took her dark skin, dark hair,
dark eyes and wistful cast of countenance.  She was a
neat, small woman, and to-day, clad in her
plum-coloured Sunday gown with a silver watch-chain and a
touch of colour in her black cap, had no little air of
distinction about her.  Her face was long and rather
sad, but it had been beautiful before the mouth fell
somewhat.  Constance Stanbury was eight years older
than her husband and of a credulous nature, at once
vaguely poetical and definitely pessimistic.  She
depreciated everything that belonged to herself; even when
her children were praised to her face, she would
deprecate enthusiasm with silence or a shrug.  She believed
in mysteries, in voices that called by night, in dreams,
in premonitions, in the evil omen and the evil eye.  Her
brother had destroyed himself, and she was not the first
of her race who had suffered from a congenital melancholia.

"I hope your scalded hand be doing nicely, ma'am,"
said David, with the politeness of a lover to the mother
of his lass.

"Yes, thank you.  'Twas my own silly fault, trying
to do two things at once.  'Tis of no consequence."

"I'll pour out the tea," said Margaret.  "Then you
needn't take your hand out of the sling, mother."

Mrs. Stanbury's profound and pathetic distrust and
doubt that she could possess or achieve any good thing,
extended from the greatest to the least interest in life.
Now they ate and drank, and David ventured to praise
a fine cake of which he asked for a second slice.

"Glad you like it, I'm sure," she said, "but 'tisn't
much of a cake.  Too stoggy and I forgot the lemon."

"Never want to taste a better," declared David,
stoutly.  "Our cakes to Ditsworthy ban't a patch on it."

Mrs. Stanbury smiled faintly.

"Did your mother catch any good from the organy
tea?" she asked.

"Yes," answered David.  "A power of good it did
her, and I was specially to say she was greatly obliged
for it; and if by lucky chance you'd saved up a few
bunches more organies, she'd like 'em."

"Certainly, an' t'other herb to go along with it.  I
dried good store at the season of the year.  Some
people say the moon don't count in the matter; but
there's a right and wrong in such things, and the moon
did ought to be at the full without a doubt.  Who be
we to say that the wit of our grandfathers was of no
account?"

The herb "organies," or wild marjoram, was still
drunk as tea in Mrs. Stanbury's days, and decoctions
of it were widely used after local recipes for local ills.

"This here Chinese tea be a lot nicer to my taste, all
the same," said Bart.  "We have it Sundays, and I
wouldn't miss it for money."

"We drink it every day," said David.

"Ah! you rich folk can run to it, no doubt."

"But we don't brew so strong as what you do,"
added young Bowden.

"This is far too strong," declared Mrs. Stanbury,
instantly.  "It have stood over long, and the bitter be
drawed out."

"That's my fault for being late," answered
Margaret.  "No fault of yours, mother."

"I like the bitter," said Bart.  "'Tis pretty drinking
and proper to work on.  Cider isn't in it with cold tea."

Dusk gathered, and the firelight flickered in the little
whitewashed kitchen.  Then David mentioned a project
near his hopes.

"You thought you'd found a fox's earth 'pon
Coombeshead Tor," he said to Madge.

"I do think so; and if you've made an end of
eating, us'll go an' see afore 'tis dark."

"I've finished, and very much obliged, I'm sure."

David rose, picked up his felt hat and bade the
parent Stanburys "good-evening."  Then he and
Margaret went out together.  Bart prepared to accompany
them, when suddenly, as if shot, he sank down into
his chair again beside his father and put his hand to
his chin.

"Why for did 'e kick me, faither?" he asked when
the lovers had disappeared.

"You silly zany!  They don't want you!"

Bart grinned.

"He be after Madge--eh?"

"Wait till you'm daft for something in a petticoat
yourself, then you'll understand--eh, mother?"

"I suppose so, master.  We shall lose 'em both,
without a doubt; 'tis Nature," she said.

Meantime Margaret and David climbed into the
gloaming on Coombeshead Tor, and she talked to him,
and for the first time let him know how much the
wonderful granite masses of this hill meant to her.

"I was born on the farm, you know, and this place
was my playground ever since I could run alone.  A
very lonely little girl, because Bart was six year older
than me, and mother never had none but us.  I never
had no toys or nothing of that sort; but these gerstones
was my dollies, and I used to give 'em names, an' play
along with 'em, an' sleep among 'em when I was tired.
That fond of chattering I was, that I must be talking
if 'twas only to the stones!  Never was a cheel cut out
for minding babies like me; and yet I've not had a baby
to mind in my life!"

He listened and enjoyed her voice, but felt not much
emotion at what she told him.

"So these boulders were my babies; an' now this one
took a cold and wanted nursing; an' now this one was
tired and I had to sing it to sleep.  And I'd bring 'em
flowers an' teach 'em their lessons, an' put 'em to bed
an' all the rest of it.  They all had their names too, I
warrant you!"

"'Twas a very clever game to think upon," he said.

"Thicky stone, wi' grass on his head, was called
'Pilgarlic.'  His hair is green in summer and it turns
yellow, like 'tis now, when winter comes.  And yonder
rock--its real name is the 'Cuckoo stone,' because
cuckoo always sits there to cry when he comes to
Dennycoombe; that flat rock was 'Lame Annie'--a
poor friend of mine as couldn't walk."

David laughed.

"Fancy thinking such things all out of your own
head!" he exclaimed.  "Ah! here's the earth!  Yes,
that's a fox."

Presently he prepared to go homeward and she offered
to walk a little of the way by a sheep-track under
Eylesbarrow.

He agreed and thanked her; but when the turning
point was reached, David declared that it was now too
dark for Margaret to see her way home at all.  And
so it became necessary for him to turn again and walk
beside her until Coombeshead windows blinked through
the night.

Then he left her, and ventured to squeeze her hand
rather tightly as he did so.  He went home somewhat
slowly and suffered as many sensations of affection,
admiration and uneasiness as his nature would admit.  He
was deep in love and felt that possession of Margaret
Stanbury represented the highest good his life could
offer.





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.. _`THE VIRGIN AND THE DOGS`:

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   CHAPTER V


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   THE VIRGIN AND THE DOGS

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Rhoda Bowden loved the dogs, and her part in
the little commonwealth of Ditsworthy lay with
them.  Ten were kept, and money was made from
Elias Bowden's famous breed of spaniels.  To see
Rhoda, solemn and stately, with puppies squealing and
tumbling before her, or hanging on to her skirts, was a
familiar sight at the warren.

"It takes all sorts to make a world," said
Mrs. Bowden, "and I must allow my Rhoda never
neighboured kindly with the babbies--worse than useless with
'em; but let it be a litter, and she's all alive and clever
as need be."

Indeed, the girl had extraordinary skill in canine
affairs.  She loved and understood the dogs; and they
loved her.  By a sort of instinct she learned their needs
and aversions, and the brutes paid her with a blind
worship that woke as soon as their eyes opened on the
world.  Yelping and screaming, the puppies paddled
about after her; the old dogs walked by her side or
galloped before.  Sometimes she went to the warren
with them and watched them working.  After David
they were nearer to her heart than most of her own
species.  She seemed to fathom their particular natures
and read their individual characters with a closeness
more intense and a judgment more accurate than she
possessed for mankind.

Perhaps not only dogs woke this singular understanding
in her.  As a child she had chosen to be much
alone, and in silent reveries, before the ceaseless puzzles
of Ditsworthy, she had sat sequestered amid natural
things and watched the humble-bees in the thyme, the
field mice, the wheat-ears, and the hawks and lizards.
She had regarded all these lives as running parallel
with her own.  They were fellow mortals and no doubt
possessed their own interests, homes, anxieties and
affairs.  She had felt very friendly to them all and had
liked to suppose that they were happy and prosperous.
That they lived on each other did not puzzle her or pain
her.  It was so.  She herself--and David--lived by the
rabbits.  Many thousands of the busy brown people
passed away through the winter to make the prosperity
of Ditsworthy.  That was a part of the order of things,
and she accepted it with indifference.  Death, indeed,
she mourned instinctively, but she did not hate it.

She loved the night and often, from childhood, crept
forth alone into darkness or moonlight.

There was no humour in Rhoda.  She smiled if David
laughed, but even his weak sense of the laughter in life
exceeded hers by much, and she often failed after serious
search to see reason for his amusement.  Such laughter-lovers
as Bartley Crocker frankly puzzled her.  Indeed,
she felt a contempt for them.

Life had its own pet problems, and most of these she
shared with David; but of late every enigma had sunk
before a new and gigantic one.  David was in love
with a girl and certainly hoped to marry her.  Until
now the great and favourite mystery in Rhoda's life was
the meaning of the old sundial at Sheepstor church.
Above the porch may still be seen a venerable stone cut
to represent a human skull from whose eye-sockets and
bony jaws there spring fresh ears of wheat.  Crossbones
support the head of Death, and beneath them
stands a winged hour-glass with the words 'Mors Janua
Vitæ.'

This fragment had since her childhood been a fearful
joy to Rhoda.  It was still an object of attraction; but
now she had ceased to want an explanation and would
have refused to hear one: the mystery sufficed her.
David, too, had shared her emotions in the relic and had
often advanced theories to explain the eternal wonder of
the wheat springing from human bones.

And now all lesser things were fading before the
great pending change, and Rhoda went uneasy and not
wholly happy, like an animal that feels the approach
of storm.  Margaret Stanbury interested her
profoundly and there lurked no suspicion of jealousy in
Rhoda's attitude; but critical she was, and terribly
jealous for David.  Young Bowden's mother had been
much easier to satisfy than his sister.  With careful
and not unsympathetic mind Rhoda summed up Madge;
and the estimate, as was inevitable, found David's
sweetheart wanting.

The irony of chance had cast Madge into a house
childless save for her elder brother; and her instincts
had driven her to pet and nurse the boulders on
Coombeshead; while for Rhoda were babies and to spare
provided, but she ever evaded that uncongenial
employment and preferred a puppy to a child.

Rhoda held her own opinions concerning the opposite
sex, and they were contradictory.  A vague ideal of
man haunted her mind, but it was faint and indefinite.
She required some measure of special consideration for
women from men; but personally she could not be said
to offer any charm of womanhood in exchange.  She
expected attention of a sort, but she never acknowledged
it in a way to gladden a masculine heart.  And yet her
loveliness and her presence made men forget these facts.
They began by being enthusiastic and only cooled off
after a nearer approach had taught them her
limitations.  In the general opinion Rhoda "wanted
something" to complete her; but here and there were those
who did not mark this shadowy deficiency.  Mr. Simon
Snell regarded her as the most complete and admirable
woman he had ever seen; and David also knew of no
disability in his sister.  It is true that she differed
radically from Margaret; but that was not a fault in his
estimation.  He hoped that these two women would soon
share his home; he believed that each must win from
the other much worth the winning; and he held each
quite admirable, though with a different sort of perfection.

On a day at edge of winter, the mistress of the dogs
sat on a rock and watched her brothers Napoleon and
Wellington, and her sister Dorcas, engaged with a
ferret.  The long, pink-eyed, lemon-coloured brute had
a string tied round its neck and was then sent into the
burrows.  Anon the boys dug down where the string
indicated, and often found two or three palpitating
rabbits cornered at the end of a tunnel.  Then they
dragged them out and broke their necks.  At Rhoda's
feet four spaniel puppies fought with a rabbit-skin,
while she and their mother watched them
admiringly.

Towards this busy scene there came a woman, and
Rhoda, recognising Mrs. Stanbury, walked to meet her.

"Be your mother at home, my dear?" asked the
elder.  "'Twas ordained us should have a bit of a tell
about one or two things, and I said a while ago, when
us met Sunday week, that I'd pick a dry day and come
across."

"She's at home, and faither too.  We're making up
a big order for Birmingham and everybody's to work."

"Such a hive as you be here.  Bless them two boys,
how they do grow, to be sure!"

She pointed to the twins, Samson and Richard, who
had just joined their elder brothers.

Rhoda led the way and they approached the house.
White pigeons and blue circled round about the eaves,
and sweet peat smoke drifted from the chimney.  A
scrap of vegetable garden protected from the east by a
high wall, lay beside the dwelling, and even unexpected
flowers--gifts from the valleys--made shift to live and
blossom here.  Aubrietias struggled in the stones by
the garden path, and a few Michaelmas daisies, now in
the sere, also prospered there.  Sarah Bowden herself,
and only she, looked after the flowers.  They were a
sort of pleasure to her--especially the daffodils that
speared through the black earth and hung out their
orange and lemon and silver in spring.  Walls of piled
peat and stone surrounded the garden, and the grey
face of the Warren House opened upon it.  At present
the garden and porch were full of rabbit baskets packed
for market.  One could only see rows and rows of little
hind pads stained brown by the peat.

Mr. Bowden was doing figures at a high desk in the
corner of the kitchen, and his wife sat by the fire
mending clothes.  Rhoda left Mrs. Stanbury with them and
went out again to the boys.

Sarah Bowden had grown round-backed with crouching
over many babies.  She loved them and everything
to do with them.  Had Nature permitted it, she would
gladly have begun to bear another family.  Now she
picked up her skirt and dusted a chair.

"Don't, please, demean yourself on my account,"
said Constance Stanbury.  "I've come from master.
As you know, my dear, there's something in the wind,
and Bartholomew thought that perhaps you'd be so
kind as to spare the time and tell me a little how it
strikes you and what you feel about it."

"Fetch out elderberry wine and seedy cake," said
Elias.  "Mrs. Stanbury must have bit and sup.  She've
come a rough road."

"No, no.  No occasion, I'm sure.  Don't let me put
you to no trouble, Sarah."

"Very pleased," said Mrs. Bowden.  "'Tis about
David and your maiden you be here, of course?"

"So it is then.  My children ain't nothing out of
the common, you must know--haven't got more sense
than, please God, they should have.  But all the same
Margaret's a very good, fearless girl, and kind-hearted
you might say, even."

"Kind-hearted!  Why, her name's knowed all up the
countryside for kindness," said Mrs. Bowden.  "She's
a proper fairy, and we be very fond of her, ban't we,
Elias?"

"Yes," said Mr. Bowden.  "She's got every vartue
but cash."

"She'm to have twenty-five pounds on her wedding-day,
however.  Of course to people like you, with large
ideas about money, such a figure be very small; but her
father's put it by for her year after year, and she'll
have it."

"Well done, Stanbury!" said Mr. Bowden.

"They ban't tokened yet, and you might think us a
thought too pushing, which God forbid, I'm sure," said
Mrs. Stanbury, crumbling her cake and not eating it.
"But it's going to be.  I know the signs.  Your David's
set on her, and he's the sort who have their way.  That
man's face wouldn't take 'no' for an answer, if I may
say so.  Not that he'll get 'no' for an answer.  There's
that in my daughter's eyes when his name is named.--So
'tis just so good as done so far as they're concerned."

Mr. Bowden left his desk and came to the table.  He
poured out a glass of elderberry wine for himself and
drank it.

"Listen to me," he said.  "Wool is worth one shilling
and sevenpence a pound, and David be going to buy
fifty sheep.  You might ax how?  Well, his Uncle
Partridge--Sarah's late brother--left him five hundred
pound under his will; and when he marries and leaves
here, he'll spend a bit of that on sheep--old Dartmoor
crossed with Devon Long Wool.  'Tis a brave breed
and the wonderfulest wool as you'll handle in England.
The only care is not to breed out the Dartmoor
constitution.  I may tell you an average coat is twelve pounds
of wool.  So there you are."

Mr. Bowden instantly returned to his stool and his
ledger.  He appeared to regard his statement as strictly
relative, and, indeed, Mrs. Stanbury so understood it.
In their speech, as in their written communications, the
folk shear off every redundancy of expression until only
the bare bones of ideas remain--sometimes without even
necessary connecting links.

"We never doubted that he was snug.  But where
be he going, if I might ask?" said Mrs. Stanbury.

"Wait," answered Elias, twisting round but not
dismounting.  "We haven't come to that.  I should
mention ponies also.  There'll be ponies so well as
sheep, and in God's good time, when old Jonathan
Dawe's carried to the yard, David may become
Moorman of the quarter.  Nobody's better suited to the
work.  Well--ponies.--With ponies what live be all
profit, and what die be no loss.  In fact, if you find the
carpses soon enough, they be a gain too, for the dogs
eat 'em.  The chap as was up here afore me twenty-five
year ago, was a crooked rogue, and many a pony
did he shoot when they comed squealing to the doors in
snowy weather--for his dogs."

"David be going to build a house," said Mrs. Bowden.
"He couldn't abide living in no stuffy village
after the warren, so he's going to find a place--he've
got his eye on it a'ready, for that matter."

"Not too far away, I hope--if I may venture to say so."

"Not at all far, and closer to you than us.  He was
full of a place under Black Tor as he'd found by the
river.  There's a ruin of the 'old men' there, as only
wants building up to make a very vitty cottage."

"And you see no objection and think 'tis a good
enough match for your boy?"

"Just so," said Elias.

"Then I won't take up no more of your time, for I
mark 'tis a rabbit day with you."

"There's a thought comes over me, however," said
Sarah, "and 'tis about the young youth, Bartley
Crocker.  Mind, Constance, I'm not saying anything
against him.  But David's had the man on his mind a
bit of late, and perhaps you know why."

"No doubt I do," said Mrs. Stanbury.  "You see,
Nanny Crocker have took up with Madge lately, and I
believe she actually thinks as my girl be almost good
enough for her boy.  'Tis a great compliment, but
she've begun at the wrong end--curious such a clever
woman as her.  Margaret likes Bartley Crocker very
well, as all the maidens do for that matter.  A very
merry chap, but terrible lazy and terrible light-minded."

"You'll not often find a young man so solid and
steady as our David."

"Never seed the like, Sarah.  An old head on young
shoulders."

"I've said of him before, and I'll say of him again
that nought could blow David off his own bottom,"
declared Elias.  "As to t'other chap, he may have a
witty mother, but bottom--none; ballast--not a grain.
A very frothy, fair-weather fellow."

"What I say is, with so much open laughter there
must be hidden tears.  Nobody can always be in such
a good temper--like a schoolboy just runned out of
school," said Mrs. Stanbury.

"Why, 'tis so--ever grinning and gallivanting, that
chap," answered the man.  "David's built of different
clay, and though your daughter may not have much to
laugh at, for I'll grant he's a bit solemn, yet she'll have
nought to cry at; and that's a lot more to the point."

"Her nature do tend to laughter, however; I won't
hide that from you.  Madge will get a bit of fun out
of married life.  Her very love for David will make her
bright and merry as a dancing star."

"Why not?  Why not?" asked Mrs. Bowden.

"No reason," summed up the warrener.  "She'll
bring the flummery and David will bring the pudding.
Leave it so.  They must do the rest.  And as for
laughter, why, I can laugh in the right place myself, as
well as any man."

Mrs. Stanbury rose.

"I may tell master, then, that you'm both willing
and agreeable?"

"Certainly you may; and when things is forwarder,
David will put his prospects afore Bartholomew
Stanbury all straight and clear."

"'Tis a very great match for any daughter of mine,
and I hope she'll rise worthy of it."

"Don't be downcast, my dear," said Sarah.
"Margaret's as good as gold, and lucky the man that
gets her, though my own son."

"You speak too kind, I'm sure--both of 'e," declared
Mrs. Stanbury; then she departed and her neighbours
discussed her.

"Never seed the like of that woman for crying
'stinking fish,'" said Mr. Bowden; and his wife
admitted it.

"She do make the worst of herself and her belongings
without a doubt; but a good sort and better far
than the puffed-up people."

"Seems to go in fear whether she ought to be alive--eh?"

"Yes, you might say so."

Elias uttered one of his sudden chuckles.

"What be laughing at?" asked his wife.

"Why, I was thinking when that humble-minded
creature comes to die, she'll tell the angels when they
come to fetch her, that she really ban't anything like
good enough for the Upper Place!"





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.. _`THE HOST OF 'THE CORNER HOUSE'`:

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   CHAPTER VI


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   THE HOST OF 'THE CORNER HOUSE'

.. vspace:: 2

'The Corner House' stood just outside Sheepstor
village, and Mr. Reuben Shillabeer--a childless
widower--was host of it.  His wife had been dead ten
years, but he kept her memory green, and so much that
happened in the world appeared to remind him sorrowfully
of her, that the folk found him depressing.  Some
air of romance from the past hung about Mr. Shillabeer:
he had moved in sporting circles and been a
prize-fighter.  Though his own record in the ring was not
glorious and consisted of five battles and one victory,
yet Mr. Shillabeer had known as a friend and equal the
giants of the past.  In rare moments of cheerfulness he
would open his huge palm before the spectator and
explain how that hand had shaken the unconquerable
and terrible 'rights' of the three immortal 'Toms.'

"I've knowed all three--Tom Cribb, Tom Spring and
that wonder of the world, Tom Sayers," Mr. Shillabeer
would say; "all Champions of England and all very
friendly to me.  And Mr. Spring would have been my
second in my affair with Andy Davison, 'the Rooster,'
but he had other business on hand.  And now,"
Mr. Shillabeer would sum up mournfully, "now Cribb be in
his grave and Spring in his, and Sayers will fight no
more, though still the glory of the nation.  But they
always called me the 'Devonshire Dumpling'; and when
I had my one and only benefit in the Fives Court,
Mr. Spring showed, God bless him for it, though only a
fortnight after his first mill with Jack Langan."

In person the 'Devonshire Dumpling,' now a man of
sixty, was built on massive lines.  He stood six feet
two inches, and weighed sixteen stone.  His large
heavy-jowled face was mild and melancholy; his eyes
were brown and calf-like.  One nostril had been split
and flattened in battle, and the symmetry of his
countenance was thereby spoiled.  He shaved clean, but
under his double chin there sprouted and spread a thick
fringe or mat of hair--foxy-grey and red mingled.
Tremendous shoulders and arms belonged to Mr. Shillabeer.
Sometimes he would perform feats of strength
for the pleasure of the bar, and he could always be
prevailed upon to discuss two subjects, now both
defunct: the prize-ring, and his wife.

Tom Sayers had recently fought John Heenan, and
the great records of the Ring were closed.  Jem Mace
was now champion, and his prowess perhaps revived the
moribund sport for a few years; but prize-fighting had
passed into the control of dishonest rascals and the
fighters were merely exploited by the lowest and most
ruffianly types of sporting men.  The Ring had perished
and many a straight, simple-hearted spirit of the
old school regretted the fact, even as Shillabeer did.  He
was not vain and never hesitated to give the true
reasons for his own undistinguished career.

There fell an evening in the bar of 'The Corner
House' when Mr. Shillabeer appeared in a temper
unusually brisk and genial.  He even cracked a massive
joke with Charles Moses, the shoemaker and vicar's
warden.  There were present also Simon Snell, David
Bowden from Ditsworthy, Ernest Maunder, the village
constable, and other persons.

Mr. Moses reproved a certain levity in the leviathan
host.

"What's come to you, 'Dumpling'?  A regular
three-year-old this evening.  But you'm not built for
it, my dear.  'Tis like an elephant from a doomshow
trying to play the monkey's tricks."

At this criticism Reuben Shillabeer instantly
subsided.  He drew beer for Bowden, cast David's three
halfpence into the till and turned to Mr. Moses.

"You're right.  'Tis for dapper, bird-like men--same
as you--to be light and pranksome.  I've marked
that you shoemakers do always take a hopeful view of
life.  Working in leather dries up the humours of the
body and makes all the organs brisk and quick about
their business, I believe.  Then, as vicar's warden, you
get religion in a way that's denied to us common men.
You're in that close touch with parson that good must
come of it."

"It does," admitted Mr. Moses.  "It surely does."

"You can see it in your face, Charles," asserted
Mr. Maunder.  "Some people might say you had a more
religious face than parson's self--his being so many
shades nearer plum-red."

"But it's not a fault in the man," argued Mr. Shillabeer.
"There's no John Barleycorn in the colour, only
nature in him.  Yet an unfortunate thing, and certainly
lessens his weight in the pulpit with strangers."

"I'm glad that you feel my face to be a good face,
Ernest Maunder," replied Mr. Moses.  "Only once
have I ever had my face thrown in my face, so to speak;
and that was by a holy man of all men.  In charity,
I've always supposed him short-sighted.  'Twas the
'revival' gentleman that put up with you, Shillabeer,
a few years agone, and preached in the open air, and
drawed a good few to hear him."

"A Wesleyan and a burning light and proud it
made me having him here," said the innkeeper.  "A
saintly soul the man had."

"Well, he met me as he was going to pitch one
Sunday morning--me in black, of course, and off to
church.  'Friend,' he said, 'be honest with yourself
and with me.  Are you saved?'  You could have
knocked me down with a feather, folks.  'Saved,' I said,
'saved!  *Me*!  Good God A'mighty, man,' I said,
'you'm talking to the vicar's warden!'  No doubt he
was shocked to think of what he had done; but he didn't
show it.  He went his way with never a word of apology
neither.  But a righteous creature."

"I quite agree.  I listened to him," said Mr. Snell.
"I wasn't saved afore; but I have been ever since."

A labourer laughed.

"You're safe enough, Simon.  It ban't in you to do
nothing wrong."

"I hope not, Timothy Mattacott, but I have my evil
thoughts with the worst among you," answered Snell.
"I often wish I had more money--and yet a well paid man."

"You leat chaps all get more than you're worth,"
said Bowden.  "Why, 'tis only when the snow-banks
choke the water that you have anything to do, save
walk about with your hands in your pockets and your
pipes in your teeth."

Mr. Snell had certain miles of Drake's historic
waterway under his control.  This aqueduct leads from the
upper channels of West Dart and winds onward and
downward to Plymouth.  Behind Lowery, Simon's home,
it passed, and for a space of two miles was in his care.
They argued now upon the extent and gravity of
Snell's task, and all agreed that he was fortunate.  Then
Mr. Maunder, returning to the point from which
conversation had started, bade Reuben explain his unusual
hilarity.

"Without a doubt you was above your nature when
us first came in, 'Dumpling'--as Moses here pointed
out.  And if any good fortune have fallen to you, I beg
you'll name it, for there's not a man in this bar but will
be glad to hear about it," declared the policeman.

"Hear, hear, Maunder!" said Mr. Moses; "your
good be our good, neighbour."

"Thank you kindly, souls.  'Twas nought, and yet
I won't say that.  A letter, in fact, from an old London
friend of mine.  A very onusual sort of man by the
name of Fogo.  I may have mentioned him when
telling about the old fights."

"Be it the gentleman you call 'Frosty-faced
Fogo'?" inquired Mattacott.

"The same," answered Reuben.  "'Frosty-faced
Fogo' is in Devonsheer--at Plymouth, if you'll believe
it.  There's a twenty-round spar between two boys
there, and Fogo, at the wish of a sporting blade in
London, who's backing one of 'em, be down to see the
lad through.  And what's made me so cheerful is just
this: that, for the sake of old times, 'Frosty-face' is
coming on here to put up with me for a week, or maybe
more.  You'll hear some wonders, I warn 'e.  That
man's knowed the cream of the P.R.s and pitched more
Rings, along with old Tom Oliver, the
Commissary-General, than any other living creature."

"My father must come down for to see him," said
David.  "There's nought rejoices him like valour, and
he wouldn't miss the sight of such a character for
money."

"All are welcome," declared Shillabeer with
restrained enthusiasm.  "I shall hope to have a sing-song
for Mr. Fogo one night.  And he'll tell you about
Bendigo, and Ben Gaunt, and Burke, 'the Deaf 'Un,'
and many of the great mills in the forties.  I was the
very daps of Ben Gaunt myself--though he stood half
an inch higher.  We was neither of us in the first rank
for science, but terrible strong and gluttons for
punishment.  Gaunt was Champion in his day, but never to be
named alongside Cribb or Dutch Sam or Crawley or
Jem Belcher."

"When's he to be here?" asked Mr. Maunder.  "I
feel almost as if such a man of war threatens to break
the peace by coming amongst us."

"You're a fool," answered David, bluntly.  "A man
like you, instead of being in such a mortal dread of
peace-breaking, ought to welcome the chance of it now
and again.  If I was a policeman, I should soon get
tired of just paddling up and down through Sheep's
Tor mud, week in, week out, and never have nought to
do but help a lame dog over a stile or tell some traveller
the way.  'Tis a tame and spiritless life."

"The tamer the better," declared Ernest Maunder,
frankly.  "I like it tame.  'Tis my business to
maintain law and order, and that I will do, Bowden.  And to
tell me I'm a fool is very disorderly in you, as well you
know.  I may have my faults, but a fool I'm not, as
this bar will bear me out."

"I merely say," returned David, "that if I was a
peeler, I should want to earn my money, and have a
dash at life, and make a stir, if 'twas only against
poachers here and there."

"Shows how little you know about it," answered
Maunder.  He was a placid, straw-coloured man, with
an official mind.  "You say 'poachers.'  Well, poachers
ban't my business.  Poachers come under a different
law, and unless I have the office from headquarters to
set out against 'em to the neglect of my beat, I can't do
it.  I'm part of a machine, and if I got running about
as you say, I should throw the machine out of order."

"What for do you want to speak to the man like
that?" asked Mattacott, who was the policeman's
friend.  "You Bowdens all think yourselves so much
above the common people--God knows why for.  One
would guess you was spoiling for a fight yourself.
Well, I daresay, the 'Dumpling' here could find
somebody at your own weight as wouldn't fear a set to with
you."

"Why not you?" said Bowden.  "When you like, Mattacott."

"What a fiery twoad 'tis!  Why, you'm a stone
heavier than me, and years younger."

Mr. Shillabeer regarded David with some professional
interest.

"You'm a nice built chap, but just of that awkward
weight 'twixt light and middle.  In the old days I
knowed some of the best bruisers you could wish to see
were the same; but 'twas always terrible difficult to get
'em a job, because they was thought too light for the
heavies and too heavy for the lights.  But Dutch Sam
in his day, and Tom Sayers in his, showed how
eleven-stone men, and even ten-stone men, can hit as hard as
anything with a fist.  As for you, Bowden, you've a bit
of the fighting cut--inclined to be snake-headed, though
your forehead don't slope enough.  But you're a
thought old now."

"Not that I want to fight any man without a cause,"
said David.  "If there's a reason, I'd fight anything
on two legs--light or heavy--but not for fun.  And I
hope you men--Mattacott and Ernest Maunder--haven't
took offence where none was meant."

"Certainly not," declared Mr. Maunder.  "I'll take
anything afore I take offence.  'Tis my place to keep
the peace, and if I don't set an example of it, who
should?  Twice only in my life have I drawed my
truncheon in the name of the Queen, and I hope I'll
never have no call to do it thrice.  Have a drink, David;
then I must be going."

But Bowden declined with thanks, and the company
soon separated.

When he was alone, fired by the prospect of seeing
his old friend once more, Reuben Shillabeer took a damp
towel and, visiting each in turn, polished up the
portraits of a dozen famous pugilists which hung round
the walls of his bar.  Where sporting prints of
race-horses and fox-hunting are generally to be met with,
Mr. Shillabeer had a circle of prize-fighters; and now
he rubbed the yellow stains of smoke off the glasses
that covered them, so that the stern, but generally open
and often handsome countenances of the fighting giants
looked forth from their grimy frames.  Before a print
of the famous 'Tipton Slasher' Mr. Shillabeer paused,
and thoughtfully stroked his battered nose.

"Ah, Bill Perry," he said, "if I'd been ten year
younger--"

Then having extinguished two oil lamps, the old man
retired and left his gallery of the great in darkness.





.. vspace:: 4

.. _`DENNYCOOMBE WOOD`:

.. class:: center large bold

   CHAPTER VII


.. class:: center medium bold

   DENNYCOOMBE WOOD

.. vspace:: 2

Of dingles under Dartmoor there is none so fair as
Dennycoombe.  Here wood and water, rock and
heath, wide spaces and sweet glens mingle together, and
make a theatre large enough for the pageant of the
seasons, a haunt small enough to be loved as a personal
possession and abiding treasure.  Dennycoombe tends
upward to Coombeshead, and the little grey farmhouse
of Bartholomew Stanbury dominates the scene, and
stands near the apex of the valley.  At this hour, after
noon in early December, a croft or two made light on
the hill, where green of turnips and glaucous green of
swedes ran parallel, and black tilled earth also broke
the medley of the waste.  Then winked out the farm
from twin dormer windows--a thing of moorstone
colour, yet splashed as to the lintel-post with raw
whitewash, so that it should be seen in the darkness of
moonless nights.  Beneath, through a bottom of willow
scrub, furze and stunted oak, the Dennycoombe stream
tumbled and rattled to join Meavy far below.  A single
'clapper' of granite spanned this brook for
foot-passengers; while above it, under heathery banks, the
rivulet crossed a cart-track at right angles, and
widened there to make a ford.

Over these small waters at this hour came Margaret
from her home; and though the day lacked for
sunshine, her heart was full of it, because now she went to
meet the man she loved best on earth, at a place she
loved best of earth.

There are words that light a lamp in the heart and
wake in the mind images of good things, with all the
colour and life, the loveliness and harmony proper to
them.  There are syllables whose chance utterance
unlocks all the gates of the mind; floods the spirit with
radiance; lifts to delight, if the fair thought belongs as
much to the future as the past; but throbs chastened
through the soul if the fragrant memory is appropriated
by the past alone.

Dennycoombe Wood meant much to this woman.  In
spring and summer, in autumn and winter, she knew it
and cherished it always.  And now she saw it with the
larches feathering to a still grey sky, their crests of
pale amber spread transparently upon the darker heart
of the underwood beneath them.  Grey through the last
of the foliage thrust up a network of bough and branch;
here a cluster of blue-green firs melted together and
massed upon the forest; here dark green pines, straight-limbed,
lifted their pinnacles all fringed with russet
cones.  A haze of the larch needles still aloft washed the
whole wood delicately and shone against the inner gloom
of it.  Round the spinney edge stood beeches with boles
of mottled silver, and their remaining foliage set the
faint gold of the forest in a frame of copper.  Lower
still, under broken banks, lay the auburn brake; and
great stones, in the glory of their mosses, glimmered
like giant emeralds out of the red water-logged tangle
of the fern.  The hill fell steeply beneath Dennycoombe
Wood, and there were spaces of grass and many little
blunt whitethorns, now naked, that spattered the slope
with patches of cobweb grey.

All was cast together in the grand manner of a forest
edge; and all was kneaded through by the still, gentle
light of a sunless and windless December hour before
dusk.  The place of the sun, indeed, appeared behind
a shield of pearl that floated westerly and sank upon
the sky; but light remained clear and colourless; tender,
translucent grey swept the firmament, and scarcely a
darker detail of cloud floated upon it.  The day was a
tranquillity between two storms, of which one had died
at dawn and the other was to waken after midnight.

Nothing had influenced Margaret towards Elias
Bowden's eldest son but her own heart.  She had known
now for some time that two men loved her, and she felt
a certain affection for both; but the regard for Bartley
was built on their likeness in temper; the love for David
arose out of their differences.  Hartley's weakness,
which in some measure was her own, attracted Madge
towards him; but David's strength--a quality quite
different to any that she possessed--drew her forcibly
into his arms.  When she found that he loved her, the
other man suffered a change and receded into a region
somewhat vague and shadowy.  Friendly she felt to
Bartley Crocker and eager to serve him and advance
his welfare, but the old dreams were dead.  She had
thought of him as a husband, in the secret places of her
heart, long before he thought of her--or of anybody--as
a wife; but now that his mind was seriously turned
in her direction and he began to long for her, the time
was past and his sun had set upon a twilight of
steadfast friendship that could never waken again into any
warmer emotion.  Madge liked him, and the years to
come showed how much; but she never loved him.

The tryst was a great stone under a holly tree, and
through the stillness, over a sodden mat of fallen leaves,
she came and found David waiting.  He had not heard
her, and he did not see her, for his back was turned and
he sat on the stone, his chin in his hands, very deep in
thought.  His hat was off and his hair was brushed up
on end.  He wore velveteens and gaiters, and had made
some additions to his usual week-day toilet in the shape
of a collar, a tie and a white linen shirt.  The collar
appeared too tight and once he tugged at it and
strained his neck.  For a little while Margaret watched
him, then she came forward and stood by him and put
out her hand.  He jumped up, hot and red; then, for
a long time, he shook the small hand extended to him.
As he did so, she blushed and felt an inclination to weep.

His slow voice steadied her emotion and calmed them
both.

"Sit here, if not too hard for 'e.  'Tis dry fern.  I
found it a bit ago."

She mounted the stone with help from his arm.  Then
he sat beside her.

"I think it terrible kind of you to be here," he said.
"To come here for to listen to a great gawkim like me."

"You're not a gawkim.  You're the wittiest chap
this side of the Moor.  Leastways my father always
says so."

"Very kind of him.  There's no man I'd sooner
please.  Well--well--'tis a thing easily said and
yet--  However, all the same, I wouldn't say it to-day if I
hadn't axed you to come here, for I had a fore-token
against it yesterday."

"Whatever do you mean?"

"A white rabbit.  You'll laugh, but your mother
wouldn't.  And my father have a great feeling against
'em, though he can't explain it, and grows vexed if
anybody says anything.  Not on the warren; but over
on the errish[#] down to Yellowmead I seed it."

.. vspace:: 2

.. class:: noindent small

[#] *Errish* = Stubble.

.. vspace:: 2

"I care nothing for that--at least--"  She stopped
doubtfully.

"If you don't care, more won't I.  Then here goes.
Can you hear it?  Can a rare maiden like you let a
rough chap like me offer to marry her?  For that's
what I've axed you to come here about."

She was silent and he spoke again.

"Could you?  There's things in my favour as well
as things against me."

"There's nothing, nothing against you, David."

"Then you'll take me!"

"And proud and happy to."

"Lord!  How easy after all," he said--more to
himself than to her.  "And here I've been stewing over
this job for two months, and sleeping ill of nights, and
fretting.  Yet, you see, 'twas the work of a moment.
Thank you, thank you very much indeed for marrying
me, Madge.  I'll make you the best husband I know
how.  I must tell you all about the plans I've built up
in hope you would say 'yes'--hundreds of 'em.  And
you'll have to help now."

He was amazingly collected and calm.  He told her
how he proposed a house for them far from other
dwellings, where they would have peace from the people and
privacy and silence.  He had found such a place on the
upper waters of Meavy, where stood a ruin that might
easily be restored and made a snug and comfortable
home.  He meant to breed ponies and sheep.  The
suggestion was that Rhoda joined them and looked after
the dogs.  He could hardly get on without her, and
she would certainly be very miserable away from him.

"She reckons that no woman living be good enough
for you," said Margaret, faintly.  Her voice showed
her heart was hungry, empty.  She had expected a meal
and it was withheld.

David laughed.

"To be frank, she do."

"And no man living good enough for herself."

"As to that, the right one will come along in time.
She shan't marry none but the best.  She likes you
well, Madge, as well as she may; but she hasn't got hold
of the idea of me married yet.  Now she'll jolly soon
have to do it.  There's five hundred pound has come
to me, you must know, under the will of my mother's
brother who died back-along.  It's goodied a bit since
and us'll have some sheep and you'll have a nice little
lot of poultry.  And Sir Guy will rebuild the ruin.  It is
all his ground.  And now you've said 'yes,' I shall ask
'em to begin.  When can you come to see the place?"

"So soon as ever you like," she said.  "I hope 'tisn't
too far away from everybody."

"Not so far as I could wish; but far enough.  The
ruins be old miners' works; and we'll have a shippen
and a dog-kennel and all complete, I promise you."

For a long time he talked of his hopes and plans, but
she came not directly into them.  It seemed that her
help was hardly vital to the enterprise.  At last she
brought the matter back to the present; and she spoke
in tones that might have touched the stone she sat on.

"I'll try so hard to make you a good wife, David."

He started and became dimly conscious of the
moment and the mighty thing that had happened to
him in it.

"I know that right well.  Too good for me every
way.  Too gentle and soft and beautiful.  I'll be
tremendous proud of you, Madge.  And I'll do my
share, and work early and late for you, and lay by for
you, and lift you up, perhaps, in ten years or so to have
a servant of your own, and a horse and trap of your
own, and everything you can wish."

"I wish for you to love me always, always,
always--nothing but that."

"And so I shall, and the best love be what swells the
balance at the bank quickest.  Now I know you can
take me, I feel as if I should like to get up off this rock
this instant moment and go away and begin working
like a team of horses for 'e."

"Don't go away yet.  Think what this is to me--so
much, much more than it can be to you."

"'Tis everything in the world to me," he said
solemnly.  "You little know how you've been on my
mind.  My folk will tell you now, no doubt, how it has
been with me.  That glowering and glumping I've
been--not a word to throw at man or woman.  But they'll
see a different chap to-night!"

She put out her hand timidly.  Would he never touch
her?  Was she never to put her face against his?

Love reigned in his plans, and the little things that he
had thought of surprised her; but there came no arm
round her, no fierce caress, no hot storm of kisses.  He
talked hopefully--even joyfully, with his eyes upon her
face; but there was no sex-light in their brightness;
while hers were dreamy with love and dim with unshed
tears.

"I must get back-along with the great news now,"
he said.  "And it will be well if we're moving.  Coarse
weather's driving up again.  I'll see you home first."

"You'll come in and tell mother?"

"Must I?"

"Yes," she answered.  "You've got to obey me now,
you dear David.  I wish it."

"Then off we go."

He helped her down like a stranger and talked of
crops as they returned to Coombeshead.  Rhoda was
better at figures than he was.  He hoped that Margaret
was good at figures.  She said waywardly that she was
not, and he regretted it but felt sure that she would
soon learn.

A rain-laden dusk descended over Eylesbarrow as
they returned, and through, the gloaming the white lintel
and door-posts of the farm stared like an eye.

Silence fell between them, and during its progress
some touch of nature woke in David.  After they had
crossed the stream and reached a rush-clad shed where
a cart stood, he spoke in a voice grown muddy and
gruff.

"Come in here a minute," he said, "afore we go on,
Madge.  I want--I want--"

She turned and they disappeared.

"I want to kiss you," he said.

A fearful clatter ascended from long-legged fowls
roosting on the cart, for their repose was roughly
broken.  They clucked and cried until Mrs. Stanbury,
supposing a fox had descended from the lulls, hastened
out to frighten it away.

Then she met Margaret and David--shame-faced, joyous.

"We'm tokened, mother!" cried the man; "and
please God, I'll be a dutiful second son to you."

"Thank you for that," she said.  "Give you joy,
I'm sure.  And I'll be proud to have you for a son; and
may you never repent your bargain."

She put up her face to his and kissed him; and since
he still held Madge by the waist, all three were thus,
for an instant, united in a triple caress.

By chance some moments of happy magic in the sky
smiled upon this incident, for the grey west broke at its
heart above the horizon and little orange feathers of
light flashed suddenly along the upper chambers of the
air.  The Hesperides--daughters of sunset--danced
golden-footed on the threshold of evening, and their
glimmering skirts swept earth also, set radiance upon
Eylesbarrow and hung like a beacon of fire against the
deep storm-purple of the east.  Thrice this glory waxed
and waned; then all light vanished; the colour song
was sung; the day died.

Not observing these gracious phenomena upon
Night's fringes, the mother, the man and his maiden
went in together.





.. vspace:: 4

.. _`IN PIXIES' HOUSE`:

.. class:: center large bold

   CHAPTER VIII


.. class:: center medium bold

   IN PIXIES' HOUSE

.. vspace:: 2

Various interests are served by the great bulk of
Sheep's Tor.  Not only the colt and the coney
prosper here and the vixen finds a place for her cubs,
but man also avails himself of the hill in a manner little
to be guessed.  Battleships, swinging far off to adjust
their compasses in Plymouth Sound, use the remote,
ragged crown of the tor as a fixed point for determining
the accuracy of their instruments; while once, if
oral tradition may be respected, the stony bosom of the
giant offered hiding in time of stress to a scion of the
old Elford clan, lords of the demesne in Stuart days.
This king's man, flying for his life from the soldiers
of Cromwell, hid himself in a familiar nook; and we may
suppose the 'foreigners' tramped Sheep's Tor in vain,
and perhaps stamped iron-shod over the rocks under
which he lay safe hidden.  To-day this cleft, called the
Pixies' House, can still be entered.  It is of a size
sufficient to contain two adults in close juxtaposition; but
an inner chamber has fallen, and certain drawings, with
which it was alleged the concealed fugitive occupied his
leisure, have, if ever they existed, vanished away.

In the very bosom of the great south-facing rocky
slope of Sheep's Tor where the lichen-coated slabs and
boulders are flung together in magnificent confusion,
there may be found one narrow cleft, above which a
mass of granite has been split perpendicularly.  Chaos
of stone spilled here lies all about, and numberless small
crannies and chambers abound; but the rift alone marks
any possible place of concealment for creature larger
than dog or fox; and beneath it, invisible and unguessed,
lies the Pixies' House, one of the local sanctities and a
haunt of the little people.

Here, two days after Margaret had accepted David
Bowden, Bartley Crocker was walking with a gun.  His
goal lay up the valley and he hoped to shoot some snipe;
but circumstances quite altered his intentions.

The day was one of elemental unrest and the clouds
rolled tumultuous.  They unrolled great planes of
shifting gloom and splendour, of accidents of vapour
that concealed and of light that illumined.  But at
mid-day a mighty shadow ascended against the wind
and thunder rumbled along the edges of the Moor.  The
storm-centre spun about a mile off, then it drove in
chariots of darkness over Sheep's Tor.

At this moment Bartley remembered the Pixies'
House, and, hastening sure-footed over the wild
concourse of stones that extended around it, he approached
the crevice where it lay.

A woman suddenly caught his eye, and as the breaking
storm now promised to be terrific, he called to her
and, turning back, joined her.

It proved to be Rhoda Bowden on her way home,
and she accepted Bartley's offer of shelter.

"Something pretty bad's coming," she said.  "Be
the Pixies' House large enough for the both of us?
I've got a bit of news you'll be surprised to hear."

"Full large enough--quick--quick--down through
there--let me have your hand."

But she accepted no help and soon crawled through
the aperture into shelter.  Then Bartley, taking two
caps off the nipples of his gun, thrust it in after Rhoda
and followed swiftly to avoid the onset of the storm.

They had acted with utmost speed and Rhoda was
now aghast to find the exceeding propinquity of
Mr. Crocker.  He could hardly have been closer.  She
moved uneasily.  It occurred to her that he ought to
have surrendered the Pixies' House to her and himself
found shelter elsewhere.  The idea, however, had not
struck him.

"Can't you make a little more room?" she asked,
breathing rather hard.

"I wish I could, but it's impossible.  I forgot you
were such a jolly big girl," he answered.

She set her teeth and waited for the outer darkness
to lighten.  The thunder roared and exploded in a
rattle overhead; they heard the hiss and hurtle of the
ice and water; while at intervals the entrance of their
shelter was splashed along its rough edges with glare
of lightning.

"Better here than outside," said Bartley; but Rhoda
began to doubt it.  It seemed to her that he came
nearer and nearer.  At last she asked him to get out
and let her pass.

"Can't stand this no more," she said, "I'm being
choked.  I'd sooner suffer the storm than this."

"You don't want to go out, surely!"

"Yes, I do."

The lightning showed him her face very close to his,
and he saw her round cheek, lovely ear and bright, hard
eyes with a wild look in them, like something caught in
a trap.  The storm shouted to the hills and cried
savagely against the granite precipices; it leapt over the
open heaths and roared into the coombes and valleys.
The waste was all a dancing whiteness of hail, jewelled
ever and anon by the lightning.

Already the heart of conflict had passed and it grew
lighter to rearward.

"You must wait a bit yet.  Your people would never
forgive me if I let you go into this."

She pushed forward, then strained back horrified,
for she had accidentally pressed his face with her cheek.
But Bartley was not built to stand that soft, firm
appulse of woman's flesh without immediate ignition.

"I must have one if I swing for it!" he said.  Then
he put his arms round her and kissed her.

He expected an explosion and found himself not
disappointed.  The thunder-storm outside was mild to the
woman-storm within when Crocker thrust his caress
upon this girl.  She started back as though he had
stamped a red-hot iron upon her face.

"You loathsome, godless wretch!" she shrieked out,
and her voice broke the rocky bounds of earth and
leapt into the storm.  Thence frantically she followed
it and trampled heavily on the amorous sportsman as
she did so.

"I could tear the skin off my face!" she cried; and
her words came deep and fierce and shuddering.  "You
coward!  I'd sooner be struck by the lightning than
have suffered it!"

She departed, running like a frightened child, and
he crawled out after her and rubbed his bruised shins.
Her nailed shoe had stamped on his hand, torn it and
made it bleed; but his wound was light to hers.  He
was back in the shelter presently, laughing and smoking
his pipe while the weather cleared; but she sobbed and
panted homeward under the sob and pant of the storm.
She felt unclean; every instinct of her nature rebelled
against this touch of male lips.  She magnified the
caress into a mountain of offence; she held up her cheek
that the rain which followed the hail might wash it and
purge it from this man's hateful blandishment.  Passion
got hold of her violated soul, and she would gladly
have called down fire from the cloud upon Crocker.

He, meantime, waited a while, and wondered what
thing it was she had meant to tell him.  As yet none at
Sheepstor knew of Margaret's engagement, the great
subject in Rhoda's mind; but though he did not learn
it from her, chance and his own act put the information
into Bartley's hand within that hour.  This reverse
with David's sister altered his intentions and turned
him towards another woman.  He suddenly longed for
a sight of Margaret, and, abandoning the thought of
snipe, decided to go to Coombeshead and see her
instantly.  A still larger resolve lurked behind.  Now
bright weather-gleams of blue and silver opened their
eyes to windward; the storm had gathered up its skirts
of rack and flame into the central moor; a thousand
gurgling rivulets leapt over the grass; the hail melted;
the ponies turned head to wind again and went on
grazing, while their wet sides steamed in a weak tremor of
sunlight.

Bartley stepped forth, shouldered his gun and
whistled to his dog, which had taken refuge near at
hand and gone to sleep in a hole.  Then he started
over the Moor to his destination and his great deed.

Margaret was at home and came out to see him.
His greeting amazed her, for it differed by much from
what she expected.  The girl doubted not that her
friend had heard the news and had come to offer his
congratulations; but he had not heard it, and he came
to offer himself.

Mr. Crocker had toyed with this achievement for six
weeks; and now the storm, and Rhoda, and certain
uneasiness begot of Rhoda, and a general vague desire
for something feminine as different as possible from
Rhoda, together with other emotions and sensations too
numerous to define, all affirmed his resolve.

He wasted no time, for he was full of desire for
Madge and honestly believed that she cared for him.
And in answer to his abrupt but impassioned plea, she
assured him that she did care for him and that his
welfare was no small thing to her.

"We've known each other ever since we was dinky
boy and girl to infant school together; and I, with my
managing ways, would oft blow your li'l nubby nose
when it wanted it," she said, looking at him with shining
eyes and in a mood emotional.  "But with my David--yes,
my David he is--well, 'twas love, dear Bartley, and
we'm tokened.  And I'm glad 'twas left for me to tell
you, though 'tis terrible strange it should fall out at
such a minute as this."

He stared and stammered and wished her joy.  He
was disappointed, but not by any means crushed to the
earth.  It only occurred to him that no other woman's
lips would that day destroy the flavour of Rhoda
Bowden's.

"Then what becomes of me?" he said; but not as
though there were no answer to the question.

"You'll get a better far," she replied.

"But you--you to go into that silent family--all so
stern and proper.  Think twice afore 'tis too late,
Madge."

"I love them all," she answered.  "But silent they
surely are.  I took my dinner along with them yesterday
and, if it hadn't been for Dorcas and me, they'd
have gone without a word spoken from grace afore meat
to thanksgiving after."

"Dorcas is cheerful enough."

"I like her--best after David," said Madge, a little
nervously, as though she talked treason.

Then Mr. Crocker told of the storm and his
companion in the Pixies' House.

"Like a damned fool, just because her cheek
happened to touch mine, I kissed her."

"Bartley!"

"Well you may stare.  Lord knows what come over
me to do it; but I got hell for my fun, and so like as
not your David will have a bit more to say later on.
Him and Rhoda are the wide world to each other.  I
suppose you know that?"

Margaret's face clouded, but she was loyal.

"Rhoda's a splendid woman, Bartley."

"She is.  Now that you won't take me, I believe I
shall have a dash at her.  But 'twill be a long year
afore she forgives this day's work."

He left Margaret soon afterwards and his depression
of spirit steadily gained upon him as he returned home.
At 'The Corner House' he stopped and drank a while;
then he got back to his mother and took a gloomy
pleasure in shocking her pride with his news.

Nanny Crocker was sewing at the kitchen table when
he returned, and his Aunt Susan brought a belated meal
to him hot from the oven.

He looked at the food and then spoke.

"Can't eat," he said.  "I've had a full meal to-day
a'ready."

"Was you in the storm?" asked Susan.  "In the
midst of all that awful lightning, with thunder-planets
falling and a noise in the elements like the trump of
Doom.--If the cat haven't chatted in the pigs' house!
Her always brings six, so no doubt that's the number."

"I've just come from asking Margaret Stanbury to
marry me," said Bartley, showing no interest in the
kittens.  "That's what I meant when I said I've had a
full meal."

"At last!" cried Nanny Crocker.  "Well, well,
well--and what a day to choose, my dear!  God bless
you both, I'm sure.  She's a lucky girl and we must set
to work now to teach her more than she's been able to
learn at home.  Rise up and kiss me, my son."

Bartley obeyed with a sort of sardonic smile under
his skin.  His mother kissed him fervently and sighed.

"You didn't ask twice, I lay," said Susan.

"No," he answered, "I didn't."

"'Tis a terrible pity her mother's such a chuckle-headed,
timid creature," declared Nanny.  "Not a word
against her after to-day, of course.  But I'm sorry she
haven't got larger intellects and don't believe a little
less."

"When is it to be, Bartley?" asked his aunt.
"You're not the sort to wait long, I reckon."

"It isn't to be," he answered.  "You two silly old
souls run on so, and can't imagine any woman turning
up her nose at me.  But unfortunately other people
haven't such a good opinion."

"Won't have you!" gasped his parent.  "A
Stanbury won't take a Crocker!"

"Madge Stanbury won't take this Crocker--which
is all that matters."

"The chit!" said Nanny.

"The ninnyhammer!" cried Aunt Susan.

"The sensible girl," answered Bartley.  "She's
found somebody better--a man as stands to work and
will make a finer fashion of husband than ever I should."

"How you can sit there and talk in that mean spirit
passes me!" answered his mother.  "Have a greater
respect for yourself, and let that girl see to her dying
day what a fool she's been."

"Who is it?  I suppose you got that much out of
her?" asked Bartley's aunt.

"It's David Bowden from Ditsworthy, and they've
been tokened two days, so, you see, I was a bit behind
the fair."

"Nobody would blame her for changing her mind
yet now you've offered yourself," declared Susan.

"She's no wish to change.  She likes me very well as
a friend--always have since she used to blow my nose
for me in infant school--but she likes him a long sight
better--well enough to wed."

"She'll change yet--mark me," foretold his aunt.

"My son have got his self-respect, I believe, Susan,
and, change or not change, he'll never give her another
chance, I should hope.  'Tis done, and to her dying
day she'll rue it--as she well deserves.  To put that
rough rabbit-catcher afore--however, I thank God she
did--I thank God she did; and I shall thank Him in
person on my knees this night.  Never, never was such
an empty giglet wench heard of.  A merciful escape
without a doubt; for a fool only breeds fools."

"I may be her brother-in-law if I can't be her
husband," said Bartley; and then he departed and left
the indignant and wounded old women to wonder what
he might mean.





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.. _`THE DOGS OF WAR`:

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   CHAPTER IX


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   THE DOGS OF WAR

.. vspace:: 2

The renowned Mr. Fogo, with the modesty of a
man really great, arrived at Sheepstor in a
butcher's trap from Plymouth.  He brought a box of
humble dimensions, studded with brass nails; while for
the rest, a very large umbrella, two walking-sticks and
a cape of London pattern completed his outfit.

Reuben Shillabeer walked as far as Sheep's Tor
Bridge, and the two notable men met there and shook
hands before numerous admiring spectators.  Then the
sporting butcher, who had driven Mr. Fogo from
Plymouth, proceeded to Reuben's familiar inn, while
'Frosty-face' and the 'Dumpling' made triumphal
entry into the village together.  The contrast between
them could scarcely have been more abrupt.  Shillabeer
ambled with immense strides and heaving shoulders, like
a bear on its hind legs, and his great, gentle face, set
in its tawny fringe of hair, smiled out upon the world
with unusual animation as he shortened his gait, crooked
his knees somewhat and gave his arm to his friend.
The notable Fogo was a good foot shorter than Reuben--a
thin, brisk, clean-shaved man with eyes like a hawk,
under very heavy brows, now quite white.  His nose
was sharp and thin; his mouth, a slit; his hair was still
thick and white as snow.  Fogo numbered seventy
years, yet bore himself as straight and brisk as a youth.
He was agile, thin and wiry; but a certain asperity of
countenance, which had won him his nickname in the
past, was now smoothed away by the modelling of time,
and Mr. Fogo's face, though keen, might be called
amiable; though exceedingly wide-awake, revealed no
acerbity of expression.  His glance took in the situation
swiftly.

"Crikey!" he said.  "And you live here among all
these trees and mountains and rocks!  But I daresay,
now, there's pretty fishing in this river."

"Trout--nought else.  And 'tisn't the season for
'em.  But a fisherman still, I see--eh?  What a man!
Not a day older, I warrant.  And how did they serve
you at Plymouth?"

"I've no fault to find with Plymouth," said
Mr. Fogo.  "They done me a treat there, and we had a
pretty sporting house and a nice set-to in the new way
with the mufflers.  I got my boy through, but he'd have
lost if I hadn't been there.  And now let me cast my
eye over you, 'Dumpling.'  The same man; but gone
in the hams, I see.  You big 'uns--'tis always that way.
Your frames can't carry the load of fat.  And so your
lady has passed away to a better land.  But that's old
history."

"No, it isn't, Fogo," declared Mr. Shillabeer, his
animation perishing.  "'Twill never be old history so
long as I bide in the vale; and I hope you'll have a
good tell about her many a time afore you leave me.
But not to-day.  We'll talk about her in private--you
and me--over a drop of something special."

"'Twas the weather killed her, I doubt," hazarded
Mr. Fogo.  "You couldn't expect a London woman to
stand so much fresh air as you've got down here.
Why--Good Lord!--you breathe nought with a smell to it
from year to year!  There's not a homely whiff of
liquor or fried fish strikes the nose--not so much as the
pleasant odour of brewing, or them smells that touch
the beak Covent Garden way.  Nought for miles and
miles--unless it's pigs; and that I don't like, and never
shall."

"Our air will make you terrible hungry, however,"
promised Mr. Shillabeer; "and by the same token
we'd better get on our way, for there's a goose with
apple sauce and some pretty stuffing to welcome you."

That evening a very large gathering assembled in
the public bar of 'The Corner House,' and the men of
Standing were introduced each in turn to Mr. Fogo.
He had changed his attire and produced from the box
of many nails a rusty brown coat, a shirt with a frill
and black knee-breeches.  Thus attired, he suggested
some pettifogging attorney from the beginning of the
century.  He sat by the fire, smoked a clay and
conducted himself with the utmost affability.  He was, in
fact, no greater than common men while ordinary
subjects were under discussion.  Only when the Prize Ring
began to be talked about, did the aquiline and historic
Fogo soar to his true altitudes and silence all listeners
before the torrent of his discourse.

The visitor drank gin and not much of that.  He was
somewhat silent at first until Reuben explained his
many-sided greatness; then, when the company a little
realised the man they had among them, he began to
talk.

"The Fancy always felt you was unlike the rest,"
said Shillabeer.  "Even the papers took you serious.
There was pugs and there was mugs; there was
good sportsmen and bad ones, and there were plenty
of all sorts else, but never more than one 'Frosty-face.'"

Mr. Fogo nodded.

"I can't deny it," he said.  "'Twas my all-roundness,
I believe.  Fight I couldn't--not being built on
the pattern of a fighting man, though the heart was in
me; but I had a slice over my share of wits, and I'd
forgot more about the P.R. than most people ever knew
before I was half a century old."

"You must understand," said Shillabeer to his guests,
"that Fogo always had letters stuck after his name,
for all the world like other learned men.  They was
complimentary and given to him by the sporting Press
of the kingdom."

"Quite true," said Fogo.  "I was D.C.G., which
stood for Deputy Commissary-General--the great Tom
Oliver of course being C.-G.  We had the handling of
the stakes and ropes of the P.R. from the time that
Oliver fought his last serious fight in 1821.  He's a
fruiterer and greengrocer now in Chelsea, and a year or
two older than me."

"Then you was--what was it--P.L.P.R.--eh?"
asked the 'Dumpling.'

"I was and still am," returned 'Frosty-face,'
proudly.  "P.L.P.R.--that's 'Poet Laureet of the
Prize Ring.'  And it may interest these gentlemen here
assembled to know that many and many a time my
poems about the great fights was printed in the sporting
papers afore most of those present was born or thought of."

"I hope you've brought some along with you," said
Reuben.

"Certainly I have--a sheaf of 'em.  I never travel
without them," returned the Londoner.  "And when
by good chance I find myself in a bar full of sportsmen
of the real old sort, like to-night, I always say to
myself, 'not a man here but shall have a chance of
buying one of the poems on the great fights, written by
old 'Frosty-faced Fogo.'"

"And you never fought yourself, Mr. Fogo?" asked
David Bowden, who was of the company.

"Never in a serious way," answered the veteran.
"There wasn't enough of me."

"I can mind when you come very near a mill though,"
declared Shillabeer.  "'Twas after the fight between
Tim Crawley and Burke, and the rain was coming down
cats and dogs."

Mr. Fogo lifted his hand.

"Let me tell the story, 'Dumpling.'  Yes, 'twas in
1830 at East Barnet, and 'the Deaf 'Un,' as Burke was
called, had Master Tim's shutters up in thirty-three
rounds.  Then, afore I'd pulled up the stakes, if that
saucy chap, Tommy Roundhead, the trainer, didn't
come on me with a lot of his bunkum.  I was on the
losing side that day and not in the best temper; but I
let him go a bit and then gave him some straight talk;
and 'Dumpling' here will tell you that as a man of
forty my tongue was as ready as my pen.  Anyhow, I
touched Roundhead on the raw and lashed him into
such a proper passion that nothing would do but to
settle it there and then in the old style.  Tommy put
down his five shillings and I covered it, though nobody
knew 'twas the last two half-crowns I had in my fob at
the time.  But I was itching to have a slap at the
beggar, and into the Ring I went and shouted for
Roundhead.  Raining, mind you, all the time--raining
rivers, you might say.  Well, up hops Roundhead,
stripped to the buff and as thin as a dead frog; and
when the people saw him in his skin and counted his
ribs, they laughed fit to wake the churchyard.  But
thin though Tommy was, I knew right well that I was
thinner.  However, I cared nothing for that, and was
just getting out of my togs, when some reporters and
other chaps, having a respect for me as a poet and a
man in a thousand, came between and wouldn't hear of it.

"'What about my five bob?' I said.  'D---- your
five bob, "Frosty,"' they said.  'Here's ten.'  And so,
without 'by your leave,' they thrust me back into my
clothes and dragged the arm out of my 'upper
Benjamin' in doing it.  'Twas just the world's respect for
me as a maker of verses, you might say, that kept me
out of the Ring that day.  So I soon had the true blue
stakes up and went off with 'em; and the ropes and
staples and beetle, and all the rest of it."

A warlike atmosphere seemed to waken in the peaceful
bar of 'The Corner House.'  The youths imagined
themselves engaged in terrific trials of strength; their
elders pictured the joy of playing spectators' parts.
Mr. Fogo told story after story, and it seemed with
few exceptions that the heroes of the ring, tricky
though they might be in battle, were men of simple
probity and honourable spirit.  His great hero was
'Bendigo,' William Thompson of Nottingham, a
Champion of England.

"And 'Bendy's' going strong yet," said Mr. Fogo.
"After his last fight with Paddock, about ten year ago
now--a bad fight too--'Bendy' won on a foul; after
that he got converted, as they say, and took to preaching.
He's at it yet and does pretty well, I believe."

"'Bendy' with a white choker!  What a wonder!"
declared Mr. Shillabeer.

"Yes--he met a noble lord last time he was in
London," continued Mr. Fogo.  "And his lordship
recognised him for all his pulpit toggery.  'Good
Gad!' says his lordship, ''tis "Bendy"!  And what's
your little game now, my bold hero?'  'Not a little
game at all, my lord,' says 'Bendigo'--always ready
with a word he was.  'I'm fighting Satan, and I'm
going to beat him.  Behold, my lord, the victory shall be
mine,' he says in his best preaching voice.  'I hope so,
"Bendy,"' answers his lordship; 'but pray have a care
that you fight Beelzebub fairer than you did Ben Gaunt,
or I may change my side!'  Not that 'Bendigo' ever
fought unfair; but he had to be clever with a giant like
Gaunt; and he had to go down--else he'd have stood no
chance at all with such a heavy man."

"One of three at a birth 'Bendy' was," concluded
the 'Dumpling.'  "I never knew one of triplets to do
any good in the world before."

At this juncture in the conversation Bartley Crocker
entered the bar.  He had not heard of the celebrity,
but soon, despite his own cares, found himself as
interested as the others.  The talk of battle inflamed him
and, to the delight of the guests assembled, a thing most
of them frankly desired actually happened within the hour.

David scowled into Bartley's eyes presently, and the
younger, who was quite willing to pick a quarrel with
this man of all men, walked across the bar and stood
close to him.

"Is there any reason why you should pull your face
crooked at sight of me, David Bowden?" he asked.

Something of the truth between these two was known.
Therefore all kept silence.

"'Twas scorn of you made me do it.  A chap who
could kiss a girl, without asking if he might, be a
coward."

"Bah! that's the matter--eh?  Because I kissed your
sister!"

"Yes; and if you think 'twas a decent man's act, it
only shows you're not decent.  Shame on you--low-minded
chap that you are!"

"Not decent, because I kissed a pretty girl?  D'you
mean that?"

"Yes, I do."

"Did Rhoda tell you?"

"Yes, she did--when I axed her what ailed her."

"Well, hear this.  You're a narrow-minded, canting
fool; and if women understood you better, you wouldn't
have won Madge Stanbury."

"Don't you name her, or I'll knock your two eyes
into one!"

"Do it!" answered Bartley; "and if that'll help
you to start, so much the better."

As he spoke and with infinite quickness he raised his
hand and pulled David's nose.  A second later they
were in the sawdust together.

The huge Shillabeer pulled them apart, like a man
separates a pair of terriers.  Then Simon Snell, Ernest
Maunder and Timothy Mattacott held Bartley, while,
single-handed, the 'Dumpling' restrained young
Bowden.  Immense excitement marked the moment.  Only
Mr. Fogo puffed his long clay and showed no emotion.
A senseless babel choked the air, and then Shillabeer's
heavy voice shouted down the rest and he made himself
heard.

"I won't have it!" he said.  "I'm ashamed that you
grown-up chaps can sink to temper like this and
disgrace yourselves and me and the company.  Strangers
present too!  If you want to fight, then fight in a decent
and gentlemanly way--not like two dogs over a bone."

"I do want to fight," said Bartley.  "I want
nothing better in this world than to give that man the
damnedest hiding ever a man had."

"And I'm the same," said Bowden.  He was now
quite calm again.  "I'm sorry I forgot myself in your
bar, Mr. Shillabeer, but no man can say I hadn't
enough to make me.  I'll not talk big nor threaten, nor
say what I'll do to him, but I'll fight him for all he's
worth--to-morrow if he likes."

"Now you're talking sense," declared the innkeeper.
"A fair fight no man can object to, and if it's known in
the proper quarters and not in the wrong ones, there
ought to be a little money moving for both of you.
How do they stand for a match, Fogo?  Come forward,
David, and let 'Frosty-face' have a look at you."

"Let 'em shake hands first," said Mr. Fogo.

"I'll do so," declared Bowden, "on the understanding
that we're to fight this side of Christmas."

"The sooner the better," retorted Crocker.  Then
they shook hands and Mr. Fogo's glittering eyes
inspected them.

"Weight as near as can be," he said.  "At least, I
judge it without seeing your barrels.  This man's the
younger, I suppose."

He pointed to Bartley.

"I'm twenty-five," said Mr. Crocker.

"Ay; and stand six feet--?"

"Five feet eleven and a half."

"Weight eleven stone?"

"A bit less."

Mr. Fogo nodded.

"You've got the reach, t'other chap's got the powder."

Then he examined David.

"Age?" he said.

"Twenty-eight."

"Height?"

"Five foot nine."

"Weight?"

"Eleven two, or thereabout."

"Do either of you know anything of the art?"

"I don't," said Bartley.

"No more don't I," added Bowden.

Fogo looked them up and down carefully.

"There's no reason on the surface why you shouldn't
fight a pretty mill."

"How long can you stop with me, 'Frosty'?" asked
Mr. Shillabeer.

"Well, if there was a few yellow-boys[#] in it, I might
go as far as three weeks.  I ought to see Tom King
about something of the greatest importance before
long; but I can write it.  If these chaps will come to
the scratch in three weeks, I'll stop.  And they both
look hard and healthy; and as neither of 'em know
anything, it may be a short fight."

.. vspace:: 2

.. class:: noindent small

[#] Sovereigns.

.. vspace:: 2

Much talk followed and, in the midst, the visitor
rose, put down his pipe and left the bar.

Then up spoke Ernest Maunder in the majesty of the law.

"I warn you, souls," he said, "that I can't countenance
this.  If there's to be fighting, you've got me
against you, and to-morrow I shall lay information
with the Justice of the Peace and get a warrant out."

"I hope you'll mind your own business," said
Crocker, warmly.  "The man who spoils sport when
Bowden and me meet, is like to get spoilt himself."

"You won't frighten me," returned Ernest.  "As a
common man I'd give you best, Bartley; but in my blue
and with right my side, you'll find me an ugly customer,
I warn you.  Bowden here was daring me to be up and
doing a bit ago.  Well, you'll soon see how 'tis if you
try to plan to break the law and fight a prize fight in
this parish!  I know my business, and that you'll find."

"And I'm with you," declared Mr. Moses.  "Have
no fear, Maunder.  The Church and the State are both
o' your side, and let vicar but get wind of this and
he'll--"

"You keep out of it, Moses," said Mr. Shillabeer,
warmly.  "We be very good friends and long may we
remain so; but stick to your last, shoemaker, and if
these full-grown men be pleased to settle their difference
in the fine old way, 'tis very churlish in you to
oppose it."

"Well said, 'Dumpling,'" shouted a young,
odd-looking, hairy man with the uneuphonious name of
Screech; "if Moses here don't like fair play and
nature's weapons, let him keep out of it; but if he tries
to interfere, never a boot do he make for me again."

"Nor yet for me," cried Bowden.  "You'll do well
to go back on that, Mr. Moses, and keep away from the
subject."

"Nor yet for me," echoed Timothy Mattacott,
firmly.  "I'm Maunder's friend, as you all know, and
hope to remain so.  But if there's to be the glad chance
of a proper prize fight in this neighbourhood, I'm for
it heart and soul."

Mr. Fogo had returned and heard some of this conversation.

"If the gentleman's a Jew," he said, "he ought to
take kindly to the sport.  Some of the best boys as
ever threw a beaver into the Ring were Israelites--only
to name Mendoza and Dutch Sam and Barney Aaron,
'the Star of the East.'"

"I'm not a Jew," said Mr. Moses, "though I don't
blame you for thinking so."

"Not with that name?"

"Not at all.  My people are Devon all through."

"Well," said Fogo, "my humble custom is to make
hay while the sun shines.  We Cockney blokes learn
that quite as quick as you Johnny Raws from the
plough-tail; and as there's a fight in the air, I'll be so
bold as to sell a few of my verses to them brave blades
that would like to see what fighting was once."

On his arm he carried fifty broadsheets, and now the
old sportsman began to distribute them.

"Twopence each, gentlemen--all true and partickler
with the names of the Fancy present: Mr. Jackson,
Mr. Gully, Tom Cribb, Jem Burn, Tom Spring, and all the
old originals.  The poems go from the first fight that I
ever saw between Hen Pearce, 'the Game Chicken,' and
that poor, old, one-eyed lion, Jem Belcher, in 1805; to
the great mill between Mr. Sayers and Mr. Heenan a
year ago, when our man fought the Yankee with one
hand and jolly near beat him at that.  All out of my
own head, gentlemen, and only twopence each!"

Mr. Fogo distributed his warlike verses in every
direction; then when not a poem remained, he began
to collect them again.  But the company proved in
very vein for these lays of blood.  Both the future
combatants made several purchases; Mr. Snell also
patronised the poet, while Mattacott, Screech, and even
Mr. Maunder himself, became possessed of 'Frosty-face's'
sanguine chronicles.

It being now closing time, the storm-laden air was
cleared; the noisy company, with laughter and
repetition of racy couplets from Mr. Fogo's muse, retired,
and at last the two old friends were left alone.  Shillabeer
shut up his bar and locked the house; 'Frosty'
counted the contents of his pocket and gathered up the
poems still unsold.

"I ought to share the booty with you, 'Dumpling,'"
he said, but his host scorned the thought.

"Hope you'll be sold out long afore you go," he
returned.  "And as to sharing, that's nonsense.  You're
a great man, and if you be going to stop along of me
for three weeks, you'll bring a lot of custom, for the
people will come from far and near to see you."

"Of course if you put it that way, I say no more,
because you know best," declared Fogo.

Presently they sat together over a final pipe.

"Now talk of the wife," said Reuben.

Mr. Fogo obeyed, cast his acute countenance into a
mould of melancholy, appeared to draw a film over his
piercing eyes, ceased joyously to rattle the money in his
breeches pocket, and shook his head sadly once or twice
to catch the spirit of the theme.

"The biggest and the best woman I ever saw, or ever
hope to see," he began.  "I picture her now--as a
young, gay creature in her father's shop at the corner
of the Dials.  Rabbits and caveys and birds he sold
and him a sportsman to the marrow.  Thirteen stone in
her maiden days, they used to say, and very nearly six
feet high--the wonder and the joy of the male sex.
And 'twas left for you to win that rare female.  And
you did; and you was the envied of London,
'Dumpling'--the envied of London."

Mr. Shillabeer nodded, sighed heavily, and licked his
lips at these picturesque words.

"It brings her back--so large as life--to hear you
tell about her.  'Twas the weight she put on after
marriage that killed her, 'Frosty,'" he said.  "You must
see her grave in the burying-ground."

"And take my hat off to it--so I will."

"There's room for me beside her, come my turn, Fogo."

"Quite right--perfectly right.  You couldn't wait
for the trump of Doom beside a better woman."

Reuben next gave all details of his wife's last illness,
and the subject occupied him until midnight when
conversation drifted from Mrs. Shillabeer to other matters.
They talked until the peat fire sank to a red eye and the
air grew cold.  Then conversation waned and both
heroes began to grow sleepy.

Mr. Shillabeer rose first and concluded the wide survey.

"Ah, 'Frosty,' the days we've seen!" he said.

"I'm with you," answered the poet, also rising.
"'Tis all summed up in that word and couldn't be put
better,--'The days we've seen!'"





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.. _`SOME INTERVIEWS`:

.. class:: center large bold

   CHAPTER X


.. class:: center medium bold

   SOME INTERVIEWS

.. vspace:: 2

Those from whom it was most desired to keep all
information of the coming fight were the first to
hear of it.  Mr. Moses told Mr. Merle, the vicar, and
Mr. Merle resented the news bitterly.  He decided,
indeed, that such a proceeding would disgrace the
parish.

"We might as well revive the horrors of our
bull-ring," he said.  "It cannot and must not be."

The good man referred to a considerable tract of
ground beneath the southern wall of the churchyard--a
region known as the 'bull-ring' and authentically
connected with obsolete sports.

Ernest Maunder was most unfortunate in the ally
that he had expected to win.  Sir Guy Flamank, the
lord of the manor, though enrolled on the Commission
of the Peace, was before all else a sportsman, as he
declared at every opportunity.  Somehow this gentleman,
by means mysteriously hidden, became aware of
the little matter in hand on the very morning after the
arrangement, and though Ernest called at the Manor
House, he found the Justice unable to see him.  Thrice
he was thus evaded, and when once he met Sir Guy on
horseback, Mr. Maunder could not fail to mark how
the knight retreated before him with obvious and paltry
evasion.  That a Justice of the Peace could thus ignore
his responsibilities, caused both Mr. Maunder and
Mr. Moses much indignant uneasiness.

At breakfast on the day after his undertaking, David
Bowden announced the thing he intended to do; and
while his mother wept some natural tears, nobody else
showed any sorrowful emotion.  Indeed Elias was
grimly glad.

"Well done thou!" he said.  "I've long wanted for
some son of mine to show me a bit of valour above
common, and now 'tis left for the eldest to do it.  You'll
trounce him to the truth of music, for there's a tougher
heart in you than that man, and you've lived a tougher
life."

"What'll Madge say?" asked Dorcas.

"She needn't know about it," declared David.
"We're to fight in about three weeks, and the day's to
be kept a secret as long as possible."

"What d'you want to fight for?" asked his mother.

"It's natural.  We can't be friends no more till
we've had it out.  You see, he was after my Madge, and
I bested him, and--besides--I had another crow to
pluck with the man."

A martial spirit awoke at the Warren House and
Mr. Bowden frankly revelled in this business, the more
so because he believed that his son must win easily.
The twins took to sparring from that hour, and
Napoleon and Wellington fought their battles over again.
Elias sent to Plymouth for a pair of boxing gloves, and
Joshua for the good of the cause, albeit not fond of
hard knocks, stood up to David for half an hour each
day.  It was arranged that young Bowden should train
at home for a fortnight and then go to Plymouth and
put himself in the hands of a professional at that town
for some final polish.

The brother and sister had a private talk of special
significance soon after the making of the match.

David met Rhoda returning from Sheepstor, and her
face was grave.

"I've just heard more about that business than you
told us, David," she said.  "'Tis as much for what he
done to me as anything, that you be going to fight
him."

"No matter the reason.  A licking will do him
good--if I can give him one."

"Look here," she said--impulsively for her--"I
must be in this fight.  You're everything to me,
David--everything.  I can't keep away and I won't keep
away.  You know the sort of pluck I've got.  Well, I
must be in that Ring--me and father--"

David gasped.

"Would you?"

"I tell you I must.  Something calls out to me to
do it.  You can't fight without me there, and I don't
believe you can win without me.  I swear I feel it so.
Wouldn't you rather have me in your corner than any
man if it comes to that?"

"Yes," he admitted, "I would; but you can't do
what's got to do."

"I can do all," she replied.  "I talked to Mr. Shillabeer
to-day, when I'd made up my mind, and I axed
him what the bottle-holder have to do; and he told me.
I can do it all--every bit of it."

"You shall then!" said David.

She flushed with pleasure.

"You won't regret it.  I may help you to win a bit.
A woman that can keep her head, like I can, is useful
anywhere."

"'Twill be you and faither--and I suppose that
Crocker will have the 'Dumpling' and this queer, old,
white-headed London man on his side."

"I'm gay and proud as you can trust me in such a
thing," she said, her breast heaving.

"Yes--and now I think on it--you and me being
what we are each to t'other--I will have it so.  I
couldn't fight all I know if you wasn't there, Rhoda.
But I warn you, 'tis ugly work.  You mustn't mind
seeing my head knocked into a lump of black and blue
flesh."

"That's nought so long as you win.  'Twill come
right again."

"But I may not win.  You never know how the luck
will fall."

"You must win," she answered.  "'Tisn't in nature
that such an evil man as him can beat you."

"I shan't stop so long as I can see, or so long as I
can stand," he said.  "I think I shall win myself, but
it don't do to brag."

Then Rhoda told him something that disturbed him
not a little.

"Margaret Stanbury knows about it," she said.  "I
met Mr. Snell, and he was full of it, and we had a tell.
Then he told me that Timothy Mattacott was out Down
Tor way, and met Madge, and went and told her.  So
you'll have to calm her down somehow."

"Better you do," he answered.  "'Tis a woman's
job.  Get over this afternoon, like a good girl, and
just make light of it.  Tell her I'm coming across o'
Sunday but can't sooner."

Rhoda obeyed and later in the day saw Madge.
David's sweetheart was tearful and much perturbed.

"'Tis all my fault," she said.  "Oh, Rhoda, can't
nothing be done to stop it?  Such terrible strong
men--they'll kill each other."

"No, they won't; and 'tisn't all your fault," answered
the elder.  "It had to come off afore they could
be friends again.  'Tis to be a fair, stand-up fight;
and the best man will win; and that's our David.  Don't
take on and make a fuss afore him, if you want to keep
friends with him.  David's like faither, all for valour.
He'll be vexed if you cry about it.  Time enough for us
to cry if he's worsted.  But he won't be."

"'Tis hard for me, because I know 'em both so well,"
said Margaret.

"And 'tis easy for me, because I know 'em both so
well," answered Rhoda.  "No man ever wanted his
beastly nature cooled down with a good hiding more
than what Bartley Crocker does.  And, be it as 'twill,
'twas Crocker that made the fight, not David."

"I shall go mad when the day comes," said Margaret.

"No, you won't, because you won't know the day.
'Tis to be kept a dark secret.  And I'm going in the
Ring to look after my brother."

"Rhoda!"

"I am, though.  He wants it.  He will have it so."

"Be you made of iron?"

"Yes, where David's good is the matter.  He wants
me there--and there I shall be."

"The men will hoot you--'tis an unwomanly thing."

"D'you think I care for that, so long as I know it isn't?"

"If any woman's to be there, 'tis his future wife, I
should think," said Madge; but Rhoda laughed.

"You!  You'd faint when--but there, don't think
no more about it.  Men will be men, when they're built
on the pattern of David.  I come from him to tell you
not to fret, so mind you don't."

"'Fret!'  I shall fret my hair grey, and so will
mother," said the promised wife.  "To think of his
beautiful face all smashed about--and Bartley too--both
such good-looking, kindly chaps!  What ever do
they want to fight about?  Can't they settle their
quarrels no other way?"

"You should know 'em better.  'Tis a deeper thing
than a quarrel.  If they are to be friends, they must
hammer one another a bit first.  Why not?  You puzzle
me.  Do 'e want 'em to have their minds full of poison
to each other for evermore?  Better fight and let it out."

"I shall pray David, if ever he loved me, not to do it."

"Don't," said Rhoda.  "Don't be a fool, Madge.  I
know David better than what you do; and, if you're
that sort, you never will know him as well as I know
him; because you'll vex and cross him and he'll hide
himself from you.  He's a strong, hard man and
straight as sunlight.  If you're going to be soft and
silly over this, or over anything, you won't make him
love you any the better.  Take my advice and try to
feel like I do--like a man about it.  It's got to be, and
if you are against it and come to him with a long face
and silly prayers not to fight for your sake, and all
that stuff, you won't choke him off fighting, but you
may choke him off--"

"'Off me' you were going to say.  Well, that's
where I know him better than you do, for all you know
him so well, Rhoda.  But don't think I'm a fool.  'Tis
natural I don't want the dear face I love to be bruised
by another man's fist; but if 'tis to be--'tis to be.  I
only ask to know *why* 'tis to be.  I suppose David can
tell me that?"

"We'll leave it so then, since you don't know why,"
said the other.  "How's the pup?  Have it settled
down?"

But if Margaret Stanbury viewed this battle with
dismay, her emotions were trivial compared with those
of Bartley Crocker's mother and Bartley Crocker's
aunt.

In vain did the fighter try to keep his great secret
from them.  It was impossible, and Mr. Moses laid
every detail of the proposed encounter before Nanny
two mornings after he had heard about it.

Bartley was from home when Charles Moses arrived,
and the shoemaker harrowed and horrified his two
listeners at leisure.  Such palpitation overtook
Mrs. Crocker, that the very cotoneaster on the outer walls
seemed to throb to its berried crown; while as for Aunt
Susan Saunders, having once grasped the nature of the
things to be, her heart quite overcame her and she wept.
But the mother of Bartley wept not: she panted--panted
with wrath till her expansive bust creaked.  Her
anger flowed forth like a tide and swallowed first
Mr. Shillabeer and the low characters he encouraged at
'The Corner House'; next, David Bowden and his
family; next, the Stanburys, who doubtless were deeply
involved in this contemplated crime; and lastly, the aged
stranger, Mr. Fogo, concerning whose bloodthirsty and
blood-stained career Charles Moses had dropped some
hints.  Her son Mrs. Crocker blamed not at all.  She
scoffed at the notion of her innocent and amiable boy
seeking to batter any man.

"Bring me my salts, Susan, and don't snivel," said
the mother.  "For Bartley to be up in arms like this
here--why, I never will believe it!  And me a bailiff's
daughter, as everybody knows, and him with the blood
of the Saunders family in his veins.  They've harried
him into it along of his pluck and courage; but it shan't
be if I can put my bosom between him and bloodshed.
Bartley to be struck and assaulted by a warrener, and
a common man at that!  Wasn't it enough thicky,
empty-headed wench at Coombeshead chose that yellow-haired
Bowden, when she might have had a Crocker?
And now, if you please, the ruffian, not content with
getting the girl, wants to fight my boy!"

"It's my duty to tell you, ma'am, that your son's
quite as set on it as t'other," declared Mr. Moses.

"No doubt; and a good whipping he'd give the man
if it came to it; but it mustn't come to it.  We're in a
Christian land, and this firebrand, that's crept among
us with his wicked rhymes, ought to be taken up and
led behind the cart-tail and flogged out of the parish."

"I'm glad you take such a high, womanly view," said
the shoemaker; "because you'm another on our side,
and will be a tower of strength.  They are to fight in
about three weeks' time--afore Christmas.  That is, if
we, on the side of law and order--namely, his reverence,
and me, and you, and Ernest Maunder, can't prevent it.
I'm sorry to say everybody else wants to see them
fight--even Sir Guy--more shame to him!"

"I'll have the place by the ears rather than it should
happen," said Mrs. Crocker.  "I'll have Bartley took
up rather than he should have his face touched by
that--that rabbit-catching good-for-nought up to
Ditsworthy.  Why, I'll even go up there myself and talk to
Elias Bowden.  This thing shan't be--not if a determined
woman can prevent it."

Mr. Moses retired comforted in some sort, for he
felt that Mrs. Crocker was probably stronger than the
policeman and the vicar put together.  But meantime,
on the other side, matters developed steadily.  Shillabeer
and 'Frosty-faced Fogo' had taken charge of
Bartley Crocker, and he prepared for battle with the
benefit of all their immense experience.  From the first,
rumours of interference and interruption were rife; but
Fogo treated them with disdain.

"Leave all that to me," he said.  "I've been evading
the 'blues' and the 'beaks' ever since I came to
man's estate, and if I can't hoodwink you simple
bumpkins--parsons and all--well, I'll pay the stakes
myself."

For stakes there were, and Mr. Fogo, who insisted on
seeing all things done decently and in order, arranged
that five pounds a side should be posted to bind the
match and five pounds more paid in the day before the
battle.  Mr. Bowden found the money for David, and
no less a worthy than Sir Guy Flamank himself, having
first commanded terrific oaths of secrecy from Mr. Fogo
and Mr. Shillabeer, produced ten pounds for Bartley
Crocker.  He was young and had never seen a fight.

A great many local sportsmen evinced the keenest
interest in the proceedings, but with British hypocrisy
strove hard to conceal that interest, out of respect to
the people who were not sportsmen.  As for the
combatants, to their surprise they found themselves rapidly
developing into men of renown.  Even the hosts of the
lesser Bowdens were received with respect among their
friends, in that they happened to be actual brothers of
a hero.  It might have been remarked that while most
people at first expected Bowden to win, the larger
number coupled the prophecy with a hope that they would
be mistaken.  From the beginning Bartley was the more
popular combatant; and when certain opinions respecting
him left the narrow lips of Mr. Fogo at 'The
Corner House,' a little betting opened and ruled at two
to one on the younger man.

Mr. Shillabeer set to work to teach Bartley the rudiments,
but he found himself too slow and scant of breath
to be of any service.  A young boxer from Plymouth
was therefore engaged--he who in Mr. Fogo's skilful
hands had won a recent battle--and he swiftly initiated
Crocker.

And then it was that the Londoner pronounced this
raw material in many respects above the average, and
declared that Bartley, among his other qualifications,
had some unsuspected talent for milling.  He was quick
and very active on his legs.  He hit straight naturally,
not round.  His left promised to be very useful and he
had a vague idea of hitting on the retreat and
countering--arts usually quite unappreciated by the novice.
In fact, Mr. Fogo, from an attitude of indifference,
presently developed mild interest in the coming battle
and was often at hand when Bartley donned the mittens.
He also superintended his training, and bore him
company, for a part of the distance, on some of those
lengthy tramps prescribed by Mr. Shillabeer.

Upon one of these occasions, however, Bartley was
alone and chance willed that he should meet Margaret
returning from Ditsworthy.  She was depressed and
he asked her why.

"For fifty reasons; and you know most of 'em," she
answered.  "I've just been eating dinner to the Warren
House.  Somehow it always makes me wisht.  There's
that young fellow, by the name of Billy Screech,
running after Dorcas, and none of 'em like him or will hear
of such a thing.  And then the silence!  They won't
talk afore me.  You can hear every pair of teeth
working and every bite and sup going down.  But that's
not what's on my mind.  'Tis this awful fight.  Oh,
Bartley, can't you make it up?"

"We have, long ago.  We're quite friendly.  'Tis
no more now than a sporting fixture for ten pounds a
side.  There'll be twenty pounds more for furniture for
your new home, Madge--if I'm licked."

"Don't talk like that.  'Twould always be covered
wi' bloodstains in my eyes.  Can't you use the gloves?
Why do you want to knock your poor noses crooked
for?  'Tis like savage tigers more than Christian men."

"Don't you worry.  The colours be coming Monday.
Of course I can't ask you to wear mine; but they're
prettier far than David's.  'Twas Mr. Fogo's idea.  I
shall have the same as the mighty champion, Ben Caunt,
once had."

"I don't want to hear nothing about it, and I pray
to God every night on my knees that it may be stopped."

"Well, you'll be proud of one of us," he said.  "I
can't expect you to want me to win; but you mustn't
be very much surprised if I do.  This old Fogo finds
I've got a bit of the right stuff in me; and for that
matter, I've found it out myself.  I take to it like a
duck takes to water.  I've always been fond of
dancing--nobody knows that better than you--and dancing is
very helpful to a fighter.  To hit and get off without
being hit back--that's the whole art of prize-fighting,
and I'm afraid I shall hit David twice to his once."

Instantly the lover came to Madge's heart, despite
herself.

"He doesn't brag," she said.  "He's very quiet and
humble about it.  But maybe you'll find he can hit too,
Bartley, though I grant you he can't dance."

He laughed and left her then; and next day as the
pugilist from Plymouth had to return home about his
business, an experienced local called Pierce, from
Kingsett Farm, near Crazywell, on Dartmoor, was prevailed
upon to assist.  He and Crocker set to steadily.  But
Pierce was nearly forty, and too small for Bartley;
therefore the lord of the manor himself filled the breach.
Not, indeed, that Sir Guy Flamank put on the gloves;
but he found a large-limbed youth down for Christmas
from Oxford, who was the heavy-weight champion at
that seat of learning, and this skilful youngster gave
Bartley some invaluable information.

Little was known respecting David's progress; but
Elias Bowden made the acquaintance of 'Frosty-face,'
and provided this celebrity with one or two days' sport
on the warren.  Mr. Fogo proved no mean shot, and
among other game of a good mixed bag, two wood-pigeons
and three golden plover fell to his borrowed
weapon.  He discussed the Prize Ring for the gratification
of Mr. Bowden on this occasion, but though David's
father tried hard to learn how Bartley was coming on
in his training, Mr. Fogo's silence upon that theme
exceeded even the customary taciturnity of the Warren
House.  He was only concerned with the growing
rumours of organised interference, yet he assured
Mr. Bowden that the fight would certainly come off, at a
time and place to be arranged by him and Reuben Shillabeer.

It is to be noted that Crocker had now left his home
altogether, and was living at 'The Corner House.'  The
high-handed attitude of his mother and her immense
energy and indignation rendered this step necessary.
The reminder that his grandfather had been a bailiff
lacked force to shake Bartley from his evil determination;
therefore she threatened to disinherit him, and
hinted at incarceration and other vague counter-strokes.
But when day followed day and nothing moderated his
intention; when she saw that he had given up malt liquor
and spirits; that he insisted on certain foods; that he
rose at reasonable hours and took an immense deal of
active exercise--when, in fact, she grasped the truth
that her only son meant to fight a prize-fight, and was
taking every possible precaution to win it, then she
broke down and threatened no more, but became
hysterical, melodramatic and mournful.  It was enough that
he entered the house for Nanny to fling herself into an
attitude of despair.  Her appetite suffered, her sleep
suffered, even her spirits suffered.  From being a
dictatorial and assertive woman, who used her personality
like a pistol, she grew meek, mild and plaintive.  She
wearied her hearers; she filled Susan's ears with pathetic
details concerning her wasting flesh, and begged her to
report them again to Bartley.  Thus her son learned
that his mother's stockings had become too large for her
attenuated calves, and that her dresses were being taken
in many inches as the result of a general atrophy of
tissue produced by his behaviour.  Nanny's eyes haunted
him.  She had, moreover, an art to drop tears exactly
at those moments when he cast a sly side glance at her
face.  She would drop them on to her work, or her plate,
or into her tea.

These distressing circumstances finally ejected
Bartley from the maternal threshold.  He saw his mother
daily, but felt that until the battle was lost or won, he
could endure her constant remonstrances no more.  He
strove to make her take a sterner view, and she assured
him that had she not been a woman of gentle birth, it
might have been possible; but from one with the delicate
Saunders blood in her veins, only a genteel outlook on
life could be expected; and there was no room for
tolerance of prize-fighting in that survey.





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.. _`MR. FOGO IS SHOCKED`:

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   CHAPTER XI


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   MR. FOGO IS SHOCKED

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'Frosty-face' very naturally looked to it that
this little encounter of rustics should have some
useful bearing on his own affairs.  He was a poor man
and could not afford to ignore opportunities.  With
Mr. Shillabeer he set about reviving all the glories of
the twenty-four-foot square, and he was determined that
nothing should be omitted which could make the
approaching fight a dignified and successful entertainment,
worthy, in its small way, of the best traditions.

Before a full bar Mr. Fogo spoke at length.  He had
sold thirteen of his poems that evening, and he was now
about to unfasten a parcel that day received from
London; but, before doing so, he outlined the situation.

"I'm very pleased to find you know a bit down here,"
he began.  "There's more of the right sort in these
parts than we might have expected, and there'll be a
good sprinkling of Corinthians at the ring-side too.
The doctor from Tavistock, who is going to referee, is
as spicy a dare-devil as I wish to meet at any mill; and
he knows his job; and afterwards, if either of you chaps
want to be blooded, he can do it for you."

"We shall judge of the patronage by the number of
fogies the swells take up," said Mr. Shillabeer.  "You
see, the old rule is that a fighter gives his colours to all
who'll take 'em; and it's understood that if he's beat,
the colours cost nought; but if he wins, everybody as
took a handkerchief be expected to pay a guinea for it."

"Well, here they are," answered 'Frosty-face.'  "I
got 'em myself so cheap as they could be got through a
friend.  Fifty there are--twenty-five for each of the
men--and if they go off, I can get more at the same
low figure."

He opened his parcel and revealed the colours.
Bartley and several of his friends were present; but
David, who was to call that night with his father, had
not yet arrived.  Mr. Crocker's handkerchief was much
admired.  It showed a rich orange centre bordered with
three inches of purple.

Both Fogo and Shillabeer took one, though not on the
usual understanding, and Bartley calculated that he
knew about twenty sportsmen, including Sir Guy, who
would be glad to possess this memento of the battle.

Then came the Bowdens, and the future combatants
shook hands in a friendly spirit and compared their
colours.  David's were simpler and quieter--a blue
'bird's-eye' with a white spot.  Both parties could
number a good handful of patrons, and the encounter,
albeit date and place were still kept a dark secret,
promised to be well attended.

"I'm painting the true blue stakes myself," said
'Frosty-face,' "and we'll have a nobby ring if we don't
have a nobby fight in it."

"And where is it to be, Mr. Fogo?" asked Simon Snell.

"I wouldn't tell everybody, but you shall know,"
answered the old man, assuming a grim expression,
which always preceded his finest jokes.  "We'll have
our turn up in the bull-ring, Mr. Snell.  It have seen
many a bit of fun, they tell me, so why not a bit more?"

Everybody laughed, because Sheepstor bull-ring was
the most public spot for many miles round.  It lay
under the churchyard wall at the centre of the hamlet.

"Couldn't choose a better place, all the same," said
Reuben Shillabeer, "that is, if they'd let us alone.  The
burying-ground runs eight feet above the ring; and
there's good grass there, and a nice tilt to the ground,
and proper trees all round for the sporting public to
climb into.  However, that's rather too warm a corner
for modest men.  We don't want the eyes of the nation on us."

"Leave it to me," said the Londoner.  "There are
certain people we shan't have no use for on the morning
of the fight.  And if they stop at Sheepstor, 'tis clear
we must go somewhere else.  However, look to me; I'll
give you the office in plenty of time."

"You'll never get round parson and Mr. Moses and
p'liceman and Mrs. Crocker," foretold Tim Mattacott.

"I fear but one of 'em," answered Mr. Fogo.  "They
are all harmless men, and I can handle 'em as easy as a
mother handles her tenth babby.  'Tis that spry lady
will take some stopping.  I've not got the length of her
foot yet--to say it with all respect.  But all in good time."

"There's to be a sermon preached by Mr. Merle next
Sunday against this here fight," said Mr. Bowden.
"I'm sorry to the bone that he's taken this view, because
I never like to quarrel with my betters; but to the House
of the Lord me and mine go as usual next Sunday, and
whatever he may preach won't change my opinions."

"And I'll go too," declared Fogo.  "Yes, I'll go
and hear his argeyments.  'Tis a good few years since
I was in a place of prayer--in fact, never since I stood
best man when Alec Reid, 'the Chelsea Snob,' was
married.  But on Sunday I shall be there, and you'll see
I can shut my eyes and sniff my hat with the best among ye."

"You shall come along of me," said the 'Dumpling.'  "I
go most times and get a deal of good from it.  My
wife was a steady church member, for though she'd
fling off to chapel for change now and again, as women
will, yet she comed back again and again to the
Establishment; and she died in it, and Parson Merle will tell
you 'twas so."

Then exploded suddenly a piece of news that quite
staggered and shocked the renowned visitor.  It also
cast down Mr. Shillabeer, for he felt that Fogo, as a
man, and the P.R., as an institution, were alike insulted
by such an astounding assertion from the rival camp.

The question of seconds had been raised and Mr. Fogo
explained that he and Shillabeer proposed to look after
Crocker.

"I shall carry the bottle and offer advice as it's
called for, and Reuben will pick him up and give him a
knee," he declared.

"If he wants it," added the 'Dumpling'; "but unless
David here be cleverer than we think he is, Bartley
won't ask for much picking up."

"And who are going to look after you?" asked Fogo
of David.

"My father and--"

"He can't pick you up.  Who else?"

"And my sister, Rhoda Bowden--a strong maiden.
She and father will do all that's got to be done."

"Blow my dickey!" said Mr. Fogo, "that's the first
knock-down for you anyway.  A woman--a woman in
the P.R.!  You really thought that?  That's the best
joke I've heard since '45."

"It's settled," said David, calmly.

"A woman in the P.R.!" repeated Fogo.  "Well,
I've seen most things during the last seventy years, but
not that.  Why don't you ax your sister to fight for
you?"

"Look here," said the elder Bowden, "I won't have
nothing said in this matter by you or anybody, Mr. Fogo,
till you see for yourselves.  Anyway it's going to
happen."

"I quite agree!" declared Mr. Snell, suddenly.
"Miss Rhoda's a born wonder and a most renowned
creature for courage.  None ever was like her.  A
female no more feared to look on blood than we be to
count our wages.  And as to picking him up, she could
pick him up--and you too, Mr. Fogo, as easily as I can
turn a stop-cock."

"Can such things be?" asked Mr. Fogo.  "This
bangs Bannagher!  A woman--a young, female woman
inside the P.R.!  'Tis enough to provoke the anger of
Heaven.  May I die like a trundle-tailed cur, with a
brick round my neck, if I could ever stand it!"

"'Tis my girl that you saw up to the Warren
House," said Mr. Bowden, "her you said was a very fine
woman, and you wished you'd got such a pair of arms."

"Her with the chin?"

"She have a chin, I grant you."

"And who haven't?" asked Mr. Snell.

"You must know 'tisn't a common case," explained
David.  "My sister and me be very close friends, and
she's terrible interested in this fight, and, in short, she'll
have to be there--there's no law against it."

"I'm shocked," said the old man.  "'Tis a very
indecent, outrageous thing, and I protest with all my
might.  A petticoat in the P.R.!  Can't everybody in
this bar see it's all wrong and disgraceful and disorderly?"

"In a general way it would be," admitted Shillabeer;
"but she ain't no common young woman, 'Frosty,' and
I'm not surprised to hear she means it.  She was axing
me what a bottle-holder be expected to do a bit
back-along; and I half twigged that she'd got this idea in
her noddle."

"Then it's the end of the world," declared Mr. Fogo.
"I ask for nothing more.  Perhaps our man wants his
mother in his corner--also his aunt?  I'm sure they
very much wish to be there by all accounts."

"Since the fight be in part about my sister, she's a
right on the spot," said David; "and this I'll tell you,
Mr. Fogo: though you laugh, you'll see what she's like
in the Ring; and if she does one thing--one single
thing--she shouldn't, and fails of aught where a man could
do better, then I'll give you the stakes if I win 'em."

"It's contrary to all history and law and decency
and nature.  It isn't possible, I tell you.  Here am I
trying to revive the P.R. in a first chop, gentlemanly
fashion, and then you yokels plan a sin and a shame
like this," said Mr. Fogo.  He was very much annoyed
and returned again and again to the threatened female
incursion.  Most of the company agreed with him;
indeed, only the Bowdens and Simon Snell supported
Rhoda as a second.  Mr. Shillabeer was doubtful.

"Be there any law against it?  That's the question,"
he said.  "Well, I can't say there is, 'Frosty.'  Of
course there's nought in the rules about it."

"Because the rules was drawn for respectable,
law-abiding people," answered Mr. Fogo.

They wrangled on, while David and Bartley spoke aside.

"Did you say that Miss Rhoda was really interested?"
asked Crocker.  "I shouldn't like to think that,
David.  I know I kissed her, like a silly fool, in the
Pixies' House that day of the storm; but she don't bear
malice, I hope, any more than you do?"

"Oh, no--no malice.  It angered her cruel all the
same, as it did me; and she won't be sorry to see you
lose--though there's no malice--certainly not."

"You're in luck with such a sister and such a wife
to be."

David changed the subject.

"Have they settled where 'tis to come off?"

"No--only the day."

"Monday week?"

"Yes."

"I'm going down to Plymouth Monday to practise
with the boxers there," said David, and Bartley nodded.

"They'll larn you a lot," he said.

Mr. Fogo's voice again rose in wrath.

"The Fancy won't stand it.  Mark me; they'll hiss
her out of the Ring.  Such a thing won't be suffered in
a Christian land."

The hour grew late and Mr. Maunder looked in somewhat
coldly.  Since his vital difference of opinion on
the subject of the prize-fight, he had withdrawn his
patronage from 'The Corner House.'  It was felt that
he could hardly be present in the camp of a combatant
until the matter of the pending battle was at an end.

"Closing time, Mr. Shillabeer," he said, and the
'Dumpling' nodded.

"Right you are, Ernest.  Come in and take a thimbleful
along with me, won't 'e?"

"No, thank you.  Not till this business is over.  I'm
against you, and I won't have bit or sup along with the
enemy.  I speak as the law, Shillabeer, and not as a man.
Of course *afterwards* I shall come back again; but not
till I've bested you, or you've bested me."

"Nobody could speak fairer," declared Mr. Shillabeer.

Then the company departed; Bartley Crocker went
to bed; and Reuben asked his friend what steps he
proposed to take with respect to evading the police on
Monday week.  But Fogo was in no amiable or
communicative mood.  His feelings had that night been
much lacerated and the prospect of seeing a woman in
a prize-ring affected him acutely.  He would not talk
about the matter, and when Mr. Shillabeer, according
to custom, brought conversation round to his vanished
partner over the last glass, Mr. Fogo failed of that tact
for which he was renowned and refused even to speak
well of the deceased.

"I've heard enough about women to make me sick
of the name of female this night," he said.  "I won't
utter a word more about 'em, living or dead.  Thank
my stars I kept single anyway.  They may be all right
in their proper place, but they don't know the meaning
of fair play, and are worse than useless in every branch
of sport that man ever invented.  You mark me: this
man's sister will come across the ring and try to gouge
our eyes out if her brother's getting worsted!"

"Not she," promised the 'Dumpling.'  "I grant 'tis
a sign the P.R.'s coming to nought that a chap should
have his sister to second him in a fight; but since it had
to be, never was a woman built more likely to give a
good account of herself in that place than Rhoda Bowden."

"Well, I hope to God the Fancy will rise like one
man," answered Mr. Fogo.  "And now I'll go to my
bed; and if I don't have a nightmare and dream that
I'm in a Ring along with the Queen of England and a
few duchesses and other high female characters, may I
be blowed from here to the top of Paul's cathedral and
back again."

He then retired.

Bowden and Crocker had both paid for their colours
and Mr. Shillabeer called his friend back to hand him
the money, which, in his misery, Mr. Fogo had forgotten.





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.. _`FOR THE GOOD CAUSE`:

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   CHAPTER XII


.. class:: center medium bold

   FOR THE GOOD CAUSE

.. vspace:: 2

Probably the Prince of Darkness himself had
won little more profound attention than Mr. Fogo
when, in his cape and black knee-breeches, the old
sportsman attended divine service on the following Sunday.
Those interested entirely attributed the forthcoming
fight to him, and many of the mothers and grandmothers
of the hamlet would have been well pleased to mob
'Frosty-face' and drive him by force of arms from
the village.

One painful interview with Bartley Crocker's mother
he had not been able to escape.  She offered him ten
pounds in gold to prevent the fight, and when he
explained that not for a hundred or a thousand pounds
would he be party to a 'cross,' she had 'given him a
bit of her mind and threatened him with her ten
commandments,' as he afterwards expressed it.

And now Mr. Fogo, supported by Mr. Shillabeer,
sat at worship, answered the responses and even essayed
to join in the hymns.  The behaviour of both old men
was marked by highest propriety; and both put a penny
in the plate when it reached them.  The Bowdens,
including David, were also present, and Mr. Fogo's sole
acts of inattention were caused by the circumstance that
Rhoda sat beside her father.  He stole several glances
at her and observed a powerful, handsome young woman,
exceedingly self-possessed and apparently well able to
keep her nerve under any circumstances.  He admitted
to the 'Dumpling' that in an ordinary emergency or
difficulty Miss Bowden might probably hold her own;
but a prize-fight was not an ordinary emergency, and
he held that, under no conceivable tangle of
circumstances, should a woman, in any capacity whatsoever,
be present at such a proceeding.

Mr. Merle preached, or it would be more correct to
say thundered, from a peaceable text in the New
Testament.  He hit hard and spared not.  From the lord of
the manor to the landlord of 'The Corner House' he
ranged; and he called heaven to witness that, for his
part, no stone should be left unturned to overthrow the
forces of disorder.  Incidentally Mr. Merle gave his
hearers a picture of a prize-fight, for it appeared that
in his degenerate Oxford days the pastor had witnessed
a battle.

"One of the unhappy creatures who marred God's
own image on that occasion was called Peter Crawley
and known to his friends by the vulgar soubriquet of
'Young Rump Steak,'" said the clergyman.  Then
glaring at his congregation as though to dare a smile,
he pulled his black gown from his wrists and proceeded:
"The name of the other pugilist was Jem Ward, and
they met on a winter's day within a hundred miles of
London--"

"At Royston--I was there," whispered Mr. Fogo to
Reuben Shillabeer.  Both old men paid the preacher
every attention.

"Their degrading operations were considered to
constitute a pretty day's sport," continued Mr. Merle.
"These men battered and tore and dashed each other
upon the earth time after time.  Again and again they
fought themselves to a standstill, which is, I believe, the
technical expression for absolute physical exhaustion.
It was a battle of ferocious fiends disguised as men, and
when this Peter Crawley had stricken the wretched
Ward senseless in the eleventh round; and when both
were reduced to mere swollen, half-blind palpitating
masses of bruised and bleeding flesh, the people present
shouted with infamous joy and bore both combatants
away in triumph from the ensanguined field."

"Jem lost all along of not having Tom Oliver for
second," whispered Fogo.

The clergyman proceeded at considerable length to
point his moral, and he wound up an eloquent appeal
with special allusion to the stranger who had come
among his sheep.  He did not actually describe 'Frosty-face'
as a wolf; but he left no manner of doubt as to
his opinion of the Londoner; and he expressed acute
regret that this Philistine should be spending his leisure
in Sheepstor, to the debasement of the youth and
manhood of the district.

Mr. Fogo listened with attention and propriety;
while Mr. Shillabeer, fearing what might happen,
rolled uneasily, puffed, perspired and grew red at
intervals.

Of the principals and those who intended to aid
them, only Bartley Crocker was not present; but his
mother heard the sermon, and the vision of Peter
Crawley and Jem Ward caused her to become so faint, that
she had to be helped into the air by Charles Moses long
before the sermon was finished.

Mr. Fogo himself and the company of the Bowdens
accepted all the vicar said without emotion.  Only once,
when he quoted Horace, did they lose him for a moment.
Elias Bowden had long convinced himself that a fair
stand-up fight, between men pretty closely matched,
was a circumstance morally justifiable in every respect;
and his children accepted this conclusion without demur.
As for 'Frosty,' his deep mind moved far too busily
with the future to trouble about any harsh present
criticisms, personal and public though they might be.
He saw in Mr. Merle's attitude an opportunity that
he sought, and after the service was ended, he bade
Reuben Shillabeer get home and leave him behind.
Then, when most of the people had gone; when the
Bowdens, full of this charge, trailed up to
Ditsworthy; when the 'Dumpling,' in great uneasiness, got
him back to his public-house; and when the congregation
of chattering women and dubious men had
vanished this way and that, Mr. Fogo prevailed upon
Mr. Moses to introduce him to the vicar.  The
Rev. Theodore Merle was a solid, plethoric parson of
the old school--a pillar of Church and State,
loud-voiced, red-faced, kind-hearted, narrow-minded and
conservative.

Mr. Fogo saluted this gentleman with the greatest
deference, and briefly explained that his discourse had
caused him deep interest and touched his conscience very
forcibly at certain points.  He then begged to know if
he might, at the vicar's convenience, enjoy a little
private conversation.

Mr. Merle gladly consented to go at greater length
into the matter with the old stranger.  He named the
following evening for their meeting at the vicarage, and
expressed a hope that he might yet lead the Londoner
from his turbulent and unlawful ways.

Mr. Fogo replied that if any man had the art to do
such a thing, it must be Mr. Merle, whose eloquence had
deeply impressed him.  He then bowed in a very courtly
manner and withdrew.  Afterwards, he secretly confided
to the shoemaker that the sermon had left him in great
doubt of his conduct, and he very patiently suffered
Charles Moses to press the case for law and order
without offering much in the nature of opposition.  He
hoped finally that Mr. Moses would make it convenient
to be present at the meeting with Mr. Merle; and the
cobbler, firmly convinced that 'Frosty-face' was
yielding, promised to oblige him.

At 'The Corner House,' in public, Mr. Fogo maintained
a taciturn attitude, and when invited to express
an opinion on the sermon, replied that there was a good
deal to be said on both sides.  Mr. Shillabeer smelt
mystery, but knew his friend's ways too well to interfere.
At present the event stood fixed for an early hour on
the following Monday week, and Mr. Fogo was prowling
about the neighbourhood to find a secluded and suitable
theatre for it; but nothing had been settled, and not
until the Tuesday before the fight did he make the final
announcement.

Mr. Fogo had already kept his appointment with
Mr. Merle and listened to the arguments of the vicar
and the churchwarden.

"I may tell you that the lord of the manor has only
just left me," remarked Mr. Merle.  "He, too, has
harboured some erroneous opinions on the subject of
this outrage, and I have gone far to convince him of
his mistake."

But Mr. Fogo knew all about the opinions of Sir
Guy Flamank.  Indeed, he had enjoyed a considerable
discourse in private with that sound sportsman only a
few hours earlier in the day.

"Sir Guy Flamank," said the vicar, "at first argued
speciously that there are times when a magistrate ought
to act, and times when he ought to shut his eyes, or look
the other way.  Deluded by fanciful obligations to the
claims of sport, he supposes that this is an occasion for
looking the other way.  But he is wrong--ignorantly,
rather than wickedly, wrong--and I have thoroughly
convinced him of the fact.  A fight between two men, no
matter whether they fight in the spirit of friends, or
avowedly as foes, is none the less legally a breach of the
peace, morally an outrage on the Creator.  It is an
un-christian, a brutal, a degraded performance, even
though we regard it not as a battle of enmity but a
trial of strength.  Who are we that we dare to deface
the image of God?  Tell me that, Mr. Fogo.  A prize-fight
is the most complicated and many-sided offence it
is possible to conceive--an affront alike on man and his
Maker.  None can attend such orgies without lowering
his sense of decency and manhood; none can be present
at such a spectacle and not suffer for it in the secret
places of his self-respect.  In the interest of public
morals and of religion I take my stand, Mr. Fogo; and
as a minister of the Word of God I tell you that, Heaven
helping, this thing shall not be within my spiritual
jurisdiction--nay, or beyond it, if energy and foresight
can prevent."

Mr. Fogo rose from the chair whereon he sat, and
bowed.

"I have not heard such burning words, your
reverence, since I sat under a bishop a few weeks ago in
Paul's, London.  I would have you to know that I take
life seriously.  I am a pious man, though my calling
has to do with rough characters; but I never saw things
quite in this light before.  We sporting blades mean
no harm, and we are honest according to our lights.
I've known many of the noted pugs and can assure
your reverence that they are straight and kindly
men--just such good souls as Mr. Shillabeer, my friend in
this village.  If they've done wrong, 'tis through their
ignorance of right.  And as for me, never, until I
heard your great and forcible discourse o' Sunday, did
I think that a fair mill was not agreeable to the morals
of the kingdom, even though the law don't allow it."

"A prize-fight is not agreeable--either to the morals
of this kingdom or the next," said Mr. Merle; "and I
hope you are convinced of it."

"You told me you was," said Moses.  "You made
it very clear to me you was wavering, Mr. Fogo."

"I am wavering," answered the old hawk, while he
tried to cool the fire in his eye with a film of piety.
"I am hit very hard over this.  You've let in the light
on me, your reverence.  It calls back to my mind that
famous party, namely Bendigo--once a Champion of
England, now a champion of the next world; for he's
taken to preaching and, as he told me last time we met,
is under articles to fight the Devil and all his works.  A
great man in his way, and they've given his name to
half Australia, I'm told; but, though very free and
forcible with words, he hasn't got the flow of your
reverence.  Of course you wouldn't expect it from a
prize-fighter.  And now with your solemn speeches
booming on my sinful ears, I ask myself what I am
to do."

"Let me tell you the answer to that question,
Mr. Fogo," said the clergyman, very earnestly.  "If your
conscience has been mercifully permitted to waken at
my voice, take heed that it shall not sink to sleep again.
Emulate your reformed friend, Mr. Bendigo.  Put on
the armour of light and the breastplate of righteousness.
Look back at these days of seclusion in this rural
scene as Paul looked back to that journey on which
burst in the dazzling light of living truth.  Let the
scales fall from your eyes, Mr. Fogo.  Choose the better
path, henceforth, sir.  You are an able man.  I can
see it in your face.  There is intellect there.  With
greater advantages you might have made a mark in the
world and assisted its welfare.  And that you must and
shall still do!  There is none among us so humble but
that he possesses the grand, the glorious privilege and
power to help the world towards goodness.  Act rightly
in this matter and great will be your reward--if not in
this world, my dear friend, none the less and of a surety
in the world to come."

"Exactly so," said Mr. Fogo.  "I know you're
right--I'm sure of it.  You understand these
things--nobody better.  It is your holy calling so to do.  I
see now as never I saw before, that fighting oughtn't
to be.  I almost begin to believe that it's my duty to
stop this fight.  And yet--"

"Don't dally with the idea, Mr. Fogo," urged
Charles Moses.  "Believe it once for all and do your
duty.  Your salvation may hang upon it!"

Mr. Merle was a little vexed with the warden's
interference.  He put up his hand and said, "Hush, Moses;
leave this to me, please."

"It's like this," explained 'Frosty-face,' mildly;
"most of the males are for the fight; most of the
women are against it.  And his reverence here is against
it, and you're against it, Mr. Moses, and of course the
constable is against it, being paid by the nation to be so.
Well, I must tell you that in these cases, if the police
appear on the ground, the fight is always stopped at
once and the Fancy goes off--either into another
county, where the warrant don't hold, or else, if that's
impossible, they stop altogether till the next meeting is
arranged by the referee.  Now, in this business, the
fight has either got to stop or not begin at all if the
police put in their appearance, because there's no
getting into another county; so it all comes to this: if your
reverence knows when and where the fight is to take
place, you can stop it."

"Then your duty stares you in the face, Mr. Fogo.
You must tell me," asserted Mr. Merle.

"It isn't decided yet."

"You'll have a hand in the decision, all the same,"
declared Charles Moses.  "Very like they'll look to
you to settle that point, as, with your learning of such
things, would be natural."

Mr. Fogo glanced round about him as though he
feared an eavesdropper.

"If I do this, and tell you the battle-ground, will
you promise never to let it out?" he asked.

"It will be for you to let it out, and triumph in your
righteous action," said Mr. Merle.

"Well, I'd rather not," answered the Deputy Commissary,
with frankness.  "I'll do good by stealth, and
'twill be quite time enough for me to write and tell
Mr. Shillabeer that 'twas my work after I've got back to
London out of harm's way.  So there it stands: you've
conquered me, your reverence.  I put myself in your
power.  But this is thirsty work--this well-doing.
Might I make so bold as to ask for a drop of
liquor--spirits, if they may be taken without harm in the
dwelling of holiness?"

Mr. Merle went to his sideboard and got a bottle of
whisky, from which the repentant Fogo helped himself
to a stiff glass.

"On Monday next at eleven o'clock the fight will
begin, unless we stop it," he said.  "And since, in the
high name of the church and parson, it did ought to be
stopped, stopped it shall be.  The place is still a secret.
But this I'll do for the sake of my own salvation, and
other reasons, including my great respect to your
reverence--this I'll do: on Monday morning next, at
cock-light or earlier, I'll be here in secret to meet the police
and his reverence and Mr. Moses; and I'll lead them to
the ring.  That's the work of your Sunday sermon on
the heart of a sinful creature, parson Merle.  At five
o'clock next Monday I'll be at this house; but I trust
those present to keep the secret, for if a word is
breathed and it gets out, there's men interested in this
fight that will change the 'rondeyvoo' and hide it even
from me."

The clergyman, elated, yet not without secret doubts,
gave all necessary promises, and Mr. Moses did the like.
Then Mr. Fogo went his way.

He was in church again next Sunday and, meantime,
conducted himself in a manner that mystified most
frequenters of 'The Corner House.'  Shillabeer declared
that something was weighing on Mr. Fogo's mind, and
Moses, who heard rumours, carried them to the vicar.

.. vspace:: 2

Then came grey dawn on the eventful morning and,
before it was yet light, 'Frosty-face,' as good as his
word, arrived at the vicarage.

Mr. Ernest Maunder, with the warrant and another
constable, had already arrived, and a moment later
Mr. Moses came on the scene.  The first glimmer of light
was in the sky and the day opened cold and clear.
Stars shone overhead and the road tinkled with ice
underfoot; but clouds were already banking against
the northern horizon.

"I'm here to take you to the appointed place," said
Fogo.  "All is settled and the men are to be in the
ring before eleven o'clock.  You will be snugly hidden
not a hundred yards from the spot when they begin.
'Tis Ringmoor Down has been chosen--alongside the
wood at the west end by the turnpike.  We can't miss
it, because the ring was pitched overnight--I helped, so
as not to bring down no suspicion on myself."

They started silently to climb the steep hill that
ascends out of Sheepstor to Ringmoor.  At Fogo's
advice they carried food and drink with them, for the
morning was very cold and laden with promise of snow.

"You mustn't mind hard words," said the betrayer.
"They can't do nothing to any of you, because it's a
fair score and you've won for two reasons.  Firstly, by
having more wits in your heads than them, and secondly,
because his reverence has converted me to see the truth.
I'm the only one as would be roughly handled and very
likely--an old man like me--get my death from it; so
I shan't stop for the great moment when you step forth
in the name of the Queen's Majesty and bid 'em all to
keep the peace.  I shall see you in your places, and
then I've arranged for a trap to come for me to the
pike, and off I go to Plymouth.  I won't face the
music--why should I?  As it is, I shall go in fear and
trembling this many a day."

"You need neither fear nor tremble, Fogo," said
Mr. Merle.  "The mind conscious of rectitude is armed
against all fear.  You have done your duty, difficult
though it was; you will have your reward."

"Thank you for that helpful word," answered
'Frosty-face'; "and I beg, if your reverence don't find
it too much for your bellows against the hill, that
you'll speak a few comforting speeches to me as we
travel along.  I'm an aged man to turn from vanity at
my time of life; yet in your sermon yesterday you said
'twas never too late to mend, and I took that to myself."

"You were perfectly justified in so doing," said Mr. Merle.

He uttered exhilarating reflections until the severity
of the hill reduced him to silence.  Then Ernest
Maunder, who had not yet recovered from his amazement
at finding Fogo a traitor, asked him a question.

"If you're going straight away off to Plymouth,
what about your luggage?"

"You'll see it in the trap," answered 'Frosty.'  "I've
got a box and a bundle and no more.  Mind, Constable
Maunder, that you step boldly into the ring; and don't
do it too soon.  Wait till the men have stripped and
shook hands.  Then out you go, and not a man dare
withstand you.  Have no fear for yourself.  At their
everlasting peril would they do it, for you are the State.
'Twill be the greatest moment in your life, and I hope
you'll bear yourself with dignity."

"I hope I shall," replied Mr. Maunder; "but 'twould
be easier if 'twas milder weather."

Dawn rolled along Dartmoor edge as they reached
the silent hill-top, and it revealed an unfamiliar object
upon the featureless bosom of Ringmoor.  As Fogo had
foretold, distant one hundred yards from a little wood
beside the highway, the twenty-four-foot Ring stood
stark in the twilight of morning.  Heavy stakes,
painted blue, supported the ropes.  An outer ring--to
keep spectators clear from the fight--was also set up
beyond, and the ground could not have been better
chosen.

Close at hand an open trap was waiting, and the
driver stamped up and down to keep himself warm.
Mr. Maunder, with a flash of professional zeal, satisfied
himself that 'Frosty's' luggage was really in this
vehicle and marked a wooden box, studded with brass
nails, and a parcel containing a large umbrella and
some walking-sticks.

"I got my kit out last night, after Shillabeer had
gone to his rest," explained Mr. Fogo.  "This morning
he'll think that I've risen betimes and come up
here--and he'll think right, for that matter."

In half an hour the party had cut down some boughs
of fir, made a screen against the north wind, and hidden
themselves carefully at the edge of the wood.  Then
Mr. Fogo joined the vicar in a light breakfast of
hard-boiled eggs and cold tea; and finally he prepared to
take his leave.

He declared that he left for Plymouth with reluctance
and would much have liked to see the triumph of
right; but, in plain English, he feared greatly for his
own skin if the disappointed sportsmen discovered him
with the police.  Therefore he bade all farewell,
invited and obtained Mr. Merle's formal blessing upon
his future, and then drove away along the road to
Plymouth.

Yet, for some private and obscure reason, when a mile
had been traversed, Mr. Fogo appeared suddenly to
change his mind.  He directed the driver to sink down
to Meavy valley; and thence the trap returned as
swiftly as possible to Sheepstor.

Already that village was awake and alert.  Strange
men moved about through it; within the field, under
the churchyard wall, had sprung up a square of ropes
and bright blue stakes--the counterpart of that besides
which Mr. Merle and his friends were waiting and
crowing somewhat cold on the sequestered loneliness of
Ringmoor.

Mr. Fogo had told Simon Snell the truth, though his
listeners all laughed at the joke when they heard it.
The fight, instead of taking place upon Ringmoor Down
at eleven o'clock, was planned for Sheepstor bull-ring
at nine.





.. vspace:: 4

.. _`THE FIGHT`:

.. class:: center large bold

   CHAPTER XIII


.. class:: center medium bold

   THE FIGHT

.. vspace:: 2

The bull-ring of Sheepstor is a grassy field of near
an acre in extent, surrounded west and east with
beech trees, hemmed by a road and a little river
southward, and flanked by the churchyard wall on the north.
Here bull-baiting, cock-fighting, cock-shying, and other
rough sports of our great-grandfathers were enjoyed;
and here, on this winter morning, one of the last
authentic prize-fights ever fought in England was duly
conducted with all right ritual, pomp and circumstance,
under direction of that high priest and poet of the
P.R., 'Frosty-face' Fogo.

From Lowery and Kingsett by Crazywell; from
Yellowmead and Dennycoombe; from Meavy and
Middleworth and Good-a-Meavy those in the secret came.
A large sprinkling of local sportsmen rode into Sheepstor
before eight o'clock and stabled their horses at 'The
Corner House.'  Sir Guy Flamank's friend, the young
boxer from Oxford, and a Plymouth professional, were
umpires for the men; while the sporting doctor from
Tavistock acted as referee on the strength of wide
experience and sound knowledge.

Bowden and his party came down from Ditsworthy
in a cart, and beside it walked Bartholomew Stanbury
and his son.  Simon Snell also arrived, with Mattacott,
Screech and other local men.  Just before nine o'clock
two stout and frantic women rushed to the rectory and
then disappeared up the hill towards Ringmoor.  They
were Mr. Crocker's mother and aunt.

As for Bartley, he arrived in the bull-ring at five
minutes to nine, met David beside it and shook hands
with him and his father.  Rhoda stood by, clad in a
dark stuff dress with short skirt and short sleeves.  On
her head was a man's cap and her bright hair had been
coiled small and tight on her neck.  She paid no
attention to Mr. Crocker.  Then Fogo appeared and assumed
command.  With him came the Corinthian contingent,
jovial and jolly, clad in the most showy and stylish
sporting costumes of the 'sixties.'  The colours of
both men were generally displayed.

"Throw your castors in the ring," said Shillabeer,
and the fighters dropped their hats over the ropes.

A crowd of above a hundred persons was assembled.
The front row sat ten feet from the ring; others stood
behind them and twenty men clustered along the
churchyard wall.  Into the beech trees many boys had also
climbed.  Rhoda Bowden was the only woman present.
Many protested and shook their heads, but none interfered.

The colours were tied to the stakes and the
combatants tossed.  Bowden won, and his father chose the
corner with its back to the rising sun.  Red light
ranged along the eastern edge of Dartmoor; but it
promised swiftly to perish, for the air was already
heavy with coming snow.

Both men now stripped to the waist.  They wore
flannel drawers, socks and shoes with sparrow-bill nails
in them.  Each was clean-shaved and close-cropped.
Fogo and Shillabeer, with bottles, towels and sponges,
entered Bartley's corner, while his father and sister
took their places in Bowden's.

As the church clock struck nine the men came to the
scratch, listened to a brief word from the referee and
again shook hands.  Each in his different way looked
strong and well.  David's white body shone in the red
sunlight and showed a silky texture over the big
muscles.  He was shorter in the reach than Bartley Crocker
and far sturdier below the waist.  Big thews and sinews
held him up; but, as he came on guard, he shaped rather
awkwardly with his hands and his head was somewhat
too far forward.  Crocker appeared slighter, taller and
more graceful.  His brown body seemed somewhat thin
about the ribs, but his face was clean and hard and his
eyes bright.  His legs were not so solid as David's, but
they showed more spring about them.  His pose was
good: he carried his head well back, and his hands
neither too high nor too low.  One man obviously
possessed greater strength; while the other looked likely to
be quicker both on his legs and with his fists.  What
either had learned about scientific fighting in the short
time of preparation remained to be seen.  Both were
nervous and both were eager to begin.

David dashed out at his man and hit with his right
but was parried.  Again he tried his right, rather
round, and just touched Crocker's shoulder; whereupon
Bartley, hitting straighter, got his left on the other's
face and followed it with his right on the throat.  The
second blow was heavy and shook David for a moment.
They stood apart, then both began to fight desperately,
but with little science.  Some tremendous counters
succeeded and each received a few blows in the face; but
Bowden evidently hit harder than the younger man,
though he did not get home so often.  The little
knowledge either possessed belonged to Crocker.  He guarded
to some purpose with his left and avoided one or two
strong, right-handed blows in this manner.  Twice
Crocker missed his right; then the best blow of the
round was struck by him.  It fell fairly and full on
David's forehead, and he followed it by another, under
the eye.  Then Bartley received one on the nose which
drew blood.  A moment later the men closed and Crocker
threw Bowden with an ordinary cross-buttock and fell
on him.  Both walked to their corners and the round
ended with nothing of importance done on either side.
First blood was claimed and allowed for David.

Bartley sat on Mr. Shillabeer's knee, while Mr. Fogo
polished him up and poured advice into his ear.

"Keep moving more," he said.  "Dance 'Jim Crow'
round the man! make him come after you and blow him
a bit.  He hits harder than you do; but he's not as
clever and not as long in the arm.  Get on to the right
eye again.  If you can shut that at the start, it's worth
half the stakes."

And elsewhere David reposed on Elias Bowden's knee
while Rhoda, white to the lips, but firm as a rock,
sponged his face.  He laughed at her.

"It's all right," he said to his father.  "He only
hit me once worth mentioning.  I'll soon find his
measure.  I'm stronger than him."

"Don't talk," answered the old man.  "And get the
fall, if you can, next round.  Better you drop on him
than he drop on you."

The half-minute was over and both came instantly
to the scratch.  Preliminary nervousness had passed
and they were eager to fight.  David panted a little;
Hartley appeared quite calm.  The second round began
with Bowden leading off; but Crocker easily jerked his
head out of harm's way and escaped an ugly round hit.

They fell to heavy milling of a scrambling character,
with few blows getting home on either side.  Presently
they stood apart, panting with hands down a moment;
then, in response to shouts from partisans, they began
to fight again.  Crocker now had the best of it until the
end of the round.  David seemed unable to use his left
and Bartley was learning to avoid the swinging
round-arm blows delivered by his opponent's right.  Thrice
he escaped these attempts and each time countered
with his own right.  To Mr. Fogo's satisfaction one of
these blows reached the damaged eye with great force
and instantly raised a big 'mouse' beneath it.  Then
the round ended, almost exactly like the last, by David
landing on the other's nose and drawing a copious flow
of blood.  Upon this they closed and David tried hard
for the crook, but Bartley was the cleverer wrestler and
Bowden went down with the other on top of him as
before.  Again they walked strongly to their corners
and their friends did all that was necessary in the space
of thirty seconds.

"Fight for his eyes, and even take a bit of risk to
get there," said Mr. Fogo.  "But, for the love of the
Lord, don't let him land that round-arm hit on your
ear.  It won't do you no good.  And use your left more."

Rhoda bathed the curious blue mark that had leapt
into existence under her brother's eye.  His face was
puffy round it, but neither she nor her father guessed at
the threatened danger.  As for David, he was very
cheerful and only vexed that he had missed so often with
his right.

"I've got to get nearer to him," he explained.
"Out-fighting's no good against his long arms.  I must go
inside 'em and see what I can do then."

The men smiled and nodded at one another as they
came up to time.

Bartley began with his left.  David threw it off well
with the right guard and tried to begin in-fighting.
But the taller man danced away before him and hit
twice, right and left, on the retreat.  Then Bowden,
coming with a rush, caught him, and the finest rally of
the battle followed.  The combatants fought all across
the ring with both hands almost entirely at the head.
More by good chance than science each stopped some
heavy hits and sparred much above their true skill.
Immense applause greeted the round, and the
'Dumpling' bellowed a word of encouragement to his man.
Fogo watched every move with his old, keen eyes.  He
was not entirely pleased with the result of the round.
It ended in a scrambling fall with no advantage to
either.  But both, though blowing heavily, were still
strong, and each man rose instantly and got back to
his corner without aid.

The little advantage of the rising sun in his opponent's
eyes was now lost to Bowden, for grey clouds had
swallowed the morning and already a few stray flakes
of snow fell leisurely.  Elias, at the end of this round,
complained that Crocker was holding some hard
substance within his fists, but Fogo with disdain showed
that they carried paper only.

Some marks of the last bout were visible when 'time'
brought the men to the scratch.  Bartley had a cut on
his forehead and another on his cheek-bone, while his
nose and lips had swollen and become distorted; the
eyelids of Bowden's right eye were puffed and bulged.
His face and breast were mottled with red; but Crocker,
on the contrary, was as pale as a parsnip.  David led
off right and left, just touching with the first but
missing with the latter.  They countered heavily and then,
in obedience to orders, Crocker got in suddenly, caught
David's head in chancery, and before the elder, by sheer
strength, broke loose, fibbed him thrice.  Mr. Fogo
rolled in an ecstasy.  The blows had reached David's
sound eye and done some damage.  In getting away
David fell and Bartley immediately went to his corner.
The round had been much in his favour.

Rhoda worked hard to reduce the swelling on her
brother's face, but it was not possible.  He continued
strong, cheerful and impatient to repay a little of
Crocker's attention in the last round.

Yet from this point the fight went steadily in favour
of the younger man.  He was naturally quicker, neater
and straighter in his hitting.  The next round was a
long one.  David got to work first and lashed out as
usual with his right, but was short.  Then Bartley
retreated until he had his enemy on the move, whereupon
he stood and let fly both right and left at the head.
Both told, though the blows were light.  David slipped
on to one knee but was up again instantly, and a
moment later, for the first time since the beginning of the
battle, he got his right home on Crocker's ear.  The hit
fairly staggered Bartley but did not drop him.  He
recovered before Bowden could repeat the blow and
some furious fighting brought the men into Bartley's
corner, where David had the worst of the rally.
Crocker at last closed and might have gone far to end
the fight, for he had his enemy on the ropes and was
about to punish him in that position.  His instinct,
however, prevented it.  He had raised his right and
Bowden was for the moment defenceless; then the
younger drew back and shook his head.  "Nay, David,"
he said, "I'll not take advantage of thee."

A hearty cheer greeted this sportsmanlike act; but
in his corner at the end of the round, Mr. Fogo took
occasion to caution his man against further display of
such a spirit.

"You haven't got him beat yet," he said.  "'Tis all
very well to play to the gallery when you're safe, but
not sooner.  He's harder than you and will take a lot of
knocking out.  You had it in your power then to give
him pepper, and you ought to have done it till he
dropped.  Fight for his eyes and don't let's have no
softness.  You mind there's a lot of money going to
change hands over this job, and you've no right to
throw away half a chance."

In answer Crocker showed temper.

"I'll fight fair and be damned to you and your
London ways," he said; but Mr. Fogo permitted himself
no retort.

A great deal of tedious sparring occurred in the next
round and Bowden got his second wind.  He was strong
and still confident, but the sight of his right eye grew
much impaired.  After a time the pace quickened, but
when they began to fight in earnest, the round was
Hartley's own.  David received all the hits, and one on
the mouth nearly floored him.  At the end they closed
and Bowden was thrown.  Both still went to their
corners without help.

Five and six to one were betted on Crocker, and even
Fogo felt sanguine.  But he had time to take close
stock of his man and noticed that Crocker was weaker.

In the next round the men closed almost instantly
and went down, David undermost.

"All Dartmoor to a lark-sod on our chap!" said
Mr. Shillabeer.  "Go in and finish him, Bartley.  Only get
on his left peeper again and the shutters will be up.
The right's done for."

"I can do it, but I'm frightened to--might blind
him for life," answered the fighter; and 'Frosty-face'
was frantically expostulating at this mistaken
sentiment at the call of 'time.'

Heavy counter hits were exchanged in this round and
Bartley's left ear was again visited.  Blood sprang
from it in answer to the blow and for a moment he was
dazed; then he hit David heavily on the neck and jaw.
A rally followed and Bartley used his legs and got
away.  At the end Crocker hit out with his left and
caught David on his sound eye.  The blow was well
timed and Bowden nearly fell.  A moment later they
closed and wrestled long for the fall.  Neither won it
decisively, but they went down together.  Both were
weak after this round and both, for the first time, were
carried to their corners.  Rhoda and her father lifted
David swiftly and neatly.

Bowden began the next round and hit Bartley with
right and left on the chest, but he made no impression
though the blows were hard.  Crocker, on the contrary,
while lacking much force, yet planted one hit to purpose
on Bowden's left eye.  This stroke evidently caused
great pain for, despite himself, David's hands went up
to his face.  Then it seemed that he began to realise
his peril, for he fought desperately and showed
tremendous energy and renewed strength.  A blow on the
ribs made Bartley wince, but others as heavy missed him
and his returns went over David's shoulder.  Towards
the end of the round, however, Crocker, catching the
other as he advanced, and timing his right better than
usual, sent Bowden clean off his legs with a flush hit on
the mouth.  It was the first knock-down blow in the
battle, and Fogo waited with desperate anxiety and
fervent hope that Bowden might not come up to time.
But Rhoda and her father achieved the feat.  Within
the regulation eight seconds after time was called, David
stood at the scratch.  He was very shaky, but cheerful.
He grinned out of his distorted features as Bartley
approached and said, "Now I'm going to get some of
my own back, Crocker."

Fogo, during the respite, had given his man brandy
and implored him to try and finish before his strength
was gone.  The opportunity to administer a final blow
had come.  Bowden was shaken, and for the moment
very weak.  Alive to the situation, Crocker did his best;
but now the man's own nature came between him and the
necessity of execution.  As he grew more feeble a vein
of sheer sentimentality in his character asserted itself.
For the moment he could not strike the bruised, bloody
and defenceless eyes of the enemy.  His gorge rose at
the act.  Between the rounds he had been watching
Rhoda with a sort of vague, unreal interest.  In his
increased weakness, the whole business appeared like
a dream out of which only Rhoda clearly stood.  He
admired her immense courage and pictured her secret
emotions as round succeeded round, and she saw David's
face being battered from all semblance of humanity.

Nevertheless, Crocker began this--the tenth round--with
a determination to let it be the last.  He hit out
of distance but eventually struck Bowden on the nose.
The blow was not heavy, but David went down and was
carried to his corner.

Bartley stared across at his foe, while Fogo attended
to him.  He saw Rhoda sponge the other's face and
speak to him.  Then David laughed.  The expression
of amusement was hideous on his countenance in its
present condition.  Fogo kept speaking, but when he
stood at the scratch Crocker quite forgot the last advice
he had received.  It was clear now that David was
fighting for strength, and each round in the next five
saw him go down at the least legal provocation.  Some
shouted scorn at him, but he paid no heed.  He was hit
several times during these rounds and did little in
return; but once he visited Bartley's damaged ear, and
once he got a good cross-buttock and fell heavily on
his man.

Seeing Elias and Rhoda busy with David's hand
after the thirteenth round, Shillabeer whispered that the
enemy's left was gone; but he erred as the sequel proved.
Bowden had only cut himself on Bartley's teeth.

Fogo, however, still felt satisfied, because it seemed
clear that even if Crocker could not finish his task,
he would be able to stay until Bowden went blind.
David's right eye had long since closed and the left was
beginning to vanish.  Another blow would probably
complete the work of obliteration and leave Crocker
with victory.  Both men's faces were much swollen and
disfigured, but both were still game and both were
cheerful.  Bartley, however, began to get slow and his
ear was causing him much dizziness.  It had swollen
to horrible dimensions.

Snow now fell briskly and the ring had become very
slippery.

The sixteenth bout found David busiest.  He rushed
in right and left, and a good ding-dong round was
fought in which advantage only came to Bartley at the
end.  Then, after receiving some heavy body-blows,
he got on to Bowden's lip, split it and drenched the
man's face with blood.  In the close they both went
down, David, as usual, undermost.  Both were carried
to their corners and both were weak.

In the next round David tried to upper-cut Crocker,
but missed, and was knocked down by a blow on the
throat.

Elias asked his son if all was well with him, and
David nodded.  Rhoda gave him the brandy bottle and
he rinsed his mouth, but did not drink any.  Fogo did
all that his knowledge suggested for Bartley, but knew
that he was growing weak very rapidly.  It remained
to be seen whether Crocker's strength or David's
eyesight would last longest.

In the eighteenth round Bartley began the fighting
and with immense impetuosity dashed in right and left
on the face.  He tried for the eye, but just missed it
and caught heavily on the body.  And then fortune
smiled in earnest on David, and as the other came again
to finish his enemy at any cost, Bowden caught him with
crushing force on the left cheek.  Chance timed the
blow to perfection.  It was by far the heaviest hit in
the fight, and the effect at this juncture proved terrific.
The tremendous blow seemed to go all over the side of
Crocker's face.  It brought the blood gushing from his
mouth and nose; and it dropped him in a heap.

A shout of consternation rose from the younger
man's friends, and Mr. Fogo and Shillabeer picked up
Bartley, while David, cheered by the yells of his
supporters, walked, with Rhoda guiding him, to his corner.
It was now the turn of the Bowdens to wait the call of
time with anxiety; but Fogo got his man to the scratch,
though all fight was out of him.  David could still see
but he had lost the power of calculating distances.  He
struck thrice in the air; then he hit Crocker, where
he stood dazed with his hands down, and dropped him.

The crisis had come and Mr. Fogo kept back Bartley
till the last available moment, while on the other side
Rhoda led David to the scratch, for he could no longer
see it.  A blow now was likely to settle the matter; but
the one man was too weak to strike, the other too blind
to make sure of hitting.  Two more rounds were fought
in this manner and Fogo fancied that Bartley had a
little recovered from the effects of his terrible
punishment; but the return of strength did not serve him.  In
the twenty-second and final round Bowden--fortune still
smiling--hit Crocker heavily with a round arm on the
ear and the younger man fell unconscious.  Fogo and
Shillabeer picked him up and did what they could, but
Bartley knew nothing.  His head had swollen in an
extraordinary manner from the smashing stroke in the
eighteenth round, and it was that blow which had put
'paid' to his account.  David walked to the scratch with
Rhoda's help and waited to hear time called.  He had,
it seemed, snatched victory at the last moment and now
it was his battle as surely as it had been Bartley's after
the ninth round.  The referee cried 'time,' the eight
seconds crawled past, and 'Frosty-face,' with a word
not to be chronicled, threw up the sponge.  Bartley
Crocker was deaf to the call.  Indeed, he remained
unconscious for another five minutes.

The fight had lasted about three quarters of an hour.

Then a roar rose round the ring and a hundred men
and boys crowded in upon it.  Many hastened away at
once to avoid possible future trouble.  Rhoda threw
her emotions into one kiss that she pressed upon her
brother's mangled mouth; then, rosy as her name, she
walked up to the colours, unfastened them with
unshaking, ensanguined hands, and tied them round
David's neck.  Many cheered her; and some fell in love
with her from that moment.  David, for his part, asked
to be led to Bartley, and when, with the referee's
assistance, the beaten man had recovered consciousness,
Bowden held out his hand and Crocker took it.

By this time the winner was stone blind.  His party
stopped on the ground only a few minutes, during which
Mr. Fogo, as became a poet and a man of imagination,
insisted on shaking hands with Rhoda Bowden.

"Woman," he said, "you're a wonder.  I've never
seen the like in seventy years; and I hope I never shall
again."

Then David was led to the cart and, with his sister,
three of his brothers and his father, drove off to
Ditsworthy.  A cheering mob of fifty men and boys
accompanied him half way; the Stanburys--father and
son--walked for some distance beside the vehicle, while one
or two energetic spirits ran on ahead with tidings of
victory for Mrs. Bowden and her daughters, Sophia and
Dorcas.

Snow fell heavily now and detail was vanishing
under it.

Mr. Fogo had no difficulty in explaining the defeat
to the Fancy.  He threw light upon the situation, while
Mr. Shillabeer and others carried Bartley to 'The
Corner House' in a large wheelbarrow and put him to
bed.

"'Twas just such a hit as the Tipton gave Tass
Parker in their last fight--to compare small things with
great," said Fogo.  "When a man's shaky, a smack
like that is a receipt in full.  A pretty finish, but it
ought never to have come to it.  Bowden was beat half
an hour ago, and if our chap hadn't been so milk-hearted,
he'd be the winner this minute.  If he'd had a
bit of the other's kill-devil in him, 'twould have been all
over long ago.  He fought better and wrestled better;
but there it was--the human nature in him couldn't
punish, though the fight depended on it and t'other
man was blind.  He was never meant for a fighting
man--more the dancing master turn of mind."

"Very fond of the ladies, I believe," said Timothy
Mattacott.

"So I've found; and if that amazing girl with the
chin had been in his corner with me instead of the
'Dumpling,' I believe that Crocker would have won,"
declared 'Frosty.'

At this moment there hastened frantically down a
hill from the south certain devoted peacemakers.
Bartley's relatives had learned at the vicarage that
Mr. Merle and others were gone at break of day to the pike
by Ringmoor Down, and they had struggled upward
with the fatal truth.  Now it happened that these
deceived upholders of the law came full upon Mr. Fogo
and a select company, on their way to the inn.
Whereupon the clergyman thrust among them and stood
before Mr. Fogo, his face dark as a mulberry with rage.

"You infamous scoundrel!" he shouted.  "What is
the meaning of this?"

The old man stared blankly and unknowingly before
him.  Not a spark of recognition lighted his eagle
features.

"I don't quite understand," he answered; then he
turned to his friends.

"Who may these snowy gentlemen be?" he asked.
"His reverence seems to be a little put out.  But he's
got a kind expression of countenance.  If they wanted
to see the mill, they ought to have started a bit earlier."

But then Mr. Fogo saw Mrs. Crocker approaching
and he did not hesitate to run with his bodyguard about
him.

Snow began to fall in earnest at last.  Heavier and
heavier it came, until Sheepstor and the churchyard
and the bull-ring, with hills and valleys round about,
vanished under a silent, far-flung cloth of silver.  After
all the riot and life, noise and blood-letting, peace fell
like a pall at noon.  The folk kept their cottages.
Only at 'The Corner House' persisted a mighty din
and clatter of tongues, while the larder and many bottles
were emptied, the barrels were heavily drawn upon and
the battle was fought and lost again a dozen times
before nightfall.





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.. _`'MEAVY COT'`:

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   BOOK II

.. vspace:: 3

.. class:: center large bold

   CHAPTER I

.. class:: center medium bold

   'MEAVY COT'

.. vspace:: 2

On a day in summer, David Bowden wandered up
the higher valleys of Meavy and stopped in a
little dingle where the newborn river tumbled ten feet
over a great apron of granite into a pool beneath.  In
four separate threads the stream spouted over this
mossy ledge, and then joined her foaming forces below.
Grey-green sallows thronged the top of this natural
weir and the wind flashed a twinkle of silver into their
foliage as the leaves leapt and turned.  Low hills sloped
to this spot and made a natural nest.  Black Tor and
Harter ascended at hand, and on the horizon northerly
Princetown's stern church tower rose against the sky.
Beside the pool, wherein Meavy gathered again her
scattered tresses, an old ruin stood; and round about
the dwelling-places of primæval man glimmered grey
upon the heath.

David Bowden had chosen this spot for his home, and
his reason was the shattered miner's cottage of Tudor
date that rose there.  Four-square, crowned with
heather and fretted with pennyworts and grasses,
stone-crop, grey lichens and sky-blue jasione, the old house
stood.  Broken walls eight feet high surrounded it;
an oven still gaped in one angle, and the wide
chimney-shaft now made a green twilight of dewy ferns and
mosses.  Bowden crept into the ruin and looked about
him, as he had already done many times before.  At his
feet lay old moulds hollowed out of the granite; and
where molten tin once ran, now glittered water caught
from the last shower.

Since first he found the place, David, with his scanty
gift of imagination, had pictured a modern cottage
rising on these venerable foundations.  And soon the
thing was actually to happen.  He knew that the hearth
whereon his feet now stood would presently glow again
with fires lighted by Margaret's hands; he thought of
white wheaten loaves baking in the oven; he almost smelt
them; and he saw above this loneliness the thin blue
ringlets of peat smoke that soon would rise and curl on
the west wind's fingers and tell chance wanderers that
a home lay hidden by water's brink in the glen beneath.
The place was very sequestered, very remote from all
other habitations; and he liked it the better for that.
Here was such privacy as the man desired.  Margaret
would do her shopping at Princetown; and since she
knew scarcely anybody there, the chances of gossip and
vain conversation were small.  His ambition was a life
far from trivial social obligations and the talk of idle
tongues.  He desired opportunity to pursue success
without distractions and waste of time.  Whether this
home might suit the sociable Margaret, he did not pause
to consider.  As for Rhoda, she would certainly be of
his mind.

The facts that most impressed Bowden at the
moment were certain loads of lime and sand, together with
granite boulders, water-worn, from the stream bed close
at hand.  Materials for his house were already
collected and the building of it was to begin during the
following week.  It would need five or six months to
finish, and Bowden proposed to be married and settled
in his future home before another Christmas came.

While he sat here now, slowly, stolidly planning the
future and waiting for Margaret to meet him, certain
black-faced, horned sheep approached, drew up at a
safe distance and lifted their yellow eyes to him
inquiringly.  David returned their regard with interest, for
they were his own.

Presently came Margaret and he kissed her, then
pointed with satisfaction to the preparations.

"They've kept their word, you see.  Next week our
house is to be started.  There's a good bit of pulling
down to do first, however.  And Sir Guy have given
way about that ruined spot t'other side the stream.
It's going to be built again for a lew place for stock;
and I'm to pay two pound a year more rent."

"'Twill be good for the kennel," said Madge.
"Rhoda tells me as you'll have five or six dogs at
the least for her to watch over, not counting 'Silky'
here."

'Silky' had grown from puppyhood into adolescence.
He was now a beautiful but a spoiled spaniel,
who never wandered far from his mistress.

Bowden looked down and shook his head at 'Silky,'
where he sat with his nose between his fore-paws at
Margaret's feet.

"A good dog ruined," he said.  "If you was to do
the proper thing, you'd let me shoot it.  'Twill never
be any manner of use here."

"He'll be of use to me, David.  I should miss him
cruel now."

"God send you don't bring up the childer so, when
they come, Madge."

"No childer of yours will ever be spoilt," she said.

"I hope not.  And I hope they don't prove of
wayward nature; for that sort's a thorn in the parent's
side.  Take Dorcas now--so different to the rest of us
as you can think.  Light-minded and a chatterer--colour
and mind both different.  I hope as I'll never
have a red child, Madge."

"I'm very fond of Dorcas.  She's the happiest of
you all, anyway--light-minded or not.  Only her
father sees her good points.  I don't think, David, that
you rate her high enough."

"I know her very well--light-minded and a laugher,"
he repeated.  "And now there's that insolent chap,
Screech, after her; and he had the cheek to talk to
faither and mother about it, and offer to take her--a
beggarly man, with none to say a good word for him--a
man that have lived on his widowed mother all his days,
and haven't even got regular work, but picks up an
uneven living where he can."

"What did your father answer?"

"Sent him away with a flea in his ear!  There was
a few high words, and then I seed my gentleman
marching off across Ringmoor, and Dorcas with her apron
to her eyes.  'Better bide single all your days than
marry an out-at-elbows good-for-nought like that,' I
told her; but, of course, she knowed better, and said
he was all he should be, and that her life would be gall
and wormwood without him."

"Your father's not one to be flouted."

"He is not; and Dorcas knows it very well.  Us
shan't hear no more about the chap."

"She'll tell me, however."

"Mind you speak sense to her then, Madge.  Don't
go pitying her.  You're too prone to pity every mortal
thing that's in trouble, or thinks it is.  You know as
well as any one that Billy Screech is a bad and lazy man.
You know that he's not built to make any female a good
husband.  Therefore tell her so."

"I hope she'll soon find a better to make her forget him."

"I hope she won't then.  She've got Sophia's poor
luck before her eyes.  Better for a woman not to wed
at all than wreck her life in it.  Dorcas is better at
home in my judgment.  Nought but a tramp would
fancy such a homely creature as her."

"You're wrong there, David.  A girl's face isn't
everything.  But no brother ever yet knew what his
sisters were worth."

"'Tis you who are wrong to say that," answered
David.  "I know their virtues very well.  Sophia was
far too good for her husband, and Rhoda--well, never
was a better than her--a marvel of a woman."

"She is--yet the men keep off.  But her heart's so
warm and soft as any woman's, I daresay."

"Men generally want something less fine and
high-minded," said David.  "Something weaker and
wilfuller than Rhoda.  They are frighted of her.  She
makes 'em see how small they are, if you can understand
that."

"She does.  So strong and fearless.  Looks through
men and women with those eyes of hers.  Yet you
wouldn't have her bide a maiden into old age surely,
David?  There's men good enough--even for Rhoda."

Not a spark of spite marked the speech, and Madge
only meant what she said.

"We must find her a husband, David!"

He shook his head doubtfully.

"A kicklish business.  She's not the sort to let others
do that work for her.  She've got no use for a man
in my opinion.  There's only one male as ever I saw her
eye follow for a yard, and that, if you please, be the
leat-keeper, Simon Snell."

Madge laughed.

"Poor Mr. Snell!  I can't picture him ever daring
to lift his eyes to Rhoda."

"No more can't I," agreed David.  "And don't you
breathe what I've told you to Rhoda, for I may be
wrong, and, right or wrong, she'd never forgive even me
for saying it.  She'll be happy enough here with us,
and if a husband comes--come he will.  But I don't
want him to come in a hurry."

"Such a lover of the night as she is!" declared
Margaret.  "Never was a stranger girl in some ways,
I think--to say it lovingly.  Give her a dog or two and
nightfall, and off she'll tramp to meet the moonrise.
Whatever do she do out in the dark, David?"

"Blest if I can answer that.  She've got her secrets--like
everything else that goeth in petticoats, no doubt.
But few enough secrets from my ear, I reckon.  'Twas
always a great desire in her to be out by night, and
more'n once faither whipped her, when she was a dinky
little maid, because she would go straying in the
warrens when she ought to have been in bed, and fright her
mother nigh to death.  I've axed her many a time about
it, but she can't or won't offer reasons.  It pleases her
to see the night creatures at their work, I suppose.
She'll tell you things that might much surprise you
about the ways of the night, and what happens under it."

"She likes the moon better than the sun, I believe.
Sometimes I'm tempted to think her blood's cold instead
of hot, David."

"You wouldn't say that if you'd seen her kiss my
smashed face after the fight last winter;--no, nor heard
her when she spoke of Bartley Crocker kissing hers."

"I believe Bartley would marry her joyfully," said
Margaret; but David doubted it.

"Not him--not after what she said to him in the
Pixies' House, and after what I said to him in the
bull-ring.  No man ever paid dearer for a kiss than him, I
reckon.  But very good friends now, thank God.  But
my brother-in-law--no.  He'll never come to be that.  He
don't want Rhoda and Rhoda don't want him."

"He told me that well he knew he'd have beat you,
if Rhoda had been o' his side."

"I daresay that's true."

They sat together in the theatre of their future life,
and Madge brushed David's hair away from his right
ear.  The organ was slightly larger than the other and
she shook her head discontentedly.

"'Twill never be just so beautiful as the left one,"
she said.

He laughed.

"What do it matter so long as I can hear with it?"

"And your dear eyelid will droop for ever."

"Yes, but the eye behind be all right.  Bartley's got
his mark too--where I hit him that last time."

"He's coming up one evening to see this place.  Not
but he knows it well enough already.  He told me that
the valley under Harter up along and beyond be nearly
always good for a snipe at the season of the year."

"A pity he don't come and lend a hand here, if 'twas
only mixing mortar.  'Twould be something for him
to do.  How any living being can waste his life like
that man is a mystery and a shame."

"Always happy too," said Madge.  "He've got a
very kind heart, David."

"I know that--else he'd have licked me instead of
my licking him.  Don't think I bear the man any
ill-will--far from it.  We're real good friends and he's
very clever by nature.  I'm only sorry he can't find
man's work.  He've larned a trade now, then why don't
he use it?"

The conversation shifted to their house presently and
Madge declared her longing to see it grow.

"And what be us to call the place?" she asked.

"I thought of 'Black Tor Cottage,'" he said,
"since Black Tor's just above us."

But Madge little liked the name.

"'Black' ban't a comely word for a home," she said.
"Think again, David."

He shrugged his shoulders.

"'Tis only the name of the tor," he answered; "black
or white be no more than words."

"Call it 'Meavy Cot,'" she said.  "'Tis an easy
name for folks to bring to mind, and I'd sooner my
home was called after the river than they great stones
up over, though I daresay I'll get very fond of them too."

"So be it," he answered.  "'Meavy Cot' is the name! and
I hope that a good few prosperous years be waiting
for us in it.  But if ever I come to be Moorman of this
quarter, I might have to leave it."

"You'll do greater things than that some day, David."

"I hope I shall," he answered; "but to be Moorman
is a very good stepping-stone, mark you."





.. vspace:: 4

.. _`BARTLEY DOUBTFUL`:

.. class:: center large bold

   CHAPTER II


.. class:: center medium bold

   BARTLEY DOUBTFUL.

.. vspace:: 2

A great drake waddled out from the yard of
Mrs. Crocker's dwelling, and some white ducks
followed him.  The male bird was grey, but his head
shone with the rich black-green of the fir trees behind
him on the hill and the light of these metallic and glittering
feathers made a fine setting for his brown eyes.  He
marched to the stream, put down his bill and tasted the
water; he then threw up his bill again, quacked an order
to set forth, and so floated away with the current, while
his household followed after.  Under the little bridge
they went, and the drake, screwing round his head, cast
an upward glance at the parapet as he passed by.
There he might have marked a familiar figure, for
Bartley Crocker, with his hands in his pockets and his
pipe in his mouth, sat and talked to a woman who stood
beside him.  Their position was public, but the subject
of their discourse might have been considered
confidential.  For the woman the revelation he now made
opened a desirable possibility.  The man spoke half in
jest, yet it seemed clear that he found himself perfectly
serious and meant all that he said on the main question.

"Set down your basket, Madge, and listen.  I'll
carry it along for you presently; but I can't talk and
walk together--not when the subject is so large.  Where
are you going?"

"Over to they old Elfords down at Good-a-Meavy.
They be terrible poor, you know, and he's fallen ill and
the pair of 'em was pretty near starving last week.
One of the Bowden boys--Wellington, I think it was--called
there, and he told his father; and of course the
matter was looked to.  I'm just taking them a thing or
two, till the old man can get out again."

"'Tis only putting off the workhouse."

"Maybe--yet a good thing to put it off.  They'll be
too old to smart soon; and then it won't matter."

"How's Rhoda Bowden?" he asked suddenly.

"Very well, so far as I know."

"I've hardly seen a wink of her since I came back.
Yet somehow, Madge, I find her terrible interesting."

"She's a fine character, Bartley."

"Well, when I went up to Barnstaple for three
months after the fight, I did two things: I learned a
trade, as you know, and I thought a lot off and on of
Rhoda Bowden."

"Yes."

"'Tis something to be anything at all.  Now, if
anybody asks what I am, I can say I am an upholsterer.
My uncle was well pleased for me to learn the business,
and a very nice girl helped me how to do it.  But,
somehow, while I looked at her clever hands I thought of
Rhoda Bowden."

"You ought to tell Rhoda, then--not me."

"Why should I?  It's all ridiculous nonsense, of
course; but you see I can't forget the peculiar way we
were flung together.  If you'd seen her after I kissed
her!  A princess couldn't have raged worse.  Then--at
the fight--time and again I tried to catch her eye;
but never once she looked at me--always busy with
David.  Did you hear that she came down two nights
after, all by herself, through the snow, to ask my
mother how I was faring?"

"No!"

"She did; but nobody ever heard it--not even David,
I believe.  She told my mother not to mention it; and
mother began to give her a piece of her mind; but she
didn't wait for that."

"'Tis just like her.  Something got hold of her to
do it, no doubt, while she was walking through the
night.  She feels kindly to all sorts of dumb things;
but she don't often show any interest in humans--except
David, of course."

"If I was a dog now, she and me would be very
good friends--eh?"

"Not a doubt of it.  Anyway this is terrible
interesting to me, Bartley--for more reasons than you'd
guess.  David and I were telling together only a week
agone.  I said that when we were married, we must set
to and find Rhoda a husband; but David felt a bit
doubtful about it."

"Well he may be!"

"You think that too?"

"I'm going to scrape acquaintance with her when
you're married.  Mind I don't say 'twill go very far.
I'm a bit frightened of her yet, and 'twouldn't be very
clever to offer marriage to a female that makes you feel
frightened.  But a man must get a wife some day or
other, I suppose, and my mother's at me morning, noon
and night to find one."

"You do tell me wonderful things!"

"But for the Lord's sake keep 'em dark.  I can trust
you--and only you.  You've been a rare brick where I
was concerned all your life, and 'tis very hard we
couldn't have been married, as I shall always think
whoever takes me.  Still, you'll have to go on wishing me
well."

"Yes, indeed."

"Say no more about it then.  'Tis only a moonshiney
fancy at best, and very like I'd hate the woman
if I knew her better--hate her as much as she does me.
You know what a fool I am about 'em.  I always see
her sponging the blood off David's face and always
catch myself wishing she'd been doing the same for
mine.  But I should have felt the same silly wish about
any girl, no doubt."

"There's not another girl that ever I heard about
would have done it."

"I know--and I ask myself if that's to praise her or
to blame her.  To hear my mother--"

"Better hear David.  She didn't do it for fun, I can
tell you.  Not to me--not to no woman--did she ever
tell what she felt afterwards; but she did tell David;
and he says that she didn't know where she was for
the first four rounds, and that once or twice after,
when it looked like David being beat, that 'twas all
she could do by sticking her nails into herself to keep
herself from dashing out to help David against you."

Bartley nodded admiringly.

"I believe it," he said.  "I saw it in her face."

"And now I must get on," declared Madge.  "Can't
waste no more time along with you to-day."

"I'll walk up over then and carry your basket," he
answered.  "When are you going to be married?"

"Not till the house is ready.  They've started.
There's a lot of the old building will work very suent
into our new cottage."

"Yes," he said.  "I was over there watching 'em
at it yesterday evening.  And d'you know what I was
wondering?--What I should give you and David for a
wedding present."

"No need, I'm sure."

"Every need.  You'm like your mother.  You'd
give your head away if you could; yet when people
think to do you a turn, you always cry out against it.
'Twill be a joy to many more people than your humble
thoughts will guess, to bring something to help you set
up house."

"It 'mazes me, the kindness of the world."

"It might--if the world followed your example.  'Tis
your due, and it oughtn't to 'maze you.  'Twould be
funny if anybody could be unkind to you."

"'Tis all very hopeful and beautiful, I'm sure--yet
here and there I feel a doubt.  Wouldn't name it to
none but you; but mother don't seem at all hopeful--"

"Don't let her fret you," urged Mr. Crocker.  "I
beg you won't do that, Madge.  There's not a kinder,
humbler-hearted woman on the Moor than Mrs. Stanbury;
but she's far too superstitious and given to the
old stories--you know it."

Margaret looked troubled.  These folk belonged to
a time when still a few fine spirits from the middle place
between man and angel haunted Dartmoor.  The pixies
were yet whispered of as frequenting this farmer's
threshing-floor, or that housewife's dairy; the witch
hare leapt from her lonely form; herbs and simples in
wise hands acted for potions of might; and the little
heath hounds were well known to hunt the Evil One
through the darkness of winter nights and along the
pathway of the storm.  The toad still held a secret in
its head; the tarn, in its heart; rivers hungered for
their annual banquet of human life; the corpse candle
burned in lonely churchyards; charms were whispered
over sick children and sick beasts; the evil eye still
shone malignant; the murmur of the mine goblins was
often heard by the workers underground.

But the time of these mysteries has quite passed by.
Back to the opal and ivory dream-palaces of fairy-land,
back to the shores of old romance, have Dartmoor's
legendary spirits vanished; they are as dead as the folk
whose ruined homes still glimmer grey on twilight heaths
at sunset and at dawn.  Knowledge has stricken our
traditions hip and thigh; our lore is obsolete; and our
Moor children of to-day, as they pass through the
stages of learning's dawn, see only an unlikeness to truth
that stamps the faces of these far-off things.  Yet who
shall say that knowledge and wisdom are one?  Who
shall deny that not seldom the story loved in life's
dawn-light and rejected at noon, is welcomed again and only
understood when evening shadows fall?

Mrs. Stanbury was saturated with the ancient myths,
and they brought her more sorrow than joy.

"I could wish that dear mother didn't believe so
many things," admitted Margaret.  "But there it
is--father haven't changed her in all these years, so it isn't
likely that ever he will.  She was full of Crazywell Pool
only yesterday.  You know it--a wisht place, sure
enough, and it tells about nothing but death and
such-like dismal matters.  But if you was to say to her 'twas
all nonsense--not that I would go so far as that
myself--she'd answer that you was courting your undoing and
would surely come to harm."

"I know she would and you yourself are as bad,
pretty near."

"Crazywell is harmless enough every night but
Christmas Eve," explained Margaret.  "Only then can
you say that there's aught out of the common hidden
in the water.  But then--well, you know what they say."

"Stuff and nonsense!  Your mother believes that
you hear a voice there after dark on Christmas Eve;
and that it calls out the names of them that'll die afore
another year's out.  What can be sillier than that?"

"Strange things have happened, all the same," argued
Margaret.  "I don't say I trust in all that dear mother
does, though she can give chapter and verse for most
of it; but Crazywell have spoken out the death year of
more men than one.  Why, only ten year agone you
know how Joseph Westaway, being over-got by the fog,
was along there on Christmas Eve and heard an awful
voice saying, 'Nathan Snell!  Nathan Snell!'  And
didn't Nathan Snell--Mr. Simon Snell's own
father--actually die the March afterwards, of a kick from his
horse?  You can't deny that, Bartley, because Joseph
Westaway heard it with his own ears--him being on the
way to eat his Christmas dinner at Kingsett Farm,
with the Pierces, and not so much as market merry."

"You're as bad as your mother, Madge, and worse
than Bart.  You'll believe in the pixies next, I doubt.
But there's one thing I do say where Mrs. Stanbury's
right, though I can't be supposed to know much about
such matters--a bachelor man like me.  Your mother
told mine how 'twas arranged that Rhoda joins you
and David at 'Meavy Cot' after you'm married; and
Mrs. Stanbury said that somehow, though far be it
from her to set her opinion over other people, she
couldn't think 'twas a wise plan; and my mother who
never beats about no bush, and always sets up her
opinion over everybody, said for her part 'twas flat
foolishness, not to say madness, and would end in a
rumpus.  What d'you think of that?"

"'Tis taken out of my hands, Bartley.  I wasn't
asked--no more was mother.  Some might think that it
wouldn't suit Rhoda--living along with a young
married couple; but I know, and you know, what Rhoda is
to David.  'Tisn't a common friendship of brother and
sister, but a lot more than that.  She'd be lost at the
Warren House without him."

"But surely the man doesn't want her now that he's
going to take a wife?"

"Yes, he does--to look after his dogs."

"Can't you look after his dogs?"

"No," said Margaret, firmly, "I can't.  I don't
treat dogs right.  I spoil 'em."

"Well, if the three of you are of one mind, I can't
see that it's any other body's business.  Here's the
top of the hill, and I can't go no farther, though I'd
like to."

He put down her basket, and she thanked him for
carrying it.

"And what you say is true, I'm sure! if we three--Rhoda
and David and me--be well pleased at the
thought of biding together, why shouldn't we do so?"

"Of course.  You can but try it.  Perhaps she'll
marry afore long, and you'll have the dogs on your
hands yet afore you expect it."

"I'm sure I hope--at least--good-bye, for the
present," said Margaret, and hurried off.

"Ah! she told the truth then!" thought the man;
"told the naked truth and caught herself up too late!
'I'm sure I hope she will go,' was what her heart
prompted her to say.  Maybe 'twill be my luck to cut
the knot.  Anyhow, as a full-blown upholsterer equal to
making two pound a week at any time, I've a right to
cast my eye where I please.  Funny 'twould be if I
should ever kiss Rhoda Bowden again.  But 'twill be
'by your leave' next time, I reckon, if ever that
happens."





.. vspace:: 4

.. _`PREPARATIONS`:

.. class:: center large bold

   CHAPTER III


.. class:: center medium bold

   PREPARATIONS

.. vspace:: 2

To Margaret Stanbury belonged the mind that
suffers sadness at the return of autumn; and even
with this autumn, which was to see her marry the man
she loved, her usual emotions wakened as the light again
faded out of the ling; as the brake-fern once more
flashed its first auburn signal from the hills; as the
lamp of the autumnal furze went out and left the Moor
darkling.  Grey rain swept the desert and the
fog-banks gathered together in high places.  Sheep's Tor's
crown and the ragged scarps of Lether Tor were alike
hidden for many days.  Winter returned with the
careless step of a conqueror.  Now he delayed for a little,
while belated flowers bloomed hastily and ephemeral
things, leaping into life, hurried through their brief
hours during some golden interval of sunlight and
warmth; but the inevitable came nearer as surely as
the days grew short and the nights long, as surely as
the sun's chariot flamed on a narrower path and the
way of the moon ascended into higher heaven.

The wedding day was fixed; the cottage under Black
Tor was finished, and David laboured there to fence the
scrap of reclaimed ground and make all sightly and
pleasant for his bride when she should come.  And now,
while yet six weeks of maidenhood remained to her,
Madge set off one day to visit Warren House upon
various errands.  Work was in full swing again at
Ditsworthy and David laboured with the rest for his
father.  The mother of the household viewed this pending
great exodus of a daughter and a son with tearful mind,
only soothed by thoughts of the increased convenience
when David and Rhoda should be gone; but as for the
rest, none regarded the incident from a standpoint
sentimental.

Now Margaret on her way fell in with Mr. Shillabeer,
gun in hand, and she expressed gladness at the sight of
him taking his pleasure.  For Reuben Shillabeer by
force of accident has until the present appeared in a
light unusual and exceptional.  The prize-fight and all
that went before it created an atmosphere wherein the
master of 'The Corner House' appeared translated
from his true self.  During that time he responded a
little to the joy of life and went about his business a
cheerful and even a sanguine soul; but with the decision
of the contest and the departure of Mr. Fogo to his
metropolitan activities, Shillabeer found life an
anti-climax, the darker for this fleeting spasm of excitement.
His wife, as if in reproach, returned upon him with the
force of an incubus that haunted not only his pillow
but hung heavy on his waking hours; a settled melancholy,
the more marked after its recent dissipation, got
hold upon him; he exhaled an air of depression even
behind his own bar, and only the high qualities and
specific vigour of his malt liquors were able to dispel it.
The 'Dumpling' became increasingly religious and
Mr. Merle had long since forgiven his lamentable lapse of
the previous winter.  Mr. Shillabeer was actually now
engaged on behalf of the vicar of the parish, as he
explained to Margaret.

"Come Woodcock Sunday, 'tis always my hope and
will to get the bird for parson," he said.  "He do read
the chapter with special purpose to catch my ear; and
so sure as it comes, I fetch out my gun and set forth for
the man.  But what with my failing strength and sight,
I can't shoot a cunning creature like a cock many more
years.  I'm going down under Coombeshead to-day and
I shall call on your mother come the evening for a cup
of tea and a talk about the revel.  Since the wedding
feast is put into my hands, I shall do my duty, though
I may tell you that a wedding in the air cuts me to the
quick.  It brings her back as nothing else does."

"I'm sorry for that--truly sorry."

"You can't help it," he said, rubbing the walnut
stock of his gun with his sleeve until it shone.  "Ban't
your fault.  But a oner for weddings she was--a
regular oner for 'em; and a christening would draw her
miles despite the girth of her frame.  'Tis only at the
business of a funeral I can comfort myself with an easy
and cheerful spirit; for she hated them.  No doubt she
knowed her own would come untimely."

"Perhaps 'twas an instinct in her against 'em."

"Though never a woman hastened to dry other
people's tears quicker than her.  Then 'churchings'--she
never had no use for them herself, yet she'd often
stop for the pleasure of:--'Like as the arrows in the
hand of the giant; even so are the young children.'  And
so on.  Nought's sadder than to see a childless
wife, in my opinion--specially if she's fond of 'em.  I
hope you'll have a sackful, my dear."

"It's very kind of you--very kind," said Margaret,
frankly.  "David and me dearly love the little ones."

"As you should do.  I've often thought if that
blessed angel had given me a pledge, that I could have
better stood up afore the trials of life.  But there's
only the Lord for me in this world now.  True,
Mr. Fogo talks of coming to see me again some day; but I
don't suppose he will.  What can the likes of me do
for the likes of such a man as him?  Besides, parson
would never forgive me if I had him here again."

He wandered off, and Margaret, who instantly
reflected the tone of other minds with the swiftness
common to sympathetic and not very intelligent people,
went saddened on her way.  Some light expired out of
the earth and sky for her.  She could not use reason
and remember that Mr. Shillabeer was--in a
word--Mr. Shillabeer.  She merely felt that she had met and
touched hearts with an unhappy old man.  Therefore
herself instantly grew a little unhappy and a little older.
Chance objects, as they will at such times, intruded
and carried on the dominant mood.  A thing beside her
path chimed with Madge's emotion and lifted itself as a
mournful mark and reminder by the way.  Among
reddening banks of bracken that spread in a tangle above
a little hollow, where scarlet and purple of the bramble
fluttered, and sloes took the hue of ripeness, there
thrust up an object, livid and gigantic.  It resembled
some monstrous kindred of the fern that had taken root
and risen here.  But this bleached frond, so regular and
perfect in its graduated symmetry of structure, had
once supported an animal, not a vegetable organism.
Margaret saw the backbone and ribs of a horse scoured
into spotless whiteness by carrion crow, by frost, by
rain; and the spectacle added another shade of darkness
to her mind.  She thought upon it a little while; then
there came in sight part of the population of Warren
House, and the twins, Samson and Richard, succeeded
in lifting their future sister-in-law's spirits nearer to
gaiety.  The children were sailing boats in a pond, but
they abandoned the sport at sight of Margaret, because
they had secrets for her.

"You'll promise faithful not to tell, won't 'e?" asked
Richard.

"If you don't promise, us won't tell 'e," said Samson.

"'Tis the present us have got against David's
wedding-day," said Richard.

"But you must say 'strike me dead if I'll tell,'"
added Samson.

"Mother gived us sixpence to buy it with, and
Joshua got it last time he was to Tavistock," explained
Richard; "but 'tis our present, mind."

"You ought to give us something if we tell you,"
suggested Samson; but Madge shook her head.

"I shall know soon enough," she answered.

"That you won't, then," replied Samson.  "You
won't know for six weeks."

"You might try to guess and give us a ha'penny
each time you lose," suggested Richard.

"Yes, you might," declared Samson.

They walked beside her and, since nothing was to be
made out of the secret, presently told Madge that their
gift was a shaving-brush.

"And Napoleon and Wellington have given him a
razor," said Richard; "so now he's all right."

"Yes," continued Samson, "and Nap was showing
us how a razor cuts hairs in half, and he missed the hair
and showed us how a razor cuts thumbs."

"My word--bled like a pig, he did," concluded
Richard.  "I'm sure I never won't use such a thing
when I grow to be hairy.  Much too 'feared of 'em."

"You mind when I'm married to David that you
often come over and see me, Dicky; and you too, Sam,"
said Margaret.

"If one comes, t'other will come," said Samson.

"Us hunt in couples, faither says--like to foxes,"
declared Richard.  "And we'll often come to tea."

"And oftener still if there's jam--not beastly
blackberry jam, mind you, but proper boughten jam from a
grocer's."

"I'll remember," promised Madge.

They reached the Warren House after some further
bargaining on the part of Samson and promising from
Margaret.  Then the twins returned to their boats and
she entered her lover's home.

David was at work, as the girl knew, but her business
lay with Mrs. Bowden, and it happened that Elias
himself was also within to welcome her.  Both kissed
Margaret and both declared their good pleasure at
sight of her.  She had already become a great happiness
to them, and Elias did not hesitate openly to declare
that his firstborn was luckier than even he deserved
to be.

"'Tis about the Crockers I'm here," said Madge.
"Mother, and father too, be wishful for them to be
axed; but of course nothing in the world would be done
by mother that could hurt your feelings.--Too tender
herself for that.  So I was to find out if you were for
it or against it; and I was to learn if there was any
other folk as you'd like specially invited that we
mightn't hap to know."

"There's four or five must be there," said Mrs. Bowden.
"God knows I don't want 'em; but even at
a wedding it ban't all joy, and people often have to be
axed for the sake of the unborn, though not for their
own sakes by any means."

"I met with the 'Dumpling' up over a bit ago," said
Mr. Bowden.  "Going shooting he was--might have
been going to shoot hisself from the look of him; for
a mournfuller man never throwed a shadow.  But we
had a tell, and I hear as Bartholomew Stanbury means
to give a handsome party."

Margaret smiled.

"So he does then.  'Tis wonnerful how father's
coming out.  Of course the farm's too small and too far
off from the neighbours; but Mr. Moses has very kindly
given us the loan of his shop nigh the church--the big
room."

"'Twill smell of cobbler's wax, but that will be
forgotten when Shillabeer takes the covers off," declared
Mr. Bowden.  "As for him, I could find it in my heart
to wish he wasn't going to be there at all, for 'twill
remind him of his wife and cast him down till he'll
blubber into the plates, but of course he must be on
the spot as he provides the dinner.  And Charles Moses
must be asked, if he's going to lend his big room, though,
to be honest, I never liked the man since he made all
that fuss about the fight.  Pious it may have been, but
godly it weren't, for fighting be the backbone of human
nature, and you'll find that the Lord's chosen hadn't
got far before He set 'em at it, hammer and tongs."

"But about the Crockers," said Margaret; "and if
I may say so, I hope there's no objection, for David
and Bartley be very good friends now, and I'm sure
Bartley's terrible sorry he so far forgot hisself as to
kiss Rhoda."

"He can come and kiss her again for all I care,"
replied Elias.  "All the nation may be at the wedding
and welcome.  There's only one living man won't be
there if I'm anybody.  But Crocker's welcome, and his
managing mother, and his Aunt Susan also."

"I don't like Nanny Crocker myself," confessed
Mrs. Bowden.  "She's a thought too swallowed up in
vain-glory and seems to think that her family be something
special and above common earth.  But I had the best
of her in argument when my twins was born, and I can
afford to be large-minded.  As for Susan, there's plenty
of sense in her, only she don't dare to show it."

"Bartley's learnt upholstering," said Madge.  "He
could earn two pound a week in the world now at any
time, and he's going to look out for a wife."

"All to the good and all sound sense," replied the
warrener.  "Well, us had better ask him to tea.  Here's
plenty here for all markets--our Sophia, with all the
larning of a widow and youth still on her side, and our
Rhoda--though 'twill have to be a frosty pattern of
man to take her fancy, and our Dorcas--not much to
look at, but very anxious to get married seemingly."

"'Tis Screech--that bowldacious ragamuffin!" burst
out Mrs. Bowden.  "To think such a man should dare
to offer for any daughter of mine.  A poaching, ragged
rascal--more like one of they tramps than a respectable
man.  Faither's going to lay his horsewhip round the
fellow's shoulders if he comes up here again--ban't you,
faither?"

"Yes," said Elias, "I am.  And don't you ask him
to the wedding, Margaret, because I wouldn't have it."

Margaret was true to herself.

"Poor chap," she said.  "I'm very sorry he can't
have Dorcas, but of course you know best.  Perhaps
he'll mend some day."

"That sort don't mend.  But they've a terrible
power to mar--like one rotten apple will soon spoil a
bushel.  And if Dorcas grumbles to you about it, as
she will, because you're the sort that hears all the
trouble of the world, then you mind and talk sense to
her.  I'm a reasonable man and I wouldn't say 'no' to
a hedge-tacker so long as he's honest; but William
Screech don't have no child of mine."

The subject changed and Sarah spoke of all that
David's departure meant to her.

"Can't see the place without him for tears," she said.
"'Tis weak, but they will flow every time I say to
myself 'one day less.'  You see, it ban't as if we was all
here, then I'd say nought.  But Sophia, though she
went, was soon back again; and let faither say what he
pleases about Joshua, Joshua can't stand to work day
and night like David, and Dorcas won't look after the
dogs like Rhoda.  'Tis a great upheaval, look at it
which way you will.  If my son Drake had only been
spared, of course all things would have fallen out
differently."

"Yes," admitted Elias; "and if the moon had only
been made of green cheese--us should always have had
plenty of maggots for fishing."

Upon this great aphorism Margaret Stanbury took
her leave; and Dorcas, who had been waiting for her,
now approached in a mood neither lightsome nor joyous.

"I've got the headache," she said.  "I've been crying
my eyes out for a fortnight and I wish I was dead."

"Dorcas!"

"'Tis all along of Billy Screech--cruel and wicked
I call it.  But us will be upsides with father and mother
yet.  Why for shouldn't I marry the man if I love him?
Such a clever man as he is--full of ideas and quite as
able to make a living, I'm sure, as anybody else.  And
I want for your mother to ax him to the wedding,
Madge--just to pay father out.  If he sees Billy there
his pleasure will be spoilt--and sarve him right--the
cruel old man!"

"Don't feel so savage about it.  Bide your time and
tell Billy to stand to work and get regular wages and
make Mr. Bowden respect him.  I've often heard Bart
say that Mr. Screech is wonnerful clever in all sorts of
queer ways, and 'tis only the poaching makes your
father angry, I expect."

"He's given all that up long ago.  Will you ax him
to your wedding?"

"I can't, Dorcas.  Mr. Bowden has just expressly
forbidden it.  I'm very, very sorry.  Perhaps after I'm
married I shall be able to help you; but it rests with
Billy."

"I'll marry him," said Dorcas.  "And not a thousand
fathers shall stop it; and I'll tell you another thing:
it won't be long afore I do.  Just you wait and see."





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.. _`THE WEDDING`:

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   CHAPTER IV


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   THE WEDDING

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"'Tis the difference in our natures," said David
Bowden's mother.  "Some folk haven't never
ended their work, and some don't never begin theirs.
I've known men and women--as thought they were busy
people too--who died without ever tasting what I call a
day's work."

Sarah walked between Nanny Crocker and Constance
Stanbury, and the matrons on her right and left
admitted the truth of the remark.  They had all come
from church; they had seen David and Margaret made
man and wife; and it was during a brief review of the
immediate past and its arduous duties that Mrs. Bowden
uttered her philosophical observation.

"And rabbits going on all the time, mind you," she
added.  "Come what may, in season, year in, year out,
Sundays only excepted, the rabbits goes over all--even
a son's wedding.  'Tis the ordering of nature and we've
got to bend under it."

"A very tidy little wedding," said Mrs. Crocker, who
had pardoned all parties on hearing that her son was
to be best man.  David owned no close intimate of his
sex, and since he and Bartley were now become excellent
friends, he thought upon this idea and his old
antagonist agreed to the proposal.  For Nanny's son could
feel, but not deeply.  The past was past, and its
disappointments had left no heavier scar on his mind than
David's fist upon his face.  He could view the prospect
of being best man at Margaret's wedding without
disturbing emotions, and he accepted the invitation gladly.
True he wished once to marry her and would have been
proud to do so; but when she chose elsewhere, his desire
towards her perished.  Other interests had taken its
place, and he found himself well able to enjoy the
friendship of David and Margaret without any tinge of
bitterness even when the past filled his mind.  It seldom
intruded, for he was of the sort who lack much instinct
of retrospection and, childlike, trust all their future
happiness on the hope and promise of great to-morrows.

"A very tidy little wedding," repeated Mrs. Crocker,
as though uttering a challenge.  The mothers of the
bride and bridegroom had waited each for the other to
speak upon the first utterance of this graceful
compliment; but now Mrs. Stanbury responded.

"Thank you for that kind word, I'm sure," she said.
"Coming from you it will be a delight to all the parties
to hear it, and I know Madge will be proud when I tell
her.  We was up altering her dress till the small hours,
and it didn't fit to the last.  No doubt you noted that
ruckle right across the back of her stays, especially
when she knelt down.  But I hope you won't blame us.
We did our best."

"A thing like that is of small account," declared
Mrs. Crocker graciously.  "Lord! how they'm ringing
the heart out of the bells, to be sure.  They never peal
like that o' Sundays."

Mr. Moses approached and shook hands with each
of the women in turn.

"No," he said; "the fellows be ringing for the best
beloved young woman in the countryside to-day; that's
why you hear what you do in the bells, my dears.  Of
a Sunday they'm ringing to worship and the glory of
the Lord, all steady and solemn.  'Twouldn't be
respectful to the Throne of Grace to peal so free as that."

Then he became personal.

"When I seed you three ladies come through the
coffin gate, 'My stars,' I said, 'there's a bit of summer
flower garden come back into winter!'  'Twas your
bonnets, you must know.  Such flowers I never did see
out of nature, or in it for that matter.  And in
church--when the sun comed through Christ washing the
Apostles' feet--as it do about mid-day at this season,
and fell on your bonnet, Mrs. Crocker, 'twas as though
a dazzling rainbow had broke loose in the holy place."

Mr. Bowden joined them and whispered to his wife.
He was clad in Sunday black, but, to mark the great
occasion, wore a blue-green tie with an old-fashioned
garnet breastpin and chain in it.

"Did you see that scamp, Billy Screech, in church?"
he asked.

"No," she answered; "but 'tis a free country: us
couldn't forbid him to come there."

Rhoda, the widowed Sophia in a sentimental spirit,
and Dorcas followed together.  All were clad in new
finery and all were quite silent.  Mr. Hartley Crocker
approached them and took off his hat.  He remarked
their moods and observed that Rhoda only was cheerful.
She looked superb, he thought, in her purple cloth
dress and little hat of squirrel fur.

"Cheer me up," he said.  "I've got to propose the
bride and bridegroom after the wedding, and I'm
horribly frighted to have to do it.  I'd almost sooner be
fighting again, Miss Rhoda."

"I doubt you'll come well out of it," she said

"Did I hand David the ring all right?"

"I suppose so.  The ring's in its proper place
now--that's all that matters."

She was indifferent, but not absolutely cold.  She
had, he thought, forgiven him, and that made the day
pleasant to him.  It was the first time since the tragic
moment at the Pixies' House that she had directly spoken
to Mr. Crocker; and the sound of her voice, though
not very mellow, yet gave him the greatest satisfaction.

"Did you take the best man's kiss when you was in
the vestry?" asked Dorcas.

The interrogation was far from being a happy one;
yet Bartley made a masterly answer, intended for other
ears than those of the questioner.  As a matter of fact,
he had forgotten the immemorial privilege or most
certainly he had exercised it.  But now he was glad that
he had forgotten.

"No," he answered.  "There's a lot of silly old
customs better left out, Miss Dorcas.  'Tis not a
comely thing for any male to kiss a bride but her
father or her husband."

This virtuous sentiment was directed at Rhoda, but
she made no sign save a perceptible pursing of her lips.

Then the party, led by bride and bridegroom, passed
through rows of the folk and swiftly reached the
workshop of Mr. Moses near the bull-ring.  It had been
cleared for the occasion, and certain busy, kindly spirits
had decorated it and concealed its somewhat naked and
austere proportions with garlands of holly and laurel
and trophies of coloured tissue paper.  The place smelt
of leather and cobbler's wax; but, as Mr. Bowden had
prophesied in the past, these harmless odours vanished
when the meal began.

Thirty people sat down to dinner, and Reuben Shillabeer,
with his immense back view presented to the company,
carved at a side table.  To the windows of the
chamber small, inquisitive boys and girls succeeded in
climbing.  They pressed their noses and cheeks flat
against the glass, the better to see the glories within;
and, thus distorted, their small faces made an unlovely
decoration.  From time to time Ernest Maunder wiped
his mouth, rose from his seat at the table near the
entrance, and drove the little ones away with vague threats
familiar in his calling; but they feared him not and all
climbed up again when he returned to his plate.

There were present the whole family of the Bowdens,
the family of the Stanburys and the family of the
Crockers.  Mr. Moses occupied a seat beside the bride's
mother, and strove, without success, to rouse a spirit of
complacence and satisfaction in her; Mr. Timothy
Mattacott, as Mr. Maunder's friend, sat by Mr. Maunder;
and he showed extreme deference to everybody, because
this was the greatest social experience of his life; while
as for Simon Snell, who had also been invited, his beard
shone with pomatum, and he experienced a real satisfaction
in finding himself exactly opposite Rhoda, and in
regarding the meal that she made and the two full
glasses of beer that she drank with it.

"Will there or won't there be wine?" secretly asked
Mrs. Crocker of Mr. Moses.

"From the large way in which everything has been
carried out so far, and the loads of food over, I believe
Bartholomew Stanbury has run to it," he murmured
under his breath.

And he was right.

"Afore we come to the healths, I'll thank you to open
they six bottles of brown sherry wine, Reuben," cried
out the giver of the feast in a hearty voice, when the
apple tarts and cream began to be eaten.

"Only got to say the word," responded Shillabeer.

"All's ready."

He was near Margaret as he spoke, and she put up
her hand and stopped him.

"And you've got to drink too, mind," she said.
"You've done everything as only you could do it.  I
never did dream of such a wonderful dinner in all my
days; and to see all these beautiful wreaths and ribbons
on the ceiling!  I want to be thanking everybody.  'Tis
almost too much kindness."

"Never!" he answered.  "If I could put gold and
diamonds in the food for you, I would; and them as
hung up the adornments never did a bit of work with
better appetite."

The wine was opened and poured into thirty glasses.

"There's only one health, or I should say two in one,
to be drunk," explained Mr. Stanbury; "and Mr. Crocker
here have kindly consented to do the speechifying."

Mrs. Bowden, rather to her own surprise, grew
lachrymose with the dessert.  She cheered up, however,
when Bartley rose to propose the health of the bride and
bridegroom.  To the habitually taciturn folk about
him, his flow of speech appeared astounding, and not a
few agreed that, though Crocker never did any work,
yet his native talents were extraordinary and might
have led him to any height of achievement.

"Upon my word," admitted the bridegroom's father,
"it can't be denied that the chap--light-minded though
he may be, here and there--has got amazing gifts.  In
fact, to be honest, he can turn his hand to anything--larn
a trade, fight a great fight and run into mouth-speech
as easy and flowing as a parson.  He's a
wonder--though I say it to your face, ma'am."

He made this handsome criticism to Bartley's
mother, and she explained how that Sheepstor as yet
knew but a fraction of the truth concerning her son.
That the warrener spoke thus, however, largely warmed
Nanny Crocker's heart after her second glass of brown
sherry; and she told Susan later in the day that there
was rather more in Elias Bowden than met the eye.

Bartley received a cheer when he rose and a still
louder round when he sat down again.

"Ladies and gentlemen," he said, "I beg leave to
ask you all to drink long life and happiness to our
friends David and Madge Bowden, who this day have
joined hands for holy matrimony.  I know 'em both
and can give them both a very good character, I assure
you.  As for Madge, she's just a warm, loving heart on
two legs--all heart; and if you want to know what she
is, don't ask her, but ask the old people, and the terrible
poor people, and them that be badly off for food and
friends.  They'll tell you all about her.  But you
prosperous people, all sitting around here waiting to
have a dash at your sherry--you don't know nothing
about her.  She's a good angel, that's what Madge
Stanbury have been ever since she could run to pick up
some baby smaller than herself; and that's what Madge
Bowden will be to her dying day.  As for David here,
last time him and me met in company, he was the best
man, I believe.  No use for you to shake your head,
David.  Bested I was; but to-day I'm the best man and
he've got to sing second.  And I tell him to his face that
he's a right down good chap, and every good man be
proud to know him.  And, for my part, I think such a
lot of David that I'd challenge him to fight again this
day three months, but that I very well know what
Madge would say about it.  Besides, there's one or two
other people in the world besides David to be thought
upon, and, though I know 'twould cheer Mr. Shillabeer
up a lot if we could get Mr. Fogo down again and have
another fight, I'm afraid we're all too happy to want to
go fighting; and we can't all hope to have David's luck
in the ring and out.  Well, he had one brave, beautiful
woman in his corner when he fought me; and she helped
him to beat me without a doubt; and now he has got
another brave, beautiful woman in his corner, and she'll
help him to win whatever battles he may have to fight.
And here's good luck and long life and happiness and
content for them and God bless the pair of 'em from
this day for ever!"

Everybody rose, and David and Madge in their ignorance
also rose, but were thrust back into their seats
again.  Immense applause welcomed Bartley's great
oratory, but for his part he kept his eyes on one face,
while he drank the health that he had proposed.  Rhoda,
however, did not return the gaze.  She had blushed
faintly at the sudden allusion to herself and the cheer
from the men that punctuated it; but Bartley's craft
and rhetoric quite missed her.  The man seemed all of
a piece to her: facile, unstable, untrustworthy--and his
compliments touched her even less than he imagined.
He had prejudiced himself in her eyes for ever, and it
remained to be seen whether his own skill and pertinacity
would prove strong enough to conquer and destroy that
prejudice.  It was true, as he had suspected earlier in
the day, that her forgiveness was real; but her
attitude towards him had been radically changed, or
rather radically established, by his outrage.  Before
the event she had entertained no opinion, good
or bad, concerning him.  She was henceforth
constitutionally unable to regard him as she regarded the
bulk of men; and he felt this; but he also felt that he
must always interest her; and there is no edifice of
emotion that cannot be erected upon permanent foundations
of interest.

So he hoped on and when Mr. Charles Moses, to
please Mrs. Crocker, and to show the company that
others of the hamlet also possessed a pretty gift of
words, arose to propose the good health of Bartley
himself, he listened in the best possible humour and
made a reply that was full of rough and ready fun.

Health drinking became the feature of the wedding
feast, despite the fact that it had been intended to
eschew it.  Everybody found himself or herself toasted,
and every man of the company was tempted or chaffed
on to his legs in turn.  The wine running out,
Mr. Shillabeer insisted upon a personal contribution in this
sort, and sent a pot-boy for certain claret that had
hung fire for some years and yet, owing to intrinsic
poverty of nature, could not be said much to improve
with age.  Nobody liked it as well as the more generous
and mellow brown sherry; but the liquid was wine and
free of cost: therefore the folk consumed it, thanked
the giver and invited him also to say a few words.
Several shook their heads at the prospect and foresaw
that the ample spectre of Mrs. Shillabeer must instantly
rise to cast a chill upon the spirit of the hour; but it
was Mr. Bowden himself who urged the host to speak,
and Reuben straddled his legs, heaved a mighty sigh,
crossed his arms and addressed the company.

"Why for you want me to say anything, Elias
Bowden, I'm sure I don't know; but I must do my share
with the rest, I suppose, and I'm sure I hope, as we all
hope, that this here wedding will be the beginning of a
happy united life for bride and bridegroom.  We, as
have been in the state and had the fortune to draw a
prize, like Mr. and Mrs. Bowden here, and Mr. and
Mrs. Stanbury, and Mrs. Crocker, though she's lost her
prop and stay these many years, and me--we know
what marriage is.  But them as draw a blank, 'tis
hidden from them, and the bachelor men and spinster
women sprinkled about--they don't know neither.  But
perhaps nobody in this company--widows or them as
be still happily joined together--ever felt to marriage
what I felt to it.  Time and again I said to my dead
partner that 'twas too good to last, and she'd laugh at
me and say I was the sort that always met trouble half
way.  And I seed her fading out week after week; and
I seed the wonnerful bulk of her dwindling; and yet I
couldn't realise what was coming till it did come.  The
last words she said to me--or rather she whispered 'em,
for she was got far beyond speech--the last words was,
'Don't you take on too much, Reuben.  We shall meet
again in the Better Land.'  And I'm sure I hope it
may be so, though I'm an unworthy creature.  And I
hope you won't think that I say these things to cast
down any joyful member amongst us.  Far from it.  I
only want for these young people to remember that the
more they love, the worst must they suffer if things fall
out contrariwise.  But whether David goes, or Margaret
here be plucked off untimely, 'twill be the joy and
gladness of the one that's left to remember what it was to
have a well-loved partner.  And so, whatever haps,
they'll never regret this day's work.  And I hope
everybody have eaten and drunken to their liking."

Then the bride insisted that Reuben should himself
have some dinner.

"If 'twas anybody else proposed it, I should certainly
refuse," he said; "but since you want for me to do it,
and my inwards are hollow as a drum, I'm quite
agreeable to pick a bone and drink a quart."

Bartholomew Stanbury now spoke.  He thanked
everybody for coming, praised the dinner and the wine,
declared it to be the second most joyful day in his life,
and explained that the first had been when he himself
was married.  He confirmed Mr. Shillabeer's view of
matrimony, staggered the publican by advising him to
look round and find a second; and concluded by
proposing the health of Mr. Charles Moses, who was among
the oldest and best thought upon residents of Sheepstor,
and who to-day had specially distinguished himself by
lending his famous shop for the wedding breakfast.
"Free of charge he done it, mind you," explained
Mr. Stanbury, "just out of the goodness of his heart he
turns all his tools and leather and what not out of this
here place, and lets me have it for the feast; and I wish
to publicly thank the man afore you, neighbours, and
let everybody know the sort he is."

In reply, Mr. Moses, who usually became reminiscent
after successful feeding, traced briefly the history of
Sheepstor in so far as his own family helped to make
that history.  In addition to being a staunch Church
of England man, Mr. Moses unconsciously subscribed
to a still more venerable creed.  He worshipped his
ancestors, and now detailed the great and picturesque
part played by his great-grandfather, his grandfather
and his father in the development and elevation of the
village.

"Once," said he, "we were merely a little bit of a
hamlet at Dartymoor edge, and scarce a man farther
off than Tavistock knew ought about us.  But my
forbears and others like 'em rose up in our midst and
toiled and laboured for the good of the town, and each
did his appointed part, until--well--all I say is, look
at us now!  Sheepstor stands as high as any other
place of note that ever I heard about in the kingdom,
and we be carrying on the good work in the good old way."

With the recollections of Mr. Moses, which were much
protracted, light began to wane, and certain prominent
members of the party prepared to wend homewards,
while yet their wild roads might be seen.  All
rose, and there began great hand-shaking and well-wishing,
together with some laughter and some shedding
of tears.  Reuben broached a bottle of whisky for the
men and tea was brought in for the women.  All the
young people had long since departed, because the
entertainment from their standpoint ended with the eating.
Now nearly a score of pipes began to glow, and the
wedding guests set out on many roads.  The adult
Bowdens departed homewards, and Elias carried his
wife on his arm and strove to cheer her.  Her son,
Drake, had unhappily intruded himself largely upon
these final emotional moments, and she refused to be
comforted.  With a quintessential distillation of
pessimism worthy of Mrs. Stanbury's self, Sarah declared
that somehow during Mr. Shillabeer's speech it had been
borne in upon her that Margaret's firstborn would prove
a failure.

"Stuff and nonsense--silly woman!  'Tis your
digestion," said the master of the Warren House.  "I very
well knowed how 'twould be when I seed you taking that
sour purple muck they call claret atop of the good
old-fashioned sherry.  No stomach could be expected to
endure one on top of t'other, and you're fairly paid out
for it."

Mrs. Stanbury was very silent on the way home, but
Bart and his father did the talking.  Both assured
Constance that the entertainment might be considered
absolutely and brilliantly successful from first to last.
She, however, expressed a multiplicity of doubts.

"The loin of pork was done to rags, and the stuffing
tasted of nought," she said.  "'Tis things like that
are remembered months after all that went right be
quite forgotten.  And I hope to God they've got the
cottage walls dry, and that leak over the ope-way made
good.  When I was up there a fortnight agone to see
the wall-papers, you'd never have said mortals could
live in the place inside two weeks."

"Madge vowed 'twas all right when I drove her over
with her boxes a bit ago," declared Bart.  "The house
will be very vitty after they've lived in it a week or two."

Of course, the first to leave Sheepstor were bride and
bridegroom.  In a trap hired from 'The Corner House'
David carried Margaret off to her home.  Their
possessions were already stored at 'Meavy Cot.'  Fires had
been burning for a week and everything was made ready
for the married pair.

David's last words were addressed to Rhoda.

"Mind," he said, "a fortnight from to-day us shall
be ready; and I'll come up to Ditsworthy in my new
cart for you and your box.  But we all shall meet afore
then, no doubt."

He drove his wife away under a wild evening sky,
amid blessings and cheers and cries of "Godspeed."  Some
of the voices were shrill and tearful, some merry,
some deep and gruff.  The trap trundled along; Madge
flashed a white handkerchief; then she and her husband
were swallowed up by the roaming, red light that misted
under the sunset.

"A happy omen, souls," said Mr. Stanbury.  "For
the sun have been shining ever since it rose.  A
cloudless marriage day is all to the good, I believe; and
though the sky may offer for rain afore midnight,
nought of the day can be marred now."





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.. _`ARRIVAL OF RHODA`:

.. class:: center large bold

   CHAPTER V


.. class:: center medium bold

   ARRIVAL OF RHODA

.. vspace:: 2

A fortnight after her marriage there came a
day when Madge roamed restlessly and rather
nervously about her little house.  She was very happy,
yet with a clouded happiness, because this ideal bliss of
dwelling with David alone drew to its close.  Real life
had yet to begin at 'Meavy Cot,' and real life included
Rhoda Bowden.  On this day David started early to
fetch his sister.  Among his other possessions was a
horse and a light cart; and with these he set out in the
chill half-light of six o'clock on a November morning
for the Warren House.

Now Margaret's preparations were complete.  A dish
of cakes kept hot upon the hearth; and aloft in Rhoda's
room the severe simplicity of the rosy-washed walls, low
roof and little iron bedstead seemed to echo Rhoda's
maiden mind.  But her sister-in-law was not content
with the unadorned chamber.  She had nailed an
illuminated text or two upon the walls; she had hung there
also an old grocer's almanac with a picture of a
deerhound's head upon it, because she thought this portrait
of a dog would please Rhoda; and she had made a little
bouquet of wild berries and set it with a sprig of ivy in
a vase on the chest-of-drawers.  A few of Rhoda's own
possessions had already arrived.  On the floor of the
room lay no carpet; but the white deal boarding was
broken by some skins--black, brindled and tawny.
These memorials were all that remained of certain
defunct dogs who had owned Rhoda as mistress during
their bustling and eventful lives.  She was wont to
preserve the pelt of any special favourite; and her
nature received a placid satisfaction in possession and
use of these remains.  The rough coats that had
often-times received caress or chastisement as occasion
demanded, now felt only her naked feet at morn and evening.

Margaret began to fear for the tea, but David was a
punctual man, and at five minutes past the appointed
time a light flashed in the outer darkness, a cart creaked
and jolted over the rough way, a dog barked and
Rhoda's deep tones answered it.  She was soon beside
Margaret, and they shook hands and kissed affectionately.

"Come and see your room," said Madge, "while
David puts up the horse and cart.  I'm afraid you was
jolted a bit at the finish.  The new road round the hill
be terrible rough travelling for wheels."

Rhoda was not cheerful and had little to say.  She
produced some parcels and one from Mrs. Bowden; but
it seemed that some trouble sat upon her.  She
brightened up, however, on reaching her room and much
admired it.

"Like your kind heart to think of all these things,"
she said.

"You'll see the sun of a fine morning rise 'twixt
Hessary and Cramber," explained Margaret.  "And I'm
afraid the noise of the waterfall may keep you waking
a bit till you'm used to it.  'Tis quiet to-night, but after
heavy rain Meavy comes down like thunder."

"Nought keeps me awake," declared Rhoda.  She
altered the position of the fragments on the floor.
"That was the best collie ever I had," she said, drawing
a black and orange skin to her bedside; "a terrible fine
dog, and only in his prime when he died.  Father said
he was going mad, though I never thought it.  However,
he was queer and snapped at the childer in a way
very unlike himself, and father would not risk it, but
put a charge of shot into his head when I was out of
the way.  You'd hardly believe it, Madge, but I cried!
On my honour I cried--and a girl of near eighteen at
the time."

Rhoda had brought a few of her special treasures
and Margaret now helped her to arrange them to
advantage.  Her library was trifling and included a Bible
and prayer-book, an anthology of verses, which Madge
saw for the first time and felt astonishment at seeing,
and a work on canine diseases.

"You can have they rhymes if you've got any use
for them," said Rhoda.  "They was given me by my
gossip, old Martha Moon, when I was confirmed, but I
don't understand poetry, though you may."

Then Rhoda admired the dog almanac, and she was
still doing so when David's voice below brought the
women down together.

He was thirsty and wanted his tea.

Rhoda produced one of the famous Bowden cakes,
famed alike for size and wealth of ingredients; but the
meal, while lacking nothing of goodness, warmth and
variety, awoke no answering glow in the master's mind.
He was clearly troubled, and Rhoda's passing brightness
also gave place to a taciturn demeanour before her
brother's concern.  Margaret thereupon rated David
and he explained his annoyance.

"What ever has come over you?" she asked.  "So
glumpy and glowry as you are!  What's amiss with
him, Rhoda?  But I'll wager I know.  It all looked so
cosy and homelike at the Warren House that David felt
homesick and didn't want to came back to me!"

David was bound to laugh at this absurd theory.

"Homesick!" he said.  "I'm only homesick when
I'm out of the sight of our brave chimney; and well you
know it."

"'Tis Dorcas," explained Rhoda.  "She's giving
mother and father a lot of trouble for the minute.
She'll see sense come presently, we'll hope."

"Billy Screech?"

Rhoda nodded.

"She'll come round; but for some cause us common
folk can't fathom, she's in love with the man.  So she
says, anyhow, though 'tis hard to believe it."

"As to that," declared Margaret, "Billy ban't
particular ugly.  He've got a long, sharp nose, I grant
you--"

"Yes," interrupted David, "and he've been told to
keep that nose away from the Warren House; and
the mischief is he won't obey father's commands.
Two nights agone the moon was full, and Rhoda
went out for to breathe the air and see if there was
a fox down by the fowl-house.  And a fox there
was--long nose and all, and his name was Billy
Screech."

He looked at his sister and she continued the narrative.

"I hate spying," she said, "and God, He knows I
didn't go afield to seek that man, or any other man.
And I thought Dorcas was to bed, for she'd gone off
after supper with a faceache.  But travelling quick and
silent, as my way is, over the close surf of the warrens,
I came round a rock right on top of 'em.  And--"  Rhoda
grew hot at the unpleasant recollection and
broke off.

"And he was sitting on a stone, and she was sitting
on his lap," said David, who spared his sister the details.
"Little red-headed fool!  I wish I'd found 'em, for I'd
have thrashed the man to jelly afore her eyes, and cured
her that way."

"What did you do, Rhoda?" asked Margaret.

"I made her come in.  As her elder sister I had the
right.  She wasn't in the least ashamed of herself
seemingly.  I boxed her ears, when the man had gone, and
she forgot herself and tried to bite my hand."

"She's like a rat in a trap over this business," said
David.  "Never would you have guessed or dreamed
'twas in her to show her teeth so."

"All laughter and silly jokes till this miserable man
came after her," continued his sister.  "And now--I
blush for her.  'Tis very horrid and shameful to think
that any girl can demean herself so."

David here left the room and Madge continued to
Rhoda.

"She feels 'tis her great chance for a home of her
own, I expect.  Us all gets that hope sometimes, so
why not Dorcas?"

But the other did not sympathise with this theory.

"Us don't all feel it," she declared.  "A many
women never do.  And if all of us was to marry, the
work of the world would stand still.  There's a great
deal for free women to do that nobody else can do so
well as them; and it seems to me that the first thing a
female does, after she's brought childer into the world,
be to look about and try to find an unmarried woman
to help her do her work.  There's scores of spinsters
spending their lives messing about with their sisters'
babbies."

"Babbies ban't everything, I grant that," said
Margaret; but she said it doubtfully.  In her heart
children certainly took the first place.  Indeed, Madge
felt a little guilty of being untrue to herself in the last
sentiment.  Therefore she modified it.

"All the same, they mean a lot to most women,
and I long for 'em cruel and ban't ashamed to say it."

"The likes of you would; and so do David; and
when they come, you'll want for me to look after some
young things beside puppies," said Rhoda.  She smiled,
but did not laugh.  There was a saying at Warren
House that none had ever heard her laugh.

"As to that," answered her sister-in-law, boldly,
"you talk like an old maid a'ready, and you but a few
and twenty.  We'll soon larn you different!  When
you see what 'tis to have a li'l home of your very own,
and a man of your very own, I'm sure you'll begin to
find that marriage is good.  Now come and look at my
parlour and tell me if there's not something there that
you'd wish away."

She lighted a candle and exhibited the glory of her
best room to Rhoda's gaze.

"'Tis everything it should be, and you've arranged
it beautiful, I'm sure," declared Rhoda; "and the
presents do look better far than they did afore.  This
here, that me and Sophia bought for you"--she indicated
a little looking-glass in an ornate gold frame--"why,
it's ever so much finer than ever I thought it in
the shop at Tavistock where we bought it; and father's
sideboard do look splendid."

"You must see the pictures by daylight," said
Madge.  "They be proper painted pictures that David
picked up in a sale.  He got the four for seven shillings,
and the auctioneer said the frames were worth the
money."

Rhoda admired very heartily and again congratulated
Margaret on her skill and taste.

"What should I wish away?" she asked.  "I can't
sec nothing that isn't just where it should be, I'm
sure."

"Look round again."

But the other, after a further scrutiny, only shook
her head.

"Why, those two handkerchiefs in the glass frames
hanging each side of your lovely looking-glass.  There's
poor Bartley's purple and yellow and David's blue and
white spots.  Now surely, surely, Rhoda, it ban't a
seemly thing to hang 'em up there to remind everybody
of that horrid fight?  And besides, as 'tis only of a
Sunday the parlour's likely to be used, that makes it
worse, for who wants to think of such a business on the
seventh day, of all days?"

Rhoda was looking at the colours, but showed only
interest.

"They come out very nice," she said, "and of course
they ought to be here.  If I was you, I should be
prouder of them two things and the great, valiant battle
they stand for, than anything else belonging to David.
And if you'd been there, Madge, as I was, and had seen
David, despite all that he went through, come out top
and smash in t'other man's face with his last strength
afore he went blind--if you'd seen it, you wouldn't wish
the colours away.  'Twas I hitched 'em off the post
when everybody else had forgot 'em."

"There's the other man to think of, however."

"Why?" asked Rhoda.  "I'm sure that Bartley
Crocker, who be pretty large-minded with all his faults,
wouldn't think none the worse of David for hanging up
the handkerchers like this.  He'd have done the same
quick enough--or his mother would have done it for
him.  The men be good friends, and so they ought to
be.  But that's no reason against it."

Margaret admitted the justice of the argument.

"If you think it can't hurt anybody's feelings, no
doubt there's no real harm," she said.

"Of course not.  Men be men, and not so tender
and touchy as the likes of you.  Why, what did
Mr. Crocker say at your wedding?  Nothing but what was
friendly and kindly, I'm sure."

"No, indeed--a beautiful speech; and 'twas as much
for that reason as any other that I thought perhaps, if
ever he came to see us and caught sight of the
colours--"

"He'll be the first to say they look very fine,"
prophesied Rhoda.  "All the same, I hope I shan't be
here when he calls--if he does call--for--"

She stopped and Margaret answered.

"Don't say that.  I'm sure, after what he spoke
about you in his speech, you ought to let bygones be
bygones and feel friendly."

"That's all past and forgiven," said Rhoda; "but I
won't pretend I feel to him like I do to other men."

"I hope you don't," replied Madge, laughing.
"That's just what I want to hear, Rhoda."

The younger was puzzled and her sister-in-law,
unconscious of the fateful moment, made the first move
in a game that was to determine three destinies.

"I hope you don't.  I hope you feel that Bartley
Crocker be worth a little more thought than most men.
At any rate, don't set your mind against him.  That
wouldn't be fair--to yourself, Rhoda."

"My mind's neither for nor against any human
creature outside my own people.  Why should it be?"

"There's no reason at all.  You're young and you're
terrible pretty, and not a soul that's ever set eyes upon
you feels anything but kind thoughts of you."

Rhoda did not answer for a few moments; then a
bewildered expression faded from her face.

"I'll go out and see the kennel now."

"Leave that till the morning and unpack your
things.  'Twill be dark as a wolf's mouth over there."

"I've brought my own lantern," said Rhoda; "I'll
go over now, if you'll show me the way."

The horn lantern was lighted and Madge led Rhoda
where her husband had planted a row of flat stepping-stones
across the river.  The kennel and a byre stood
there together, and four dogs whined a welcome to their
new mistress.  In the light of the flame their shining
noses and lustrous eyes flashed out of the gloom, and
they leapt about the women.  David appeared; then
Madge went in to wash up and prepare supper, while
Rhoda stayed beside her brother.

"'Tis good to be back-along with you," she said,
"and I do think, all ways, it must be better.  Joshua
be coming out wonderful and surprising father every
day since you went; and Sophia will take my place;
and Nap and Wellington, between them, will look after
Joshua's work with the traps.  'Tis all right but for
Dorcas.  There's nobody left to keep her in order now
I'm gone--hateful little toad!  I axed father to set
parson on her; but he wouldn't.  Something will have
to be done, but I don't know what."

"I'll see father later," replied David.  "Dorcas be
the first Bowden that's a fool, and we must treat her
according."

They all supped together presently, and David
planned the nature of the life before his sister.  The
course of laborious days did not spare her and left little
margin for idleness; but Rhoda neither knew nor
wished to know the meaning of leisure.  She appeared
well content with David's plans and nodded from time
to time, but said little.





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.. _`REPULSE`:

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   CHAPTER VI


.. class:: center medium bold

   REPULSE

.. vspace:: 2

At noon in early May, when the willow's golden
flowers ran up the still naked stems like fire; when
the clouds in the sky were large and fleecy and the birds
sang again from dawn till even, Bartley, walking beside
the leat, where it wound like a silver ribbon between
Lowery Tor and Lowery Farm, met Rhoda Bowden.
Neither expected to see the other in that spot.  She
explained that she had been far afield with a message for
her brother; he admitted that he walked there with no
special object but to kill an hour.

"How's your mother?" she asked.

"No better.  I'm only here now till I know the
doctor's been.  As soon as I see his gig drive up the
hill, I shall go down across the river home.  She vows
'tis nothing; but I think she's worse than we know."

"Summer may get up her nature again."

"I'm sure I hope so too.  And 'tis more than kind
of you to cheer me up."

He walked beside her.

"May I give your dogs a sandwich?" he asked.  "My
aunt cut me a bit of bread and meat to fetch along with
me; but I don't want it."

She nodded and Bartley divided his food between a
fox-terrier and a collie.  In a twinkling his luncheon
vanished.

They kept silence for a long time and she, astonished
that he could be mute, addressed him.

"David be going to show sheep at Tavistock this year."

"Good luck to them then," he answered, wakening
from his reverie.  "Those horned creatures he has got
look very fine and carry an amazing deal of
wool--anybody can see that.  I'm very much inclined to try
a few myself.  Must ask him all about them if he'll be
so kind as to tell me."

"No doubt he would.  He's doing a bit of Moorman's
work now in the quarter, and looking after a
good few things besides his own."

"The Moorman, old Jonathan Dawe, is past his work,
I doubt?"

"Far past it.  But he and David understand each
other, and David does very well out of it.  He'll be
Moorman for certain come Mr. Dawe dies, unless
something better turns up."

"Why doesn't the old chap retire?"

"David have often axed him the same question.  He
says the race of Dawe never retires.  He means to die
in harness--unless Duchy won't lease the quarter to
him no more."

Bartley nodded and silence again fell.  He had seen
not a little of Rhoda during the past few months, and
he knew now that he longed to marry her and none else.
Madge had promised to use her wits in the good cause,
and she did her best for him, but Crocker perceived that
his wooing must take place upon no very conventional
lines.  Rhoda Bowden was not to be taken by storm but
by strategy.  So, at least, he believed, and he had
devoted much time to the problem of her capture and
displayed a patience and pertinacity alike very remarkable
in him.  He paid no regular and obvious court, for fear
of being warned off by David before he had given Rhoda
a fair opportunity to change her mind concerning him.
He merely considered her when the chance offered; spoke
well and enthusiastically about her behind her back, and
seized every incident and event that could serve to bring
her into his company, or take him into hers.  Margaret
helped, but not as she would have liked to help.  Bartley
held himself cleverer than she in this matter and
expressly forbade her either to ask him at present to
'Meavy Cot,' or take any other step which must result
in a meeting between him and Rhoda.  She did just
what she was told, watched his cautious progress and
felt absolutely certain that he was mistaken.  Her way
had been quite different from his, and, as she came to
know Rhoda better, she felt that Bartley's elaborate
plans would miscarry and leave her sister-in-law
absolutely indifferent.

"You can try your plan and I'll look on," she said
to him; "and, after you've proved you're all wrong,
then you will have to try mine.  Mind, I don't say my
wits will be much more use than your own; but they
may be."

And now the time was ripe, in Crocker's opinion, to
put his experiment to the proof and see whether his
unostentatious but steady siege had in reality shaken
the fortress at any point.  He felt tolerably certain that
Rhoda would refuse him; but he intended to ask the
great question.  He was, indeed, prepared to put it
many times before taking 'no' for an answer.

At a stile their ways parted.  She would follow the
leat, which leapt Meavy at an aqueduct not a quarter
of a mile from her home; and he would plunge into the
valley, cross the river and return to Sheepstor.

"Well, good-morning to you," she said.  "I hope
that Mrs. Crocker will mend afore long."

"Wait," he answered.  "I won't keep you, Rhoda,
but 'tis a pretty place and hour for speech.  May I ask
you something?"

"I'm a thought late for dinner as it is.  But ask and
welcome."

"'Welcome'!  I wonder?  'Twould be a very welcome
thing to think I was welcome.  But I'm not vain
enough to think it.  I only hope it."

His personality and the masculine look and voice of
him troubled her.  A man who was obviously alive to
sex and alert before women made her uncomfortable.
The deep-eyed sly man--the man who was servile to
women, who rushed to set chairs for them, who bowed
to them and strove to catch their eye in public--these
men she hated.  Bartley was such a man, but he had
long since perceived her dislike of gallantry and had
given her no second cause to resent his attentions in
that sort.  His sustained reserve and apparent
indifference had satisfied her and modified her former
detestation; but it had not advanced him one span in
her regard.  She did not answer him now, and he
continued--

"You see, Rhoda, very queer things happen--things
that are deeper than we can explain or understand.
And, before I speak, I want to go back a bit, because
what I'm going to say may seem pleasanter in your ears
if I remind you of a thing that happened long since.
When I kissed you in the Pixies' House you were terrible
angered with me, and 'twas as natural for you to be so
as 'twas for me to kiss you."

"I don't want to hear no more of that, and I won't,"
she said fiercely.

"You must," he answered.  "You've no choice.
You're a just woman--as just and honourable as all
who be called Bowden, and you must hear.  I insist on
it, for 'tis almost life or death to me.  When I kissed
you and you tore from me like a frightened bird, what
did you say?  You forget, but I remember, and I'll
remind you.  You pressed your face against my cheek
by accident, and I couldn't stand it, and I kissed you
and you said: 'You loathsome, Godless wretch!  I could
tear the skin off my face.  I'd sooner the lightning had
struck me.'  Then you fought your way out and
trampled on my hand with your boot till the blood ran.
Now, Rhoda, listen.  I'm not loathsome, and I'm not
Godless.  You touched me accidentally and I took a
terrible fierce fire from it.  Why?  Not because I'm a
free liver; not because I would do the like from any
maiden's touch.  Not from that--I swear it; but
because that touch meant a great deal more to me than
I understood.  I did a thing any man may do under
certain circumstances, Rhoda; but the circumstances
were hid from me then, though they came out clear
enough after.  I loved you in the Pixies' House, though
I didn't know it then; but my nature was quicker than
my mind, and my nature took charge and made me do
the thing I did.  Not out of insult, but out of honour I
did it; and I've honoured you more and more ever
since that day.  I honoured you when you helped David;
and I knew then, as well as I know that God made me,
that if you'd been in my corner instead of his I'd have
beat him.  I honoured you at his wedding--so graceful
and lovely and above the rest as you were; and I honour
you now, and I've been a better chap since I knew you.
And--and if you'll marry me, Rhoda, I'll try with all
my strength to be worthy of such a wife.  Oh, Rhoda,
don't say 'no.'"

She only understood a part, and the tone of his voice
spoke and soothed her to patience, though his words
left her cold.  She perceived that he was deeply in love
with her and had hidden it carefully from her.  That
he had hidden it was a grace in him: she thanked him
for that.  His excuse for the past did not impress her.
All that remained was to refuse him and leave him as
swiftly as possible.  She did not feel very flattered or
elated.  She did not like him any better for this avowal.
The master-sense in her mind was one of frank
discomfort.  She felt not particularly sorry that she had
to disappoint him; she experienced only a desire for
haste--to speak and end this unsought scene and get
out of his sight.  She wasted no words.

"'Tis kind, no doubt, to offer marriage," she said,
"but you're wrong.  Us wouldn't suit each other.
You'll find a girl to please you better than me.  Ban't
no use talking about it.  I don't feel--I don't feel
drawed, Mr. Crocker, and I suppose unless both parties
be drawed 'tis no use hoping for a happy marriage."

"Think of it--take a bit of time.  'Tis mere
moonshine the likes of you going single, Rhoda."

"I've seen marriage under my eyes ever since I could
mark anything," she answered.  "I've seen it and still
see it."

She stopped and shook her head, implying that as
yet the state offered no large charm for her.

"Good-bye.  Think no more of this--and no more will I."

She left him, and he sat down where a sluice opened
off the leat, so that the overflow in time of torrent might
do no hurt to the banks.  He sat and regretted what
he believed to be his precipitation.  The time was not
ripe.  He had sprung this proposal too suddenly upon
her.  For her own sake he had not played the lover as
a preliminary, and as a result she failed to recognise the
lover in him.  He had erred in tactics.  He was not
much downcast, but felt that the opening battle was well
ended, with a defeat that he foresaw.  He had explained
the kiss, and this interview was thereby justified.  It
would not be necessary to retrace that old ground again.
And yet he doubted whether Rhoda had quite understood him.

"If she did understand, she didn't believe," he told
himself.

He was not ill-pleased with the encounter.  He had fired
the first shot and engaged her in the first skirmish.  He
must tell Margaret all that had happened, and he must
hear from Margaret if any results of this adventure
were displayed by Rhoda.  He felt pretty certain that
none would be.  David she might confide in, but not in
Margaret.  The interview as a whole did not dismay
him, and it was not until he reached home and heard an
unfavourable report of his mother's health that he
became gloomy.

Meanwhile the girl, a little fluttered by this
occurrence, proceeded on her way with thoughts not wholly
pleasant; and to her came the leat man, Simon Snell,
upon his rounds.  His eyes grew large and watered a
little when he caught sight of her in the distance.  At
first, indeed, he was minded to dive off the footpath,
hasten away and make as though he had not seen her;
but he fortified himself against this pusillanimous
instinct, held on boldly, and presently saluted her in his
thin, somewhat senseless voice.

"Good-day to 'e, Miss Rhoda Bowden.  Glad to
meet you on the leat path, I'm sure.  Don't often see
you this way."

"Good-morning, Mr. Snell."

"And a very good morning to you.  Beautiful spring
weather, to be sure.  Beautiful dogs, to be sure.  Never
see you or David without a fine dog.  And the dog as
I had off your farther would have made a very fine,
upstanding dog without a doubt, if her hadn't have
gone and died.  Not your fault--I'm not saying that."

"I was very sorry to hear it."

"Of course you was; and if I'd had enough sense,
and put the poor young dog in a basket and carry 'un
up over to you, I'll lay with your dog cleverness as you'd
have saved 'un.  But, instead, I traapsed off to
Walkhampton with him--to Adam Thorpe--and he got the
dog underground in a week."

"Thorpe don't know much about dogs."

"You're right there; I quite agree.  Would 'e like
to see me open a sluice-gate?  'Tis purty to see the
water go down all of a tumble, and often a rainbow
throwed off when the wind be blowing slantwise across
the sun."

"Can't stop, but I'll see the thing done some other
time, if you please."

"An' welcome; and I'm sorry, I'm sure, to have kept
'e with my talk, and you wild to be on your way, no
doubt."

"If you want a puppy, you can have one next
month," said Rhoda.  "That yellow collie there, with a
bit of Gordon setter in him, be the faither.  They're
very nice-looking creatures."

"And so I will then, and gladly and thankfully," he
said.

Simon walked by her and she felt easy and comfortable.
His neutral, not to say neuter, personality
met and matched her own.  His round, innocent eyes,
smooth face and silly beard put her at ease.  He did
not thrust masculinity upon her, but was merely a
fellow-creature talking upon subjects that interested
her.  What Crocker had of late tried to be in his
attitude towards this woman Mr. Snell really was.  The
one attempted a posture other than his own, and failed
in it; for no woman could look into his eyes and not know
something about him.  The other equally remained
himself, yet even so he satisfied Rhoda, although she came
to him unusually exacting from her recent interview
with Mr. Crocker.  Simon's thoughts, Simon's humble
humour, and Simon's general attitude to life, if vague,
were quite acceptable to Rhoda.  To her his voice did not
sound thin or his opinions childish.  She was comfortable
in his company, and she left him presently with a
pleasant nod and a 'good-bye' that was almost genial.

He stood a long time, scratched his beard when she
had gone out of sight and felt that thus to walk and
talk beside a maiden was rather an achievement for him.
He admired Rhoda very much, but he thought of her
with chronic rather than acute admiration.

She had certainly been amazingly gracious and kind
to him.  Could it be possible that she liked him?  The
idea brought moisture upon his forehead, and he sat
down and mopped it.  He began to fear that he had been
too bold in thus proceeding for more than a hundred
yards beside her.  Perhaps she had indicated annoyance
and he had failed to observe it.  Then he assured
himself that he was a man, like other men, and had a perfect
right to talk to a woman.  He decided that he must
think about Rhoda quietly for the next month or two.
He asked himself if he should take her a dish of the fat
leat trout that he caught sometimes; but he felt
doubtful whether such a step would not be going too far.

"I might catch 'em, and clean 'em, and start with
'em," he reflected; "and then, if it comes over me on
the way that I'm a bit too dashing, I can just sneak
home again, and none the wiser."





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.. _`EYLESBARROW`:

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   CHAPTER VII


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   EYLESBARROW

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Margaret Bowden not seldom visited the
haunts of her youth, for many favourite places
lay within a walk of her home, and she had a measure of
loneliness in her life which might be filled according to
her fancy.  Sometimes she blamed herself that life
should offer intervals for amusement or for rest.  David
found no such leisure from dawn until after dark;
Rhoda was always busy out of doors, and even when
she had nothing left to do, as happened in the evening,
would often sequester herself afield under the night.  But
Margaret's holiday generally followed the midday meal;
and after noon she often went to see her mother, or
sought some holt in Dennycoombe Wood, or beside
Crazywell, or among the heathery hillocks of
Eylesbarrow.  That great eminence upon the forest
boundary was familiar and pleasant to her.  She knew it
well, from its tonsure of stone, piled above a grave, to
its steeps and slopes and water-springs.  A pool with
rushes round about spread under the highest elevation
and mirrored the sky; while southerly the ling grew
very large, and there were deep scars and embouchures
torn by torrents from the sides of the hill.

Hither came Margaret to keep tryst with Bartley
Crocker on a day in June.  She had not seen him save
for a moment since his interview with Rhoda, but
meeting a week before at Sheepstor, he made a plan and she
promised to join him on Eylesbarrow and hear what he
had to tell her.  The east wind roared over Madge
where she sat snug in a little pit; but the sun was warm
and found her there.  From time to time she rose and
lifted her head to see if Bartley was coming.  Then
she sat down again and fell back upon her own thoughts.
She began to apprehend the mixed nature of marriage
and those very various ingredients that complete the
dish.  As yet only one cloud hung over her united life
with David.  But time might reasonably be trusted to
lift it.  They were a happy pair, and if his stronger
will lacked ready and swift sympathy on all occasions,
it still served the fine purpose of controlling her
sentimentality.  He hurt her sometimes, but she kept the
pain to herself.  His sledge-hammer methods were new
to her; while he could not understand her outlook, and,
indeed, he made no attempt to do so.  But she never
argued; she always gave way and she loved him so
dearly that it was easy to give way.  Rhoda, too, she
liked better as she knew her better.  She felt sorry for
Rhoda and longed to round off her life into a more
complete and perfect thing.  It appeared an outrage
on nature that such a girl should remain unmarried.
She strove to enlarge Rhoda's sexual sympathies and
make her more tolerant of men.  But she did not
succeed.  And so it gradually happened that the future of
Rhoda rather obsessed the young wife's mind.  She was
determined to see Bartley and Rhoda man and wife if
she could bring it about.  She was here upon that
business now.  That he had spoken to Rhoda she did not
yet know; but she suspected it.

Again Margaret looked round about her, while the
wind flapped her sunbonnet till it stung her cheeks.  At
hand morning and night alternately swung up over the
uttermost eastern desolation that even Dartmoor offers.
By Cater's Beam and the sources of Plym and Avon,
the solemn, soaking undulations ranged; and they were
shunned by every living thing; but to the north a
mighty company of tors thrust up about the central
waste; and westerly stretched the regions of her home.
Far beneath lay Dennycoombe under Coombeshead, and
Sheep's Tor, like a saurian, extended with a huge flat
head and a serrated backbone of granite.  She saw her
father's fields on the hillside and knew them by their
names.  In their fret of varied colour under the
stone-crowned hill, they looked like a patchwork coverlet
dragged up to some old, gnarled chin.  Men were
working there and elsewhere on the land; and in the stone
quarries, far off on Lether Tor, men also worked.  She
gazed upon the familiar places, the homesteads and the
solitary homes.  She busied her mind with the life
histories advancing beneath these roof-trees; and here she
smiled when she marked a dwelling where joy harboured
for a little; here she sighed at sight of one where joy
had ceased to visit: here she wondered at thought of
houses where the folk hid their hearts from the world
and stared heavy-eyed and dumb upon their kind.  But
she had an art to win secrets, and few denied her
knowledge or declined her sympathy.

One house chained her attention and awoke in Madge
personal thoughts again.  She looked at a small
cottage near Lowery, far distant on the opposite side of
the river.  It stood under a few trees and crouched
meanly a hundred yards from the highway.  The roof
was of turf, mended with a piece of corrugated iron
kept in its place by heavy stones; the broken windows
were stuffed with clouts.  A few fowls pecked about the
threshold, and adjoining the dwelling stood a cow-byre
under the same roof with it.  The front gate was
rotted away and rusty pieces of an old iron bedstead
had taken its place.  These details were hidden from
the distant watcher, but she knew them well, and in her
mind's eye could see a flat-breasted, long-nosed,
hungry-faced woman, with grey hair falling down her back and
dirt grimed into her cheeks and hands.  It was Eliza
Screech, widow of a man who had blown himself to
pieces with blasting powder in the adjacent quarry,
and mother of William Screech, the mistrusted admirer
of Madge's sister-in-law, Dorcas.  This young fellow
had lately brewed a sort of familiar trouble; and while
she thought upon it, David's wife considered her own
situation and wished that a thing presently to happen
to Dorcas might happen to her instead, and so turn
sorrow into rejoicing.  This was the cloud on her horizon.
Her mother, indeed, shared her pessimism but everybody
else laughed at Margaret's concern and declared
it to be ridiculous in one scarcely six months a wife.

She debated on the ways of nature and the ironies of
chance; then Bartley's voice was lifted, and she popped
up again, and he saw her and approached.

"Didn't you hear me sooner?" he asked, flinging
himself down near her.

"No, indeed.  I was thinking so much about one
thing and another, that I never heard you.  Hope
you've not been seeking for me a long time?"

He did not answer but struck at once into the
subject that had brought him.

"Well," he said, "I've started on her.  I've begun
and told her a few things to clear the way and get her
into a better frame of mind.  Pity I hadn't stopped
there and left what I said to soak in a bit; but I had
to go on and give the reason for saying it."

"You told her then?"

"I did, and she took it fairly quiet.  Of course she
said 'twas out of the question and never, never could be.
I expected that.  But I'm not going to believe it,
Madge.  The thing is how to go on with it.  I want
you to tell me what to do next.  You promised you
would.  Mustn't worry her, and at the same time
mustn't let her forget I'm at her elbow--dogged and
determined and fixed in my mind.  I want you to be
clever for me, as well you know how, and tell me what
line will please her best.  I shall leave talking for a bit,
and then I shall offer again.  My only fear is that she'll
see somebody else in the meantime, and that while I'm
planning and holding off and doing nought to fluster or
anger her, some other pattern of fool will blunder in
and shock her into saying 'yes' before she knows what
she's done.  You can often surprise a woman into
relenting who never would relent if you went on grinding
away in a cold-blooded fashion.  They're obstinate
themselves, but they don't admire obstinacy in us.
Would you have a dash at her and keep on, or would
you hold off and busy yourself in other quarters?
Which would bring her to the scratch quickest?
You know her; you can give me a few good hints, surely."

"Do neither of these things, Bartley.  She hates
anything like courting, or speech about marriage.  And
she hates surprises of any sort.  She's an old woman
in the way she likes things to jog steady.  If aught
falls out unexpected, it flurries her.  And that's the
hard thing you've got afore you, if you are going
on with it.  Because you're all for dash and quickness
and surprises, and she's all against everything of the
sort."

"I must keep grinding on in a cold-blooded style, then?"

"Ess fay, and the more cold-blooded, the better like
to please her."

He shrugged his shoulders.

"Be damned if I think I've got patience for it,
Madge.  I love her well enough but I can't bide like
a lizard or a spider watching a fly.  I lost you along
of taking it too easy--yes, I did, for I swear you'd
have married me if I'd offered myself a year before
David came along.  And now, perhaps, I'll end by
losing Rhoda.  There's nobody else in the field and
she's got no excuse for not taking me; and that's just
what will make her hard to catch.  But I'm determined
in reason to have her.  Only I'm not built to wait
till we're both grey-headed."

"Let me begin to help," she said.  "You bade me
do nought so far, and I've done nought.  Not by a
word or wish have I let her guess I thought about you
or about her.  She don't know that I'm interested yet.
And I won't let her know; but I can set to work witty
and say the word in season and help the good cause on.
Why not?  I want to see her married just as much as
I want to see you married.  'Twould mend you both--yes,
you so well as her."

"That wise you've grown since you took David!
Though, for that matter, you was always wise enough
for any two girls."

"Not a bit wise--wish I was; far from that, worse
luck; but sensible how things are and sensible how
difficult 'tis to get two natures to fit in sometimes.  I
be sure as possible that you and she would make a
happy couple and that you'll never regret it if she
takes you, and no more will she; but the difficulty is to
see where your natures be built to fit together.  'Tis like
a child's puzzle: to fit you and her close."

"There's not much we've got in common except love
of roaming by night."

"A pretty useful taste in common for lovers, I should
think.  But I'll find more out than that.  I know a lot
more about her now than once I did; and I'll tell you
this: I'm not so much in secret fear of her as once I
was.  Yes--fearful I felt at first--so off-handed and
stern and aloof she was.  But now I've come to see she's
terrible simple really, and not very different from other
girls--except here and there.  She's interested in all that
falls out, and she's hopeful to-day and cast down
to-morrow like anybody else.  She sits of a night
thinking--yes, she thinks.  Lord knows what about, but 'tis a
sign of a heart in her that she can pucker up her
forehead thinking.  Kind, mind you, too.  Not partickler
kind to me, or interested in me away from David--I
must grant that.  But kind to living things in general."

"But I don't want her to be kind--to anybody but
me.  I want her to be grand and odd and unlike t'others.
'Tis her oddness as much as her loveliness took my
fancy; but if her oddness ends in her being an old
maid, that'll mean a good deal of my time wasted."

"Don't think it.  A rare good wife's hid in Rhoda,
and, please God, you'll be the man to find it out.  I'll
set to work, Bartley.  Don't fear I'll be clumsy.  Too
fond of you both for that.  We'll meet again in a
month, if you can wait so long--"

"Which I certainly can not."

"In a fortnight then.  Thursday's always David's
morning for Tavistock; so this day fortnight we'll
meet again, unless anything falls out to prevent it.
And I won't be idle.  But I mustn't frighten her; and
she's easily frighted when men are concerned.  Fellows
drop in of a night often to speak to David; but nine
times out of ten, if she's to home, she'll pick up her
work and pop up to her chamber, or take her hat and
away out of the house by the back door."

"Never was such another, I believe.  All the same,
I'm a hopeful fashion of man.  I'll win her yet, with
your help."

"I do trust so, Bartley."

Silence fell between them, only broken by the hiss of
the wind above their heads.

"I must get back-along now," she said at length.
"How goes on Mrs. Crocker?  Better, I hope?"

He shook his head but did not reply.

"I shall come to see her again next week, if I may."

"Do, and welcome, Madge.  Strange how illness
breaks down the pride and shows the naked truth of a
man or woman.  She's frightened to think of dying--her
that you might have said was frightened of nothing."

"And still frightened of nothing really.  'Tisn't
this world that frights her, nor yet the next--only the
link snapping between.  There's a lot like that."

He changed the subject again and followed her eyes
that had roamed across the valley once more.

"You're looking at Screech's house," he said.  "I
hope this thing they tell about isn't true?"

"I hope not, Bartley, but I think it is."

"And if it is?  However, it don't become a giddy
bachelor to make light of it.  Only you'll hear such a
devil of a lot on the other side, that perhaps before long
you'll be thankful to find one here and there who can
keep his nerve about it."

"Yes, I shall hear enough about it--and to spare:
you're right there."

He laughed.

"I'm not one of those that can see no good in Billy
Screech," he said.  "Too like him myself, I reckon.
All the same, I know if the right woman came along to
make it worth while, I could stand to work--for her--as
well as any man.  You'll see some day.  I can't be
bothered to work for myself, Madge, but if ever I get
hold of Rhoda, 'twill surprise you to find what a knack
for earning money I shall show.  And same with yonder
hairy chap.  He's clever and cunning.  He'll make a
very good partner, if the woman ban't too hard to
please, and don't worry him with silly questions."

They parted a few minutes later; but before he went
Bartley Crocker shook Madge's hand very heartily as
he thanked her with great earnestness for her promises.

"What you'll do for me I can't guess," he said; "yet
well I know that what you can do you will."

"Couldn't name it in words myself," she answered.
"But all the same, I feel as one woman might have a
bit of power over another in such a matter.  I put my
hope in her common sense.  She don't lack for that,
and, once you win her, her common sense will be a tower
of strength for the both of you."

"That's good to know, I'm sure; for common sense
never was my strong point and never will be," he
confessed.

"And if I've promised more than I can perform, you
must forgive me," she said.  "I must guard myself
against your disappointment, Bartley, for it may come
to that."

"You'll do what you can," he answered, "for liking
of me; and you'll do the best you can; and if I lose,
'twill be no blame to you; and if I win, 'twill be such a
feather in your cap as few of the cleverest women can
boast."





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.. _`TRIUMPH OF BILLY SCREECH`:

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   CHAPTER VIII


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   TRIUMPH OF BILLY SCREECH

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On a day in early summer David Bowden met his
father by appointment at Nosworthy Bridge in
Meavy valley.  It was not Sunday, but both wore their
Sunday clothes.  The fact would have led observers
to suppose that a funeral or a wedding must be at hand,
but it was not so.  They had before them a serious and,
they feared, a difficult duty.  Neither knew that the
other proposed to wear black; yet a sort of similar
instinct led to the donning of the colour, and each felt
glad, when he saw the other, that he had been of that
mind.

"'Twill be for you to speak, father," said David;
"and where I can think of words to back you up, I shall
put them in.  If you and me together ban't stronger
than such a man as Screech, 'tis pity."

"The law be weak, unfortunately," answered Elias,
"else I'd never have gone near the man, but just left
justice to take its course.  But as it stands, so lawyer
tells me, we can't make Screech marry Dorcas if he
won't.  The thing is to be as patient with the man as
we know how, and coax him into it if possible."

David nodded.

"It's a bad business, looked at which way you will.
Rhoda's took it more to heart than all of us.  She won't
never speak to Dorcas or see her again."

"We mustn't talk that nonsense.  Nature will out,
and for my part, to you, David, though to none else,
I'm sorry to God now I said 'nay.'  However, we'll see
if we can fetch him to reason.  Here's the house--a
ragged, hang-dog look it hath."

"And there's the man," added David.

Billy Screech was digging in a patch of garden beside
his cottage, but at sight of the visitors, he stuck
his spade into the earth, cleaned his boots on it, drew
down his shirt-sleeves, donned his coat and came forward.

"You'm a thought earlier than I expected," he said.
"Give you a very good-morning, Mr. Bowden; and you,
David."

Elias took the hairy Screech's hand; David nodded,
but avoided a direct salute.

"In your black, I see--a black business, no doubt,"
said Billy.  "And if you'll give me a matter of minutes,
I'll polish up a bit and put on mine.  Perhaps you
didn't know as I've got some good broadcloth for my
back; but I have."

He called to his mother and went upstairs.  Then,
while he was absent, the thin and slatternly woman
known as Eliza Screech shuffled in and put chairs for
the Bowdens.  She stood and rubbed her hands over
each other and listened to the noise her son made
overhead.  By certain sounds she knew how his change of
attire advanced.

"I hope you are on our side in this matter, ma'am,"
began Elias, solemnly.

"Yes, I am, and always have been since I heard
about it," she said.  "I've been at him night and day
till he threatened to take the wood-chopper to me.  I
can't say what he thinks about it, for not a word will
he utter.  He's always chuckling to hisself, however.
'Tis a very shameless thing to have happened, though
very common.  I'm sorry about it."

She spoke kindly but indifferently.

"My girl is the same as him," declared Mr. Bowden.
"'Shameless' is the only word to be used against
her--a hardened giglet as keeps her own secrets and did
keep 'em till they would out.  And, instead of going in
tears and sackcloth, she's as gay as a lark and don't
care a button for our long faces.  Even to church
she'll come, if you can believe it.  And not a word of
sorrow."

Mrs. Screech heard her son putting on his boots.

"Well, I hope that your way of saying things will
catch hold on William," she answered.  "He's a
thoughtless man; but he was never fond of the girls till
he met your Dorcas, and 'twas a very great blow to
him he couldn't take her."

"He must take her: that's what we've come about,"
declared David.

Mrs. Screech shrugged her shoulders.

"There's room here," she said, "and though us be
a little down in the world, I daresay for a pound or
two we could mend up the glass and make things vitty
for Dorcas.  I'm very fond of her, I may tell you.
Here's William coming down, so I'll go."

She left them, and a moment later Mr. Screech
entered transformed.  He wore excellent black.  He had
brushed his hair and beard; he had washed his hands
and put on a pair of tidy boots.

"Now," he said, "perhaps you'll let me know what
I can do for you, Mr. Bowden.  Not long since there
was a thing as you might have done for me; but I got
a very sour answer, if I remember right.  However,
you'll find me more reasonable if you come in reason."

"In reason and in right I come, William Screech.
And well you know why for I'm here," said the master
of Ditsworthy.  "You've seduced my daughter Dorcas,
and you cannot deny it."

"Yes, I can," answered Mr. Screech.  "I can deny
it and I can take my Bible oath of it.  I never seduced
her, and I never even offered to.  I'll swear she never
told you that I seduced her."

"She'll tell me nought."

"Then why d'you charge it against me?"

"Don't fiddle with words," broke in David.  "The
question be simple, and the answer be 'yes' or 'no.'  Do
you deny that you are the father of the child she'm
going to bear?"

"Certainly not.  I am the parent; and a very proud
man I shall be on the day."

"Then why d'you say you didn't seduce her?" cried
David.

Mr. Screech looked at him in a pitying and highly
superior manner.

"Better let your father talk," he said.  "You childless
men be rather narrow in your opinions.  He's more
sensible and more patient.  Because a maiden changes
her state and starts out to bud, it don't follow nobody's
seduced her.  If anybody was seduced, 'tis me, standing
here afore you."

He grinned genially at the humour of the situation.
David uttered an inarticulate sound of anger;
Mr. Bowden settled himself in his chair.

"Explain yourself, William," he said.

"Well, I will.  Perhaps you may remember when
you forbade the match, that your daughter was a bit
savage about it."

"She was.  I allowed for that."

"You didn't allow enough.  You didn't know what
a clever girl Dorcas was; and you didn't know how
well she understood me.  None ever understood me like
her.  I was merely a sort of a mongrel man--good for
nought--in your opinion.  You didn't know how witty
I could be if I chose; or what a lot of brains there was
in my head.  But she knowed and she trusted me.
Pluck!  Talk about this here prizefighter's pluck and
your Rhoda's pluck--Good Lord! there's more valour in
Dorcas than the whole pack of you!  She's a marvel,
she is.  This be her work, master, not mine.  After her
big sister catched her with me and boxed her ears, she
soon knowed what to do.  And she done it; and I was
very pleased to help.  And here we are."

Mr. Bowden gasped.

"Do you mean to say a daughter of mine axed you
to get her in the family way?" he asked.

"That's the English of it," answered Mr. Screech.
"There was nothing else she could do.  'Anything to
oblige you, Dorcas,' I said, and my bosom swelled with
rejoicing to think the maiden I loved best in the world
could trust me like that.  ''Twill larn my father and
that self-righteous David and Rhoda to mind their own
business in future,' said Dorcas to me; and I'm sure I
hope it will.  You must all try to be sensibler without
a doubt."

David felt an inclination to crush and smite the hairy
and insolent Screech; but nothing could be gained by
such an act.

"And how do we stand now, please?" inquired Mr. Bowden,
very humbly.

"In a very awkward fix, of course," answered Billy.
"Here's my dear Dorcas going to have a babby, and
me wrapped up in her, and my mother cruel fond of
her, and her own people all shocked out of their skins
at her; and yet I ban't allowed to make an honest woman
of her; because you've sworn afore witnesses that you'd
sooner see her dead than Mrs. William Screech.  It do
seem a pity; but of course we all know the man you
are--never known to call back an opinion.  Dorcas and
me be halves of a flail--one nought without t'other; but
you've spoken.  I shall be very pleased to help with the
child, however; and I hope you'll bring it up well to the
Warren House."

This was too much for David.

"If you give us any more of your cheek, I'll smash
you where you sit," he said.

Billy shrugged his shoulders.

"Where's the cheek?  What a silly man you are!
Ax your father if I've said a syllable more than the
truth.  I'm only sorry about it.  Of course the likes of
me, with my skilled inventions and general cleverness,
ban't worthy to be your brother-in-law--you with your
great ideas and your five hundred pounds--left to you
by somebody else.  But, maybe, your father may feel
different.  A father can understand a father.  'Tis for
him to speak now, not you, and say what he thinks had
better be done about his child--and mine."

"There's only one thing to be done, and that afore
the month is out," said Mr. Bowden.  "And you know
what, for all your sly jokes, Billy.  The pair of you
have bested me.  Well, I know when I'm beat.  And the
sooner the wedding be held, the better for everybody's
credit."

Billy pretended immense surprise.

"You mean as you'll call home all them high words,
master?"

"Every one of 'em," answered Elias, calmly.  "If I'd
been a bit sharper, I might have guessed as you and
her would find a way.  You have found it--'tis vain to
deny that.  So there's nothing to do but wed; and I
hope you'll live to make good your promises; and so
soon as you do, I'll be the first to up and own I
misjudged you."

"That's fair and sportsmanlike, master, and I'll be
as good as you; and if my new rabbit trap don't make
you proud of me for a son-in-law, Elias Bowden, you
ban't the honest man I think."

"It's settled then," said David, rising, and eager to
be away.

"On one condition," answered the other; "that me
and Dorcas have a proper show wedding, same as David
here had.  Us won't have no hole and corner sort of
job; and there's no reason why we should.  Only us and
you know about it."

"She shall have a perfectly right and proper
wedding, Billy," declared Mr. Bowden.

"Very good," answered the other; "and the day after
we'm married and my Dorcas comes here to live, I'll
show you the trap, and save you twenty pounds a year
if a penny."

Mr. Screech rose and indicated that the interview
was ended.

"The banns go up on Sunday," he said.  "Have no
fear of me.  I'm in quite so much of a hurry as anybody."

Mrs. Screech, who had heard everything from behind
the door, crept off, and the Bowdens departed, while
Billy went as far as the gate with them.

"Please give Dorcas my respects, and tell her I'll be
up over to tea on Sunday, if agreeable to all parties,"
he said.

"I will, William," answered Elias, mildly; "and
'twill be quite agreeable, I assure you."

The victory was complete and time proved
Mr. Screech a just and even magnanimous conqueror.  But
for the moment the friction set up by his methods of
approaching matrimony caused not a few persons a
little uneasiness.  While David had writhed before
Billy's satirical humours, Rhoda Bowden also suffered;
but she took herself off and thus escaped direct contact
with the cause of it.  It happened that Dorcas was
restless after her father had set forth to see Mr. Screech.
She had wandered towards Coombeshead and finally--moved
as many others were moved--determined to seek
Madge, and so win comfort, and wait with her at
'Meavy Cot' until David returned.  Of the issue
Dorcas felt no manner of doubt.  Mr. Screech longed to
marry her, and his single-hearted devotion was the finest
element in a rather mean character.  Marriage Dorcas
felt to be a certainty; but she was none the less eager
to learn how the great interview had fallen out and to
what extent Billy had punished his future brother-in-law.
Mr. Screech especially despised the Puritanical
views of David; and Dorcas suspected that he might
have taken pleasure on this occasion in wounding rather
deeply her brother's susceptibilities.  She went to see
Margaret, therefore, and felt sorry to find Rhoda also
at home.  Her sister was in the garden; but Rhoda saw
the visitor some way off and departed leisurely without
any interchange of words.  The red girl flushed and
set her teeth in a sneer; the other passed quickly into
the Moor.

Then Dorcas entered and found Madge making a
pudding.  She sat down, took off her sunbonnet, and
nibbled a piece of raw rhubarb.

"Did you see Rhoda go off?" she asked.

"Never mind, 'twill come right.  You know how she
feels things."

"Feel!  Don't you think she feels, Madge.  She's
hard as them stone statues of women in church--a
dead-alive, frozen beast!  Feel!  I wish somebody would
make her feel.  Don't you look like that.  You've lived
with her now half a year and more.  You know what
she is."

"Be fair, Dorcas.  She takes this a bit to heart; but
that's only what all of us do."

"You don't, and you needn't pretend it--not like
her, anyway.  You'd have done the same if your father
had said you wasn't to have David.  You'd have trusted
David, same as I trusted Billy.  Things like her--Rhoda,
I mean--why, good Lord! they're not women;
they ban't built to bring dear li'l, cuddling, cooing
babbies into the world, like you and me.  All for
yowling dogs and walking in the moonlight--*by herself*!
Pretty frosty sport that for a female creature with
blood in her veins!"

"It's throwed her into a great trouble, and 'tis no
good to deny it," said Margaret.  "Of course the man
will marry you, as you've told me in secret, and no
doubt David will come back presently in a good temper
about it; but Rhoda's different.  She's rather terrible
if a girl slips.  I've heard her say frightful things long
before this--this business of yours.  'Tis the point of
view, Dorcas.  You'm so good as a married woman now,
and me and you can talk; but Rhoda's awful different--as
the maidens often be till they'm tokened.  Then
they begin to soften and understand men-folk a bit
better."

"Fool!" said Dorcas.

"She'll take a bit of time to recover; but she'll be
at your wedding with the best of us, if I know her."

"Not her!  Mark me!  She'll never come inside my
house or put a finger to my childer.  And God knows
I don't want her to."

"She will--she will.  You're too hard.  She'll grow
wiser and more understanding.  She's a very kindly,
sensible girl in a lot of ways.  Only she's made of
sterner stuff than me and you.  I wish I was so
noble-minded as her and so brave, I'm sure.  She's as plucky
as David, Dorcas.  Nought on four legs can frighten her."

"Four legs!" said Dorcas.  "I want for a man on
two legs to frighten her--ay, and master her and make
her run about and do his will.  But no man will ever
look at her.  They want something to put their arms
around--not the sour, stand-offish likes of she.  'Tis no
better than facing the east wind to be along with her."

"Not at all, Dorcas.  You'll soon see different.  She
have a sort of queer feeling in her that 'tis an awful
horrid thing to give yourself over to a man.  I do
believe she feels almost the same if a woman marries.
You'd think the whole race of women had received a
blow in the face when one takes a husband.  She can't
talk of 'em with patience.  But us will get her a
husband come presently.  Then her eyes will open."

"Never--never!" foretold the other.  "She'll go
single to her grave--and a good riddance when it
happens."

"Here's David coming up the path," said Margaret,
and both women went out to meet him.

But Madge's prophecy was only partly fulfilled.  He
brought, indeed, the news that Mr. Screech was
prepared to wed with Dorcas at the earliest opportunity;
but he showed no joy at the fact, and was indeed in an
exceedingly bad temper.

"What are you doing here?" he said to Dorcas,
sternly.  But she never had been and never was likely
to be brow-beaten by a man.

"Come to see Madge, seemingly, and hearing that
you was gone with father to have a tell with my
William, I thought I'd wait and see what came of it."

"Your William!" he said.  "I wonder you don't
blush for yourself, Dorcas Bowden."

"Ah! you must see a lot of things that make you
wonder," she answered insolently.  "Not for myself
did I ever blush; but for father, as forbid me to marry
the only chap that ever loved me, or was ever likely to.
What do I care?  I suppose you and father, in your
righteous wisdom, have decided that we may be married
now, anyway; and if you haven't 'tis no odds, because
parson will mighty soon shout out the banns when we
ax him to do it."

"You're a bad woman," said her brother, shortly,
"and this is a very brazen, shameless piece of work."

"That for you," she answered, flicking her fingers in
his face.  "I'm as straight and honest and true as your
wife, or Rhoda either.  'Tis her that's nasty and
shameful, with her prudish ways, not me.  And if I've done
anything to think twice about, 'tis father's fault--and
yours."

David was angry and turned to his wife.

"The less you hear of this sort of talk the better,"
he said.  "I'll have no trollop here, fouling your ears
with her lewd speeches."

"Call yourself a man!" sneered Dorcas.  "Call
yourself a man, to speak of me like that.  You know I
loved the chap as faithful and true as a bird its mate,
and I was his wife just as much as Madge be yours in
everything but the jargon and the ring.  And you turn
round and call me 'lewd,' because I did the only thing
I could do to force father to say 'yes.'  'Tis you that
are lewd--you and yonder creature, who won't see me
nor touch me no more; and so much the better for me."  She
pointed to Rhoda, who was sitting a little way off
calmly waiting for Dorcas to depart.

"Larn from your wife to be larger-minded," she
began again; then David silenced her.

"Stop!" he thundered out.  "Who are the likes of
you--a common, fallen woman--to preach to me?  You
get going out of this!  I don't want you here no more,
and I won't have you here no more."

"Bah!" she answered.  "You're jealous of my
William--that's what you are!  Because you can't do
what he's done!"

"Begone before I come back," he answered, "or I'll
wring your neck, you foul-thinking slut!  And look to
it you treat her as I do, Margaret, or there may come
trouble between us."

He glanced at his wife darkly, then, in most unusual
anger, left the threshold and walked across to Rhoda.

"A pair of 'em," commented Dorcas.  "And, please
Heaven, they'll both be childless to their dying day.  I
hate the ground they walk on!"

"Don't! don't, for God's sake, curse like that," cried
the other, and Dorcas, divining what she had done, was
instantly contrite.  Indeed, she began to cry.

"I'm--I'm that savage; but not with you, Madge--never
with you.  Forgive me for saying that.  Of
course you'll have plenty of children--plenty--more'n
you want, for that matter.  Never think you won't--such
a lover of the little creatures as you be.  You'll
make up for lost time when you do start.  And I hope
you'll love mine as well as your own, for, barring me and
Billy and Billy's mother, there won't be many to love 'em."

Her words had turned Margaret's thoughts upon
herself and made her sad.

"Sometimes there comes an awful fear over me, Dorcas,
that I shall have none," she confessed.  "'Tis all
folly and weakness, yet you'd be astonished how oft I
dream I'm to have none.  And if it fell out so, I doubt
David would break his heart."

"Don't think such nonsense.  Dreams never come
true, and 'twill be all right," declared Dorcas.  "But
now I'll clear out, else he'll bully you for talking to me
so long after what he threatened.  And, David or no
David, you've got to be our friend, Madge; because
there never was such a dear, sweet creature afore, and
never will be.  And if 'tis a girl, Billy have promised
me I may call it 'Madge'; and I shall do."

Dorcas dried her eyes and prepared to depart, but
the other bade her wait a moment.

"A drop of milk you must have; and--and--I know
'twill be a dinky darling, and I shall love it only less
than you and your husband will," Margaret said.

Then Dorcas drank and set off homeward, fearing
further trouble; but with her father she had no painful
scene, for by the time that Elias returned to the warren,
the humorous side of that day's encounter had struck
him.  He kept this to himself most firmly however; but,
as a result, he indulged in no anger.  Instead he merely
informed Dorcas that Mr. Screech would marry her at
the earliest possible moment on one condition: the
bridegroom insisted upon a wedding of ceremony and importance.





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.. _`COMMON SENSE AND BEER`:

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   CHAPTER IX


.. class:: center medium bold

   COMMON SENSE AND BEER

.. vspace:: 2

Certain persons of local note had gathered
together for evening drinking in the bar of 'The
Corner House.'

Charles Moses, Bartley Crocker, Mattacott, and
Ernest Maunder were there; but interest chiefly centred
in one just entered upon the state of matrimony.  The
truth concerning his marriage was known to none
present but Mr. Crocker, and he kept the secret.

Mr. Moses chaffed Billy Screech, and Billy, whose
wit was nimbler than the shoemaker's, answered jest for
jest.

"As for cleverness, we well know you're clever," declared
Mr. Moses.  "You've got a clever face, Screech--a
clever nose, if I may say so--'tis sharp as one of
my awls."

"My nose has a point, I allow," said Mr. Screech,
"and your awl's got a point; but I'm damned if there's
much point to the things you say, Moses.  All the
cleverness in your family was used up afore you come
into it, I reckon."

"I knowed the cleverest man that ever was seen in
Sheepstor," said Timothy Mattacott, slowly.  "So does
Maunder here.  So clever he was that he tried to walk
faster than his own shadow, and he sowed a
barrow-load o' bricks once, thinking as they'd grow up into a
house."

"And what became of him?" asked Crocker.

"They put him away," said Mattacott.  "He was
afore the times.  He's up along with the Exeter pauper
lunatics to this hour, I believe."

"Samuel Edge was cleverer than that," declared
Bartley.  "And I'll tell you why: he weren't content with
anything as it stood, but must be altering and changing
and pulling down and building up."

"A foreigner from Bristol way," said Mr. Moses.

"Yes, and the great cleverness of the man undid him.
There was an egg-bottomed well to his house, you
remember, 'Dumpling'?"

"I do remember," admitted Mr. Shillabeer.  "One
of they egg-bottomed wells the man had."

"And though it ran out more than enough water for
all his needs, nothing would do but he must cut his
egg-bottomed well into a bell-bottomed well.  A pushing,
clever chap."

Reuben took up the narrative.

"He went down hisself to do the work; and the sides
fell in when he'd under-cut a bit; and they didn't get
the carpse out for three days," he said, gloomily.

"Yet an amazing clever man was Edge," concluded
Bartley.

"Better he'd left well alone, however," ventured
Mr. Screech.  His jest was greeted with a stare and an
uncertain sort of laugh.  The folk treat a pun like a
conjuring trick: they are dimly conscious that something
unusual has happened in conversation, but they cannot
say what, and they have no idea how it was done.

"If Edge was the cleverest man, which, for my part,
I won't allow," proceeded Moses, "then who was the
cleverest woman, I wonder?"

"My wife," declared Mr. Shillabeer, instantly.
"You must be just to the dead, Charles, for they can't
defend their characters.  But I say that my wife was
both the largest and best and cleverest woman that ever
comed here; and if anybody doubts it, let 'em give
chapter and verse."

"Nobody does doubt it, 'Dumpling,'" said Bartley,
in a soothing voice.  "There may be a smart female
here and there yet, and there may be a clever maiden
or two coming on also; but never did any such grand
creature as Mrs. Shillabeer appear among us.  Mr. Fogo
used to tell about her, and how you won her from
a regular army of other men."

"True as gospel.  There was a good few fighters
after her besides me--heavy weights too.  She'd never
have looked twice at anything less than a fourteen stone
man.  In fact, to see any male short of thirteen to
fourteen stone beside her was a thing to laugh at.
'Twas when I was in training for my fight with the old
Tipton--years younger than me he was all the same,
that I won her.  I was at a little crib out Uxbridge
way, and her father had me in hand, and she come out
from Saturday to Monday, and us went walking over
fields.  Then a bull runned at us, and my girl weren't
built for running, but I got her over a stile somehow
by the skin of the teeth, and the bull helped me after
her from the rear.  Horched me in the buttock, and I
bled like a pig after.  In fact, I saved her life.  And
she knowed it; and when I offered myself 'twas
'Dumpling' first and the rest nowhere, like the race-horse."

Mr. Maunder spoke.

"A faithful man to her memory.  No doubt if the
widow-men could all look back on such partners, there'd
be less marrying a second than we see around us."

"In my case," declared the host, "I can't forget her
enough to think of a second.  Her great largeness of
character was the peculiar trick of her; and she took
such delight in everyday things, owing to being
town-bred, that when I look at a sow with young, or a pony
and foal, or the reds in the sky at evening, or a fall of
snow, they all put me in mind of her.  For whether
'twas a budding tree, or a fish in a pool, or one of they
bumbling bees in a bit of clover, everything made that
woman happier.  Never wanted to go back to London,
took to the country like a duck to water.  So I can't
forget her so long as the lambs bleat and the clouds
gather for rain and the bud breaks on the bough.  I
say, 'Ah! how my wife would have liked to see that fox
slip off that stone;' or 'how my dear woman would
have clapped her hands to look at this grey-bird's nest
with the eggs in it.'"

The old man heaved a sigh; the rest nodded.

"Mr. Fogo was different," declared Simon Snell, who
had recently arrived.  "He'd got terrible tired of
Sheepstor afore he left it; for he told me so."

Reuben admitted this, and his gloom increased.

"He'll never come no more, I'm afraid.  'Twas only
the mill that kept him so long.  He must have London
booming round him.  He's been in hospital since he
was here, for the doctors to cut a lump of flesh out of
his neck.  But he's very well again now; and busy about
a coming turn up between Tom King and an unknown."

"How do it feel to be among the race of married
men, Billy?" asked Simon Snell.

"'Tis a very proper feeling, Simon," answered the
other.  "In fact, I'll go so far as to say a man don't
know he's born until he's married.  You chaps--Bartley
here and suchlike--talk of freedom.  But 'tis all
stuff and nonsense.  You ban't free till you'm married;
you be a poor, unfinished thing without your own
woman, and I should advise dashing blades like you,
Simon, and you, Timothy, to look around before the
grey hairs begin to thrust in.  Thirty to thirty-five
is the accepted time.  I'm thirty-three myself."

"There's outward and visible signs of the inward and
spiritual grace I see, too," said Mr. Moses.  "I was by
your house a bit ago, and I was terrible pleased to
mark all the windows mended and a bit of paint on the
woodwork of 'em, and a new swing gate where you used
to have nought but a pole across and a piece of old
sacking to keep the chickens in.  The place is a changed
place and so smart as any bride could wish for."

"'Tis all that and more," declared Mr. Screech.
"And if you'd gone in--and you'll always be welcome,
Moses--you'd have found my wife fresh as paint herself
in her new print, and, what's still more wonderful, my
mother with her hair all twisted tidy and her clothes
neat as ninepence.  I would have it, you must know.
'Us must pull ourselves together,' I said to mother.
'Dorcas comes from a terrible tidy family,--too tidy,
you might say, and I'm not pretending I mind the fowls
in the kitchen myself, or the dogs on the beds; but there
'tis--with a bride we must meet her halfway; and she's
as clean and trim herself as a hen hedge-sparrow.'  My
mother made no objection--took to her second-best dress
without a murmur, and bought a new one for the Lord's Day."

"You're a reformed character, in fact," declared
Maunder.  "And I for one rejoice at it, for I've often
feared you and me might some day meet in an unfriendly
way when I stood for the law."

"Don't fear it," answered the other.  "I'm all right
and full of contrivances for making a bit of money in a
straight and proper manner."

"David tells me your rabbit trap is the wonderfullest
thing in that line he've met with, and good for ten
pounds to sell," put in Bartley.

"More like twenty," answered Screech.  "'Tis a
masterpiece of a trap, and I've had a good offer or two
already, but not enough."

"We get more greedy after money when we'm married,
I suppose," ventured Snell.  "Of course we want
more then."

"We ought to have more.  We're worth more,"
answered Billy.  "The moment a man takes a serious
hand in the next generation, he becomes a more dignified
object and ought to fetch better money, for the sake of
the wife and family.  A married man ought to have
better wages and be rewarded according to his breeding
powers."

"And the women too.  'Tis a great fault in the
State that our women don't make a penny by getting
children," declared Moses.

"Unless they bring forth three at a birth," said
Mr. Shillabeer.  "Then 'tis well known that the Queen's
Majesty sends three pounds out of her own money, to
show that 'tis a glorious feat, in her gracious opinion."

"Well, we single men had better waste no more time,
if Billy is right," said Mattacott.  "For my part I've
been looking round cautious for two years now; but I
haven't found the right party.  'Tis the married girls
I always feel I could have falled in love with, not the
maidens."

"Just t'other way with me," declared Bartley.  "I
like the unexpected things the girls say and do.  The
ways of a woman are like the ways of the mist: past all
finding out."

"True," declared Mr. Screech.  "I know a bit about
'em; and shall know more come presently.  But like the
mist you'll find 'em."

"Now here, now away again," continued Bartley.
"Now lying as still and as white as washing on the hill,
now scampering off, hell for leather, without rhyme or
reason.  And so with them: they never do the expected
thing."

"True," said Mr. Moses, "you've hit 'em there.  As
soon as a girl answers me the direct opposite of what I
expect, then I know that girl's a child no more.  She's
grown up, and 'tis time for her to put up her hair and
let down her dress."

"Never the expected thing," repeated Crocker,
meditatively.  "They cry when they ought to laugh;
they cuss when they ought to cherish; they fondle when
they ought to whip.  They forgive the wrong sins; they
punish the wrong men; they break the wrong hearts."

"And when they've done their bitter worst," added
Charles Moses; "when they've set a man against
Heaven, and life in general, and made him pretty well
hungry to creep into his grave and get out of it; when
they've driven him to the edge of madness and forced
him to damn and blast 'em to the pit--then what do
the long-haired humans do?"

"Why, they jump into his lap," declared Mr. Crocker,
"and kiss his eyes, and press their soft
carcases against him, all purring and cooing--half cats
and half pigeons that they be!"

"And the men give way," summed up Mr. Moses.
"Leastways the manly, large-minded sort, like 'Dumpling'
and me and Crocker.  We can't stand against 'em--not
for a moment."

"We take, when our turn comes, in fear and trembling,"
continued Bartley, "and we hope we'll be one
of the lucky ones."

"The fear and trembling comes afterwards, as you'll
find some day, Bartley, and as Screech here may find
any day," foretold Moses.  "Every man backs his own
judgment and will lay you any odds he's drawn a prize."

"'Tis always the other people be fools in this world,"
declared Screech.  "It holds of life in general.  'Tis
said the world be full of fools, yet no man will ever
allow he is one."

Mr. Snell spoke.

"I'm sure you hear of happy marriages here and
there," he said doubtfully.

"So you do, Simon.  You hear of 'em--same as you
hear of pixies.  But you don't see 'em.  Leastways I
don't," answered Bartley.

"Present company excepted, I hope," said Screech.

"You forget Mrs. Shillabeer also," murmured Mattacott.
"I'm sure nobody here knows more about marriage
than what the 'Dumpling' do.  He's seen a happy
marriage."

"In a way, yes," admitted the host; "and also in a
way, no.  You can't be right down happy with a
woman--not if you love her as well as I loved the wife."

"'Perfect love casteth out fear,' however," quoted
Mr. Moses, vaguely.

"Just what it don't do, Charles; and the man that
said it, saint or sinner, didn't know what it was to love,"
answered the old prize-fighter.  "If you love a female
right down from the crown of her head to the tip of her
toes, and through and through likewise, you fear for
her something cruel.  I was built so soft where that
woman was concerned, that I hated for her to go for a
drive in a trap, and couldn't be easy--for thinking of
the springs--till I seed her safe again.  And when
illness overtook her--why, 'fear' wasn't the name for it.
I crawled about like a beaten dog and cringed to God
A'mighty for her in season and out.  But she had to
go, and I had to be left.  And she took twenty year of
my life underground with her."

They sympathised with him; then Mr. Snell returned
to the main theme.

"They'm quicker than us, however," he asserted.
"I'm sure their brains work faster than what ours do.
There's many a thing a woman can't make clear to a
male mind, try as she will."

Mr. Crocker laughed.

"Yes," he admitted.  "Such things as two and two
make five--when they want 'em to make five.  And they
try and they try to make us see it; but we can't.  And
yet they are always ready to believe that our two and
two be five, God bless 'em!"

"I wonder," said Mr. Snell.

"'Tis so; but you must be masterful, Simon.  You
must make 'em feel you're in earnest and have no
shadow of doubt," said Billy Screech.  "They love to
see you strong, and they'd sooner see you wrong and
sticking to it than be blowed from your purpose by
another man.  Nought on God's earth be more hateful
to a brave woman than to see her husband bested.  And
if a man bests you--whether 'tis at business or in any
other way--don't you tell her if you can help it.  Love
you as she will, you'll drop in her mind and be so much
the less if she hears about it."

The clock struck; mugs were drained.

"Closing time, souls," said Mr. Shillabeer; and five
minutes later the company had separated and the bar
was empty.  The 'Dumpling' mused on the things that
his guests had uttered.

"'Tis summed up in that word 'unexpected' without
a doubt," he thought.  "Never the expected thing.
And if we grant so much, then us never ought to expect
the expected thing.  They be all of a piece; and because
my wife looked like living for ever, I ought to have
knowed she'd die.  I ought to have known it, and
prepared for it, and laid in wait for it.  Yet nobody was
more surprised than me, and nobody less so than her
when it leaked out of the doctor.  She knowed it herself
well enough; but hadn't the heart to tell me."





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.. _`CRAZYWELL`:

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   CHAPTER X


.. class:: center medium bold

   CRAZYWELL

.. vspace:: 2

Nature, passing nigh Cramber Tor, where
old-time miners delved for tin, has found a great pit,
filled the same with sweet water, and transformed all
into a thing of beauty.  Like a cup in the waste lies
Crazywell; and, at this summer season, a rare pattern
of mingled gold and amethyst glorified the goblet.
Autumn furze and the splendour of the heath
surrounded it; the margins of the tarn were like chased
silver, where little sheep-tracks, white under dust of
granite, threaded the acclivities round about and
disappeared in the gravel beaches beneath.  Upon the face
of the lake there fell a picture of the bank, and it was
brightened, where heather and honey-scented furze shone
reversed with their colour-tones subtly changed by the
medium that reflected them.  But at midmost water
these images ceased and fretted away into wind-ripples
that frosted and tarnished the depths.  And there, when
the breeze fell dead for a moment, shone out the blue of
the zenith and the sunny warmth of clouds.  At water's
brink stood three black ponies--a mare and two foals of
successive births.  The mare's daughter already
attained to adult shapeliness; her son was a woolly baby,
with a little silly face like a rocking-horse.  He still ran
to her black udder when thirsty and flew to her side for
protection if alarmed.

Peace, here brooding after noon, was suddenly
wakened by the stampede of half a dozen bullocks,
goaded by gadflies.  Down they came from above
with thundering hoofs and tails erect.  They rushed
to cool their smarting flanks, sent ripples glittering
out into the lake, and presently stood motionless,
knee-deep, with their chestnut coats mirrored in the
water.

Upon the side of the pool there sat a woman--as
still as a picture in a gold frame.  She was clad with
such sobriety that one might have thought her a stone;
but she moved and her sunbonnet shone as she flung
it off and then wiped her hot forehead with the fall of it.
For a moment she thought of the legends of Crazywell
and cast back in her memory for the evidence of their
truth.  Here was a haunt of mystery and a water of
power.  Voices murmured in this hollow once a year,
and if none of late had heard them, doubtless that was
because none permitted himself or herself to do so.  A
spirit neither malignant nor benign, but wondrously
informed, dwelt here--a sentient thing, a nether gnome,
from whom was not hidden the future of men--a being
who once a year could cry aloud with human voice and
tell the names of those whose race was run.  All dreaded
the sortilege of the unknown thing that haunted Crazywell;
but since its power was restricted to Christmas
Eve, little general sense of horror or mystery hung
over the pool.  For Margaret Bowden, however, it had
always possessed a sort of charm not wholly pleasant.
She avoided the place of set purpose and was beside it
to-day by appointment only.  Another had named
Crazywell as a tryst, and she lacked sufficient self-assertion
to refuse.  Now she blinked in the direct sunlight
and longed for shade where no shade was.

She envied the kine below, and being in a mood a
little morbid, by reason of private concerns, she cast
her thought further than the cattle and pictured the
peace and silence beneath the heart of the water.  A
long sleep there seemed not the hardest fate that could
fall on human life.  There was a man--and Margaret
had known him--who drowned himself in Crazywell.  By
night he ended a troublous life, and joined the spirit of
the pool for a season.  Then he floated into light of day
again, and was found by his fellows.  They drew him
out and called him mad, and buried him in the earth
with Christian burial, that his wife's feelings might be
saved a pang.  Yet nobody knew better than the
coroner's jury that this man was very sane, and had
shortened his own life for sound reasons.  Margaret
remembered that at the time, she had blamed him much,
but her mother had not blamed him.  And she herself,
having been married nearly a year, no longer blamed
him.  Who was she to judge?  If she, a happy wife,
could look without horror at Crazywell in this
unclouded hour, was it strange that an unhappy
man might do more than look, and rest his head there?

"A happy wife--so happy as any woman ever can
hope to be, who--who--"

Her thought broke off.  She envied the mare at
water's edge.  The pot-bellied old matron stood still,
and only moved her tail backwards and forwards to
keep off the flies.  The foal galloped around
her--playing as children will.

"So happy as any wife can hope to be, who has no child."

Margaret made herself finish the sentence; for
everything that happened to her now revolved upon it.  She
explained the least little cloud or shadow of cloud thus;
she referred the least impatience or short word to the
same cause.  There was no rift, no failure of
understanding, no lessening of love--so the wife assured
herself--but she must do her duty.  She must not much
longer delay to bring to David the thing his soul most
desired.

Her thoughts ran unduly upon this theme, and her
own anxiety seemed like to stand between her and her
object.  She exaggerated the truth; out of a natural
and innate diffidence she imagined a condition of mind
in her husband which did not exist.  David indeed
desired children and expected them; but he was in no
violent hurry, and had not as yet even entertained the
possibility of having none.  When she mentioned the
matter, he consoled her and blamed her for giving it a
thought.  In reality, the thing in their lives that she
marked and deplored and thus explained, belonged to a
far different and deeper cause.  After love's fever
certain differences of temperament began slowly and
steadily to declare themselves.  There was no radical
change in David; but his self-absorption increased with
his prosperity--a circumstance inevitable.  For
comradeship and for sympathy in business he had Rhoda;
and her understanding of dumb animals so much
exceeded Margaret's, that brother and sister
unconsciously made common cause and seemed to live an inner
life and develop personal interests from which Margaret
found herself in some measure excluded.  None could
be blamed.  The thing simply so fell out; and as yet
not one of the three involved perceived it.  David and
Rhoda were full of his enterprises, and she did much
man's work afield for him and advanced his welfare to
the best of her strength and sense.  Margaret shopped,
cooked, mended clothes, and made ready for the others
in the intervals of work.  She relieved her sister-in-law
of much sewing and other toil that Rhoda might have
the more leisure to aid David.  This woman, indeed,
was unlike most women, and for that reason she did not
clash with Margaret as much as another might have.

Rhoda Bowden had struck an observer from without
as an exotic creature, who homed here by accident,
but who by right belonged to no dwelling made with
hands.  A sister of the deep green glade was she--a
denizen of the upland wilderness and the secret antre.
She followed the train of Selene.  The silver light and
the domain of nocturnal dew were hers.  Silence was
her familiar; from her own brother she hid a part of
her days and her nights.  And of the varied aspects of
her mistress, the moon, Rhoda shared not a few.  The
young of beasts seemed her special care and joy.

   |  "The tender whelps, new-dropped, of creatures rude,"

found a ready friend in her; but while thus gracious to
all the lesser things that shared her place in time, this
girl revealed for humanity, beyond her brother, but
little love.  She was zealous for him, but to other men
she stood as heretofore: in an attitude enigmatic,
tending to aloofness.  Margaret, however, had yet to be
convinced that she was not to be won.

To women Rhoda's aspect of late was made more
widely manifest.  Out of her own virginal fount of
feeling no drop of sympathy with the unvirginal could
flow; and the thing that Dorcas had accomplished was
above all measure infamous, treacherous to womankind,
beyond hope of pardon in her eyes.  Had the power
to do so rested with Rhoda, she had swept her sister
out of life; and in her mind this yielding wanton, and
her husband, and her new-born baby were already as
objects dead and banished from existence.

Margaret's thoughts now centred on Rhoda and she
lost sight of her own misty tribulations.  Two great
problems awaited solution, and with the optimism of a
large heart this woman hoped yet to solve them.  She
wanted to see Rhoda a wife; and she wanted to see her
reconciled to Dorcas.  The one achievement might
depend upon the other.  Let Rhoda once wed, and there
must come understanding into her life.

Margaret had spoken often, with tact and warmth,
of Bartley Crocker; and she had been helped in a very
valuable quarter, as it seemed, for David also considered
the man as among his closest friends at this season.
There had recently been some talk between them of a
sort specially interesting to David, for Bartley was
attracted, or declared himself attracted, by the
prospect of leaving England to farm in Canada, and the
information he had gathered together respecting that
wider world of the Colonies could not fail to be of
interest to Bowden.  At David's invitation Bartley had
spent a Sunday afternoon recently at 'Meavy Cot';
and Madge was now at Crazywell to tell the lover what
had followed his visit.

She waited yet half an hour; then Bartley appeared
on the hither bank of the pool, looked about him a
while, caught sight of Madge's sunbonnet, and
approached her.  So busy with her own thoughts was
she that she did not see him until he was beside her: then
she rose and bade him find some shade.

"The sun's that fierce I must get out of it," she said.

Thereupon he took her to a little glen close at
hand--a lip through which the pool sometimes overflowed in
winter--and under a white-thorn they sat down
together, while Margaret, looking at the golden furzes
in front of her, spoke to him.

"I do believe the gorse be going brown already.
Just a little gladness we get from it, then 'tis gone
again, like a candle blown out."

"What a thought!  You're down, I see.  No use
saying you're not.  And of late you've been like this
more than once.  'Tis for me to talk to you to-day, I
think.  'Tis for me to tell you what I saw last Sunday
at 'Meavy Cot,' not for you to tell me what fell out
after I was gone."

"I'm cheerful enough--only wisht to spend such a
long day away from David.  He's to Tavistock again.
He's terrible hopeful of some work there; but I hardly
think he'll get it--hasn't been well enough eggicated, I
fancy.  Though clever enough, I'm sure."

"He don't know everything, however."

"Who does?"

"He don't know a thing or two that even I could
teach him."

"Such as upholstering?"

"Just so.  I upholster chairs--at least I know how
to.  And you upholster David's life--make it easy and
comfortable and soft at the edges.  But what about
your life, Madge?"

"Well, what about it, Bartley?"

"I suppose 'tis infernal impudence of me," he said.
"All the same I'm an old friend and one good turn
deserves another.  You're trying to help me to get
what I want; I wonder if I could help you a bit here
and there?"

"Whatever do you mean?  And what did you see
at our home that makes you say such a curious thing?"

"'Tisn't what I saw, but what I didn't see.  But
there, what on God's earth am I saying?  'Tisn't to
you I should speak."

"Go on and tell me."

"I can't, for I can't give it a name.  Only somehow--look
here, I'm a fool to touch this.  I'm talking too
soon.  I must wait and see a bit more.  You can't
have your mind in two places at once, Madge.  I'm
not myself of late and very likely I fancy things.
You'd reckon I had enough to think about without
mixing up myself in other people's business.  But you
are different to everybody else.  I feel we've been
hunting in couples of late, and so your good's mine."

"How you run on!  And that wild.  I don't know
now what you're talking about, you silly chap."

"More do I.  I only know two things for certain.
And one is that my mother is worse, and the other is
that your sister-in-law was jolly interested in what I
said about Canada.  Did you mark that?"

"She was.  The wildness and bigness of the land
would draw her to it.  I meant to tell you.  After
you'd gone--but I am so sorry about your dear mother.
I thought last week that she seemed a little better."

"No--not really.  It's got to be.  God knows that
if talking would mend her, I'd talk for a year.  But it
won't.  So go on about Rhoda, please."

"Well, she didn't say much herself, but she listened
to my husband after you'd left us, and when he asked
her joking whether she'd like Canada, she said quite
seriously that she would.  'Twas the great size and
wildness of the place took her mind.  'To think of
them woods and the wonderful creatures in 'em!' she
said.  And when David thought how fine 'twould be to
have a bit of ground pretty near as big as all
Dartymoor for your own, she nodded and her eyes shone."

"But she couldn't go out walking all alone of a
night there," said Bartley.  "There are bears, I
believe, and Indians, too, for all I know.  But very like
she'd take to them--bears and Indians both.  I daresay
now one of them grimy, naked-faced men with their
features looking as though they were cut out of stone,
and a hat of hawks' feathers, would please her better
than ever I shall."

Margaret laughed.

"You must persevere," she said.  "You must be
patient too.  After she refused you she was more than
common silent for a month.  She thought a lot about
it and went afield more than usual with nought but dogs
for company.  Keep at her, but don't ax again just
yet.  Time ban't ripe."

"D'you think if I was to offer to go to Canada and
make her mistress of a mile or two of it, that she'd be
more like to say 'yes?'"

"'Tis a great question that, and I won't answer
'yes' or 'no.'  'Tis very difficult to guess what's
passing in her mind, for her face don't alter like most faces.
'Tis more the light in her eye tells you."

Mr. Crocker nodded.

"I've marked that.  Her lips and brow don't play
and lift like yours.  She keeps her mouth shut and her
eyebrows steady.  But her eyes talk more than her
lips.  She likes me--I do honestly think that, Madge."

"I'm glad of it.  I've gone as near as I dare to
asking her what she thinks of you, and I've sung your
praises--not from myself, mind, but as an echo to
David.  But she gives no sign.  She listens and her
face don't alter.  I'll do all I dare, but with such a
maiden we must be very nice.  If she thought I was
on your side, trying to help you to get her, she'd never
forgive me."

"I know how clever you are.  And David's not against
it neither; though I can't expect him to wish such a
thing, for she's as good as a couple of men to him.  In
fact, no two would do what she does for him.  Hirelings
can't work like them that labour for love.  She'd make
a model wife for an open air man.  And if I win her,
Madge, 'twill be farming without a doubt, for a shop
would be no use to her--nor to me neither, for that
matter."

Margaret laughed out loud at the idea of her
sister-in-law in a shop.

"Nought will ever tame her down to that," she said.
"'Twas a pity you learnt the upholstering business,
Bartley.  It didn't lift you in her eyes, I'm afraid."

"Let her say 'yes,' and I'll learn what she pleases
that'll help to make a living.  I'd very well like to go
to Canada and grow apples and corn."

"So would she, I do think--if she could get to care
enough about you."

"Why shouldn't she?  A maiden can always find
one chap that's good enough to marry, and I'm sure
she'll not meet with a better in these parts."

"I'm very sure she won't."

"Well, then, I've a right to expect her to give in.
There's nobody else?  You can honestly say there's
nobody else, Madge?"

"There's always somebody else where a pretty girl
be wife-old," she answered.  "In the case of Rhoda--well,
it seems absurd--it is absurd--too absurd to be
true, and yet I won't deny there's something in it."

"You mean that bearded antic of a Snell?"

"He's very much gone on Rhoda in his cautious,
lizard sort of a way.  He looks at her in church."

"Yes, like a cow looks at a passing coach.  Surely
that slow-witted, knock-kneed shadow of a man can't
interest Rhoda?"

"Such things ban't easily explained, but it's true
that he's about the only male that ever keeps her
talking.  I wouldn't say that he ever dreams of such a
thing as marriage, but--"

"Good Lord--marriage!  I'd so soon expect to see
him a bishop as a husband.  What now can it be that
she likes in poor Simon?  I wish I knew, for I'd try to
copy it."

"I've oft wondered.  'Tis something in the air of
him that makes her feel easy and friendly."

"I wish he'd got the wit to tell me how he does it."

"He doesn't know--no more does she.  But there 'tis.
She can suffer him; she can even talk about him."

"Try and see what the trick is, Madge.  Ask Simon
to tea and watch 'em together.  What do they speak
about?"

"I'll do what I can.  She was a bit ruffed with
Simon last week, however."

"Angered with him!  That's a bad sign, if she could
be interested enough in such a shadow as Simon as to
be cross with him.  She've never been cross with
me--not since we made it up."

"She was angry because Mr. Snell has got rather
friendly of late with Billy and Dorcas Screech.  Their
house is near his work and he drops in sometimes, I
believe.  He told Rhoda that the baby was very like
its grandmother to Ditsworthy Warren, and Rhoda
flared up and answered that she'd thank him never to
name it to her again."

"Another mystery in her.  If I ever have any luck
with her, the first thing will be to make her a bit kinder
to women, Madge."

"She's kind enough; but to say it without feeling,
she's narrow and she hates the mother business.  She
never will be fond of childer, I'm afraid, Bartley."

"Then we shall be of one mind there anyway.  I
don't like 'em either--never did and never shall."

"Wait and see.  You'll change from all that nonsense."

Suddenly Bartley started.

"Talk of--there goeth Rhoda by the footpath yonder."

"So she is!  Fancy that.  I'll call her.  She's on
her way to Ditsworthy till evening.  But I thought
she'd gone long ago."

Bartley whistled and a solitary fox-terrier, who was
the woman's companion, rushed over to see what was
doing.  He recognised Margaret and stopped; then he
turned, held up a paw and waited to see whether Rhoda
was coming after him.

Madge called and Rhoda came to them.  Mr. Crocker
greeted her with friendship and Margaret asked where
she had been.

"I fell in with your brother," she said.  "Bart was
up over rounding up some ponies.  Him and your
father have got ten ponies for Princetown fair and they
hope great things from them.  But they'll not do so
well as David's--they ain't so forward as our three."

"A lucky chance this," declared Bartley.  "I'm just
going up to Ditsworthy myself to see Mrs. Bowden.  My
dear mother's weaker and she wants to have a talk
with her old friends before 'tis too late."

"I'll tell mother for you," said Rhoda.  "Only last
Sunday she was wondering if Mrs. Crocker would care
for to see her."

"I must tell her myself and carry back her message
to my mother," answered the crafty lover.  His parent
had expressed no desire whatever to see Sarah Bowden;
but the excuse came as an inspiration to the man.

Rhoda said nothing and he spoke again.

"Perhaps if you are going that way, you won't be
offended if I walk along with you?"

She shook her head, implying that he was welcome.

"I've gathered a bit more about the backwoods and
the life out in the Dominion of Canada, you must know.
And I was wondering if, among all your brothers, there
might not be one, or perhaps two, as would like to make
their fortunes there.  'Tis a pity for all to bide on the
Moor."

"So I think," said she.  "For men to be cooped up,
like chickens on a run, is a vain thing.  I'd much wish
for to see them go out in the world a bit--same as other
young men."

"If your brother Drake had been spared, I'm sure
he'd have gone," said Crocker, with a twinkle of the eye.

Madge saw the jest, but Rhoda quite failed to do so.

"That's so silly as mother," she said.  "But I
should like to see Nap and Wellington under articles to
some trustworthy farmer in them parts.  'Twould
make men of 'em.  The whole family can't be rabbit-catchers."

This common sense impressed Bartley not a little.
It was another side of Rhoda, familiar enough to
Margaret, but not to him.

They departed now together and Margaret heard
Rhoda laugh as they went.  Such an exceedingly rare
sound cheered her not a little.  It rang like a hopeful
augury, and she rejoiced for Bartley's sake and went
home happy.





.. vspace:: 4

.. _`REPROOF`:

.. class:: center large bold

   CHAPTER XI


.. class:: center medium bold

   REPROOF

.. vspace:: 2

Life is an unconscious effort on the part of the
individual to get the world to see him at his own
valuation; and some by force of will partially achieve
it; and some by preciousness of attributes are justly
appraised above their own self-estimate.  David
Bowden was respected and counted a man of weight--a
rising man, a man whose honesty, industry, and sense
achieved increasing prosperity, and whose justice and
goodness of heart robbed his success of bitterness to all
save base minds.  But Margaret's character, so largely
different, won open love.  The folk nodded appreciation
when her name was mentioned and old eyes brightened
at it.  Sympathy from her own brimming cup
poured over; and the people, perceiving this couple
from the outer standpoint, declared that no such happy
diversity of qualities ever before mingled to make a
perfect union.

But it was not quite the union of the moss and the
stone; where the hard is made lovely by the soft and,
in return, establishes a sure, enduring foothold for it.
There were permanent disparities in the texture of their
characters that neither could alter and neither could
suffer without pain.  David frequently failed to see
Madge's point of view: she was constitutionally unable
to harden her nature that she might accept his attitude.
Out of this disability grew hunger and dearth in the
woman's spirit, discomfort on the part of the man.  He
tried, as far as his nature would let him, to bridge the
gulf; and she came to the other side and held out her
hands to him.  Sometimes they touched for a glad
moment, but only thus briefly; and despite his deep
affection and her passionate worship, these vital
constituents of character stood between them, deep-rooted
in attributes beyond the power of love to overthrow.
Unconsciously he bruised her; unconsciously she
aggravated him.  His native spirit held the wider outlook
of her charity and lenity as weakness.  Sin and the
sinner were closely allied in his judgment; therefore
her tolerance, her magic ingenuity of excuse for error,
her clemency and her patience with folly puzzled him.
She had a genius for identifying herself with those the
world forgot or shunned.  She was a champion of
failures; and her attitude to the sick, the wretched, and
the outcast sometimes troubled David.

On one occasion she caught an evil from a house full
of sickness and brought it home, so that David, too,
fell ill and was from his work for three days.  When
the doctor came and bade him keep within doors, he
turned on his wife, and for the first time she saw him
angry with her.  The incident passed; the sting lasted
a long while.  Her attitude to Dorcas won a milder
reprimand; but here she was obstinate and asserted her
own liberty of action.  She visited Dorcas; rejoiced in
her happiness and content, and congratulated her on
the reformation she had achieved in her husband.  But
David held off and waited to see Billy Screech return
to his irregular ways; while Rhoda kept her word and
saw her sister no more.

It happened that David found his wife on an afternoon
in autumn going to the house of Mr. Screech with
a basket on her arm.  She never openly irritated him
by visiting his sister under his eyes, though her
friendship with Dorcas was not hidden; but now it chanced
that husband and wife unexpectedly met.  She was on
foot and he rode.  She smiled and stopped.  He nodded
and asked where she was going with a full basket.

"Not to they Fosters, Madge?  There's some bad
catching sickness there, and I won't have it.  I can't
afford no more of that nonsense."

"I'm going to see Dorcas."

"What for?"

"Because her li'l chap's queer.  Nothing at all,
David--only a bit of a tissick on the chest.  And I've
made up some cautcheries[#] after a recipe of mother's
for him.  And this here's a bit of that big, blue-vinnied
cheese as you said we never should be able to eat.  'Tis
a pity to waste it."

.. vspace:: 2

.. class:: noindent small

[#] Physic.

.. vspace:: 2

"Anything else?"

"No--except a pint of whortleberries what I
gathered yesterday; and a couple of they pigs' trotters
for your sister."

"Can't they pick their own whortleberries?"

"Dorcas be a thought poorly herself.  There's
another little one coming a'ready."

He frowned and sat still on his horse, looking straight
between its ears.

"Always swarm where they ban't wanted--like bees,"
he said.  Then he turned to Margaret.

"Give me that food.  Let Screech buy his own cheese.
I'm going up over to see my mother.  I'll carry it to her."

He held out his hand and she took the cheese from
her basket and gave it to him.

"And no more of this, my dear.  I'm not going to
keep other people's children--because I haven't got
none of my own.  And don't you never think so, Madge;
because if you do, you'll think wrong.  Good-bye for
the present.  Don't think 'tis hard: 'tis only sense."

He put the food in his pocket and rode on; she stood
and watched him; then her lips parted a little and as
she pressed them together tears started from her eyes.
There was none to see and she made no effort to restrain
her sorrow.  Her face was still tear-stained when two
men overtook her and Bartley Crocker, with Billy
Screech, bade her good-day.  Billy was in a hurry and
had to call at his home on the way elsewhere.  He
dearly liked Margaret and now, hearing that she was
on the way to see Dorcas, took her basket for her.
Mr. Screech rapidly passed out of sight and she was left
alone with Bartley.

He spoke at once.

"What's amiss?" he said.  "You've been crying."

"Nonsense!"

"I daresay it was.  Still, you have.  And if 'twas
nonsense, you can tell me so much the easier."

"Some silly trifle.  You oughtn't to have taken any
note of it."

"I've just met David--going up to Ditsworthy.  He
must have passed you.  Well, well--no business of
mine, Madge.  I'll say nought and ask you to forgive
me for being so bold as to see.  Only I'm different to
other people.  We've got such a lot of secrets--you
and me."

Instantly she confided in him.

"I know 'tis nought but your soft, silly heart,
Bartley.  We'm too much alike here and there, you and me.
But David's always right, and I do vex him with my
foolish ways--too well I know it.  I can't be so firm
and just as him.  God knows I try; but my mind ban't
built in his manly pattern.  I'm all for forgiving
everybody and being friendly with everybody.  He says I'm
no better than a spaniel to fawn, but--"

"Don't," said Mr. Crocker.  "Don't tell me no more,
Madge.  I quite understand.  'Tis the man's nature to
be firm and stern, same as it is yours to be soft and
gentle.  You've got to meet one another.  He must try
and be soft, and you must try and be hard.  I don't
suppose either of you can succeed; but if you try--and
yet what silly rummage I be talking!"

"I vexed him rather sharp a moment ago."

"Look here!" he exclaimed.  "In a bit of a cloud
like this, Rhoda ought to be the very one living creature
of all others to put everything right.  Don't you see
that with her sort of nature--as firm as David and yet
a woman--she ought to be able to see both sides and
just speak the very word and do the very thing to
make all go smooth and happy?"

"I'm sure she would if she could," answered
Margaret at once.  "Rhoda and me are capital friends
nine days out of ten.  But of course she's more like
David than me."

"I heard Screech say she was David in petticoats;
but that's only rude, foolish nonsense.  She's a woman,
and she must have a woman's softness and gentleness
and understanding for women hidden away in her--a
clever, beautiful creature like her."

The lover spoke and Margaret did not contradict
him.  Bartley, though he could arrive at fairly
accurate estimates of character as a rule, proved blind
where Rhoda Bowden was concerned.  He had judged
her better in the past; but now he only loved her and
erred accordingly.

"Trust to her; tell her," he advised.  "She can do
anything with David."

And Margaret, knowing perfectly well that Billy
Screech's opinion of her sister-in-law was the more
correct, yet took some heart of hope from Mr. Crocker's
advice and promised him to do as he suggested.

"But what am I to waste your time?" she asked.
"Such a happy woman as I be.  To see such a foreign
thing as a tear on my cheek!  No wonder you was
surprised.  'Twas all about nothing really and I'm
ashamed of myself.  Now let's talk of you.  When be
you coming up again to tell us more about Canada?"

"I've forgot all about it," he answered.  "The
question is, when am I going to ask Rhoda to go there with
me?  I feel 'twill be do or die next time.  But I can't
wait much longer.  Then there's my mother.  She'll
be gone by October, they say.  'Tis curious how she
hankers after that man, Charles Moses, now.  And I'm
sure he's terrible kind.  Comes in when he can and
reads the Bible to her by the hour.  Mr. Merle's very
good too.  But she'd rather have Moses than anybody."

"There's you."

"Yes--me first, poor dear.  I've scraped the skin
off my throat, as you can hear.  I was reading to her
till three o'clock this morning.  Then, thank God, she
got off to sleep."

They had reached the home of Dorcas and there
parted.  Margaret went in and Mr. Crocker, with a
resolution recently made and carefully concealed from
her, proceeded towards Sheepstor.

He had decided to speak to David, and since, knowing
himself tolerably well, he guessed that time might
very easily destroy this intention, Bartley proceeded
then and there to the way by which Bowden would
return to his home.  In a dingle not very far from
Dennycoombe he waited, and after two lonely hours, during
which he considered the probable futility of his
intention, David came along.

He was in good spirits and asked his old adversary
to return home with him for a cup of tea.

"I know you'll need no second bidding," he said,
"for my wife have told me about your fancy for Rhoda,
and though I can't further it, I'll not stand in the way
if 'tis to be.  You'd better come and tell her some more
about foreign parts: she likes that better than courting.
If any man ever wins her, 'twill have to be a wild
man of the woods, I reckon."

Crocker, pleased that David was in a mood so easy,
nerved himself to a dangerous task.  He had decided
to do no less than try and light Bowden's imagination.
This on any subject had been a difficult feat; but since
the man's own wife was the matter, Bartley felt that he
could hardly have attempted anything less likely to
succeed or more likely to end in tribulation.  Indeed, as
soon as his mouth was open he regretted his unwisdom;
but it was then too late to draw back and he proceeded.
Chance inspired him to make an excellent case and
speak with very genuine discretion; but David was a long
time silent and the other feared that he had done more
harm than good.

"'Tis well we met," he began, "for I want to speak
to you, David.  And 'tis a kicklish subject at first
glance; but not at second.  I mean Margaret.  You
know very well I wanted to marry her once, and you
know she loved you better far and you won her.  But
though she never would have taken me for a husband,
yet I've been close as a brother to her all my life, and
she's fond of me too in her way."

"I know it," said Bowden.  "And why not?  Fond
she is, else she wouldn't take so much trouble to try and
get Rhoda to have you."

"Exactly so.  And now I'm coming to the tricky
place in our talk.  I met Margaret a bit agone--mind,
I'm talking like her brother might--and she was crying.
Just after leaving you it was, David.  I asked her what
was amiss, and she told me 'twas all her weak nonsense.
Then it come out--as a sister to a brother.  She'd
vexed you and she was cut to the heart about it.  She
loves the ground you walk on, David; and when she
don't hit it off with you--when you look black at
her--'tis like holding back water from a flower.  By God,
she droops!"

"Crying, you say?"

"Had been, and couldn't hide it.  You'd never have
known it; but I said to myself, 'that man don't guess
what he is to her, or that a cold word frets her like a
wound.'  Be angry with me if you like, Bowden, and tell
me to mind my own business.  I'll take it now--now
that I've told you."

David stopped and got off his horse.

"I'm not angry," he said.  "The question is, what
have you told me?  I'll thank you to say it again; and
don't fear to use clear words.  I like 'em best."

"The point is that, busy as you are and up to the
eyes in affairs and beasts and money-making in general,
you've missed a lot in Madge that's worth finding out.
And you must find it out if you want her to be a happy
woman."

"What don't I know?"

"You don't know how to humour her."

"A sane, grown-up woman don't want humouring,
surely?"

"Every woman that ever was born wants humouring.
Think now.  Don't you humour Rhoda?  Don't
even Rhoda do and say things you can't fathom now
and again?  Don't you give in to her against your own
better knowledge now and then--for the sake of pleasing
her and so that she may the quicker do as you
want her to do next time?  Be honest--don't you?"

Bowden looked at the other with surprise and nodded.

"Lord!  How you know the ins and outs of 'em!"

"Not me.  No man ever can.  We just glimpse a
bit here and there.  But this I know; patience is the
first virtue with women.  Patient, as a spider, we've got
to be when the fly is a female.  Now Margaret feeds
on one thing, and if you hold it back you starve her.
That's sympathy, Bowden--just a natural, tender sort
of feeling such as you don't hold back even from a cow
that's just dropped a dead calf and had her trouble for
nought.  I'll say it in a word and trust your large
sense and justice not to be angered.  You're not so
kind as you might be to Margaret.  'Tis summed up
in that, and I ask you to forgive me for saying it.  I've
nought to gain, and everything to lose by losing your
friendship.  I wouldn't have spoken such a strong
thing for any less serious reason than her happiness.
And now you can tell me to go about my business if you
please, and I'll gladly go."

"Wait a bit and hear me," answered the other.  "I
can see, fixed up as you are, and hoping what you hope,
that it wasn't all fun for you to say this to me.  You're
not the sort of man as ever goes across the road to
teach other people or meddle with them.  And that's
why I've listened so patient to you.  Some--most men--I'd
have stopped at the first word; because most men
be very fond of giving advice and lifting themselves
above their neighbours; and that sort I very soon put
in their place if they talk to me.  But you don't offer
your opinions unasked as a rule, and you've knowed
my wife since she was a baby, and you'm a thought like
her here and there--a softness there is in your nature.
'Twas pointed out after our fight."

"I said that very word to her to-day," answered
Bartley.  "'Tis because I'm rather the same pattern as
she that I can feel so sharp about this as even to risk
your friendship by speaking.  She'd die for you; but
would you die for her, David?  Well, yes, without
doubt you would; but do what's harder.  Try to do
the little, twopenny-halfpenny, every-day sort of things
for her that'll show her she's never out of your thought."

The other had retired into his own mind and failed
to hear this admonition.  His intellect moved much
more slowly than Crocker's, and he was now retracing
an incident.

"To show you the softness of her," he said, "I may
tell you that when you was coming to see us, she begged
me to take down the fight-colours--the two handkerchers
you might have seen hanging in shiny wood
frames one on each side of the parlour looking-glass in
my house.  She said that it would hurt your feelings
cruel to see the signs of the battle there, and I think
even Rhoda looked a sort of question with her eyes at
me.  'But no,' I said.  'He's not a fool.  'Twill be no
pain to him to see 'em.'  And I wouldn't take 'em down.
Rhoda saw it my way; but Margaret kept on to the
end that 'twas not a proper thing--'specially as you
came at my invitation to tea.  Yet, of course you didn't
mind seeing your fogle there?"

"Not a bit in the world.  A very natural and proper
place for it.  But don't it show what stuff she's made
of--Margaret, I mean?"

"It do," admitted David.  "I thank you for saying
these things to me.  I'm not above learning from any
man or woman either."

"Learn from her then.  You can't learn from a
better.  Be out of bias with her no more."

"I'll have a tell with Rhoda about it.  'Tis the little
silly things, as you say, that please women.  I do big
things when I can, you must know.  There was another
twenty pound put out at interest for her last month.
But she didn't take much delight seemingly in a
valuable matter like that.  She thanked me loving enough,
but not as though she knowed what it means to earn
and to save twenty pounds."

"She'd sooner you took her back a bunch of they
wild strawberries out of the hedge than all the money
in Tavistock," declared Bartley.  "Foolish, if you
like, but take my word for it, David.  She's built in
that particular way.  Try it."

Bowden laughed.

"If any man had told me that I should ever listen
to such a lot of sense from you, I'd have judged him
mad," he answered.  "Yet here it has come about, and
I thank you, honest, for trying to do me a good turn.
And succeeding too.  I'll see how a little silliness will
work.  Perhaps a holiday come the next revel.
Good-bye--unless you'll drop in for a bite."

"Next week, perhaps.  But there's a lot of trouble
afore me just now.  My mother--"

"You're welcome when you please to come,"
concluded Bowden, and re-mounted, full of his own
thoughts.  It was characteristic that when the other
mentioned his dying parent, he said nothing.  He had
heard, but the ready word made no effort to leave his
lips.  He was for the moment quite occupied with his
own business.  Crocker left his old antagonist very full
of thought and, when the younger was out of sight,
Bowden, at a sudden whim, took his advice literally,
dismounted again and tethered his horse.  Then he
ranged about and gathered a great bunch of
wood-strawberries that clustered in a dewy hedge and shone
ruby-red in the level sunset light along the lane.

They would have been a very real and deep joy to
Margaret; she must have been the nearer to his heart
that night by the tie of that simple thought; but such
an act was foreign to his nature.  He fell to thinking
how really and practically to please her, and in the
light of definite and weighty deeds, this piece of sentiment
looked in his eyes so exceedingly foolish, that he
flung the berries away impatiently long before he
reached home.

What would anybody have said, he asked himself,
had they seen the busy and prosperous David Bowden
carrying along rubbish from the hedge-row, like a child
playing truant from Sunday school?

That night, after Margaret had gone to bed, he
talked with Rhoda concerning her, and Rhoda was
deeply interested and anxious to fall in with his
purposes.  David mentioned the source of his inspiration,
and finding that he showed no anger against Bartley
Crocker, his sister took the same attitude.  They strove
very steadily henceforth to please Madge, and to
understand the things that were good to her.  They tried
hard, and in a measure succeeded; for Margaret was
quick to mark their efforts and gather happiness from
them.  Yet the attempt could not largely avail;
because sympathy, without imagination to light its way,
can only grope in the dark and, groping, perish.





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.. _`THE COURAGE OF MR. SNELL`:

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   CHAPTER XII


.. class:: center medium bold

   THE COURAGE OF MR. SNELL

.. vspace:: 2

The instinct which drew Simon Snell towards
Rhoda Bowden--the instinct which, exemplified in
her, suffered the advance without active discomfiture--while
slight and subtle, was none the less real.  There
was that in this simple soul which suited the woman; or
if such an expression is too strong, she found him more
easily endured than any other man.  Most girls fled
instinctively from Simon.  The dullest found him dull;
the least humourous found his beard a jest; the worst
educated discovered that they possessed wider
knowledge than he.  Yet Rhoda, who was not stupid, who
was handsome and who enjoyed a measure of sense,
could accede something to this egregious man that she
denied all others.  She did not spurn him and she did
not find his companionship a joke or a bore.  On the
other hand, she did not seek him and made no attempt
to better their acquaintance.

Simon, for his part, developed similar and even
stronger sentiments; and he had wit sufficient to
perceive that any increase of friendship must come from
him.

He debated the matter in his mind with oriental
deliberation; and he consumed several months on the great
problem of whether he should or should not ask Rhoda
to take a walk with him during some Sunday afternoon.
His inclinations varied, and occasionally he believed that
to walk with her was desirable; but more often he feared
that such an action would be too definite and must
commit him.  Moreover, he felt extremely doubtful as to
Rhoda's reply and, thanks to a spark of imagination in
his character not to have been suspected, he believed
that if she said 'no,' he would feel very uncomfortable.

She met him on a day when the first opinion was
uppermost, and almost before he knew it, Mr. Snell
had succeeded in asking Rhoda if she would take a
stroll with him upon the following Sunday afternoon.
She replied without emotion that she was engaged to
dinner with her parents at Ditsworthy.

"The next then," faltered Mr. Snell.  As he spoke,
he determined with himself that in thus pressing
himself upon her, he had gone too far, and he prepared to
leave her.  To his surprise, however, Rhoda agreed.

"If 'tis a fine afternoon Sunday week, I'll come.  But
not if 'tis pouring torrents," she said.

"I'll be to your house at three of the clock," he answered.

Then he left her and found himself in great agitation.
This was the most audacious thing that he had
ever done.  He felt proud and alarmed by turns.  As
the day approached he heartily hoped that it might be
wet; but it arrived clear, cold, and fine.  Therefore he
went forth in his Sunday clothes, reached his destination
too soon and waited out of sight behind a stone,
until his watch told one minute to the appointed hour.

Rhoda was ready for him and they set off together
up the valley.  From his cottage door David watched
them and smiled grimly.  His sister had not mentioned
her appointment, and both Margaret and her husband
were exceedingly surprised.

"It can't surely be that poor Mr. Snell--?" said Madge.

"Anything can be," he answered; "but 'tis hard to
believe.  On the whole--no.  It amounts to nought.
Look at the way Simon carries his legs--that loose
from the thigh--that loose and wandering, as though
they belonged to a Guy Fawkes!"

"'Tis a most amazing thing, David, what different
sort of people sometimes have something in 'em that
draws them together willy-nilly.  But Hartley!"

"'Tis no good looking that way," he answered with
decision.  "I sounded her as to the man a bit ago, as I
promised.  She's got no fancy that way, Madge, and
the sooner he knows it the sooner he'll stop wasting his
time."

.. vspace:: 2

Meanwhile Mr. Snell walked beside Rhoda and talked
of the amazing number of water rats in the leat.
Presently he lifted the theme to poultry, and then, returning
to the water, detailed the exact manner of his professional
labours.  She said little but listened to his statement
of facts.  His mind was only constituted to assert
crude happenings.  He had no ideas, no theories, and
few opinions.

"You can see the tower of Princetown church very
clear from here," he said; "but if a mist comed over, it
would be hidden."

She admitted that this was so.

"A gentleman stopped in our best bedroom and
parlour a year back," continued Simon; "and his
custom was to paint pickshers.  And once I comed
this way and he was painting pretty near where we be
standing now.  And I made so bold as to look, and then
I made so bold as to talk, because the gentleman axed
me what I thought of it.  'You've left out the church
tower,' I says to him.  'Yes,' he says, ''twasn't like I
was going to stick such a beastly, ugly thing as that
in the middle of they hills.' So he left it out, though to
my eye 'twas the most interesting sight to be seen."

"Did he make his pickshers for pleasure, or did he
get anything by them?" asked Rhoda.

"He lived by 'em.  He said to me once that there
were one or two sane men in the world who bought
everything he liked to paint.  'Twas a very curious
speech to my ear.  And to be honest with you, I didn't
like his pickshers--messy and half done to my eye--very
different to the pickshers you see on grocers' almanacs,
where everything, to the hairs on a horse's tail,
be worked out to a miracle."

"Have 'e seen they pickshers that David got to
Tavistock?" she asked.

Mr. Snell had seen them; but with a great and
sudden access of cunning he replied in the negative.  He
expected her to invite him home to do so; but she did not.

A silence fell until they came to a clapper bridge of
rather narrow dimensions.

"Shall I hand you over, miss, or would you rather
go alone?" he inquired.

But Rhoda had crossed before he finished the question.

The church-tower seemed to draw his eyes like a
magnet, and after further silence Mr. Snell began to
talk about it again.

"'Tis a very wonderful and curious thing that the
old prisoners made thicky pile," he said.  "You might
not know it, but so it was in ancient days."

"Very sad for them, because they was foreigners,"
ventured Rhoda.

"Exactly so.  'Twould be a very sad thing to have
a wife and family and be shut away from them."

"Yes."

"Very sad without a doubt."

"Yes."

Mr. Snell next ventured on a great generality.

"I don't think 'tis a very good plan for fighting men
to marry," he said.

"Perhaps not."

"Because, if they get the worst of it, and get shot
dead or taken prisoners, or any such like misfortune,
their children and females have to suffer."

Rhoda did not answer.

"'Tis a deep question, if you come to think of it,
miss, who ought to be married and who ought not to be
married."

"There's a lot married as had better not be," she
declared.

"I quite agree, I quite agree," answered Simon; "and
you might even go so far as to say there's a lot might
be married who ain't."

"There's a lot don't want to be, I believe."

"Women, I grant you.  I do think here and there
you'll find a woman who won't change the single state,
along of experience with married sisters, or babies, or
cross-grained men, or what not; but us was telling to
'The Corner House' a bit back along, and it seemed
the general idea that there comes a time in every manly
mind when the chap cries out for a wife.  Should you
think that might be so?"

"How should I know?"

"Beg pardon, I'm sure.  Perhaps 'twas a silly
question to put to a young woman.  No offence, I hope?"

"Yes, it was a silly question."

"Sorry, I'm sure, and I hope you'll overlook it.
But, when I ax myself if ever it was so with me--but
perhaps it don't interest you?"

She considered before answering, then replied:

"I don't much care what men think, but if you want
to tell me, tell me."

"Not at all--far from it, I'm sure.  For that matter
I couldn't tell you very easy.  I haven't been throwed
much with the female kind."

"So much the better for you very like."

"I quite agree--as a general thing; but, however--"
he broke off and looked at his watch.

"My word, only four o'clock!  Who'd have thought
it?" he exclaimed.

"In my case I've been throwed a lot with men," said
Rhoda.

"So you have, and no doubt you'll understand 'em
pretty well.  In fact, you're as brave as most men.
I'm sure now you are braver than me."

"Ban't you brave then?"

"I'm brave by fits and starts," said Mr. Snell.  "With
cattle, yes; with horses, no.  When I was a little nipper,
not above twelve or thirteen year old, a wicked horse
got me down and bit my shoulder to the bone.  He'd
have killed me in another moment, but the Lord sent a
man with a pitchfork and I was saved.  But I feared a
horse from that day, and if I could show you my
shoulder, which, of course, I wouldn't offer for to
do, you'd see how I was mangled by the teeth of him."

"Some horses be as uncertain as dogs, and they've
got terrible long memories--better than ours sometimes."

"No doubt you know, so full of learning about
four-footed things as you be."

"We'll turn now, please."

"Certainly.  Us have come a longer way than I
thought to.  But you step out something wonderful."

"I like walking."

"So do I--nothing better.  I go along ten miles of
the leat six days a week, winter and summer.  You
might be surprised to know that I go more than three
thousand miles in the year.  'Twas done out in figures
by Mr. Mattacott all quite correct."

They had turned, and now walked a considerable
way in absolute silence.  Then a neighbour came in
sight, and Mr. Snell grew nervous.

"There's that clacking creature, Mary Main.  She
haven't seed us yet.  If you'd rather for me to go away
afore she does--?"

"Yes, if you like."

"It might be better--unless--  Well, here's good-bye
then for the present, and I'm very thankful to you for
walking--very thankful and no less."

"Us have had a nice walk."

"I quite agree, I'm sure; and thank you kindly; if
I get over this here wall I can pick up the leat yonder;
and to see me by the leat will be an everyday sight for
anybody."

"Yes, it will."

He hurried off, and Mary Main, when she met Rhoda
alone as usual, had no idea of her recent great
adventure.

What impression the walk with Simon left in the
girl's mind none ever knew; but Mr. Snell felt mildly
elated by the achievement, though he told nobody about
it.  He was secretive, and his own mother knew nothing
of his thoughts.  Indeed, she was scarcely aware that
he did think.  Rhoda, too, confided in none but her
brother.  She said nothing about her amusement, and
when Margaret openly asked her if she had enjoyed it,
she did not answer the question, but replied with some
other matter.  It happened thus.

"Did you like Mr. Snell's opinions?" asked her
sister-in-law, as Rhoda took off her hat and came to
the tea-table.

"They horned sheep have all gone down in a crowd
from the high ground, and they want to be driven back,
which I'll do after I've had a cup of tea and changed
my clothes," said the other.

Six weeks later there fell out an unfortunate incident
which went far to extinguish the slightly closer
understanding that had obtained between these women since
Bartley Crocker met David.  By ill-fortune Madge
annoyed Rhoda exceedingly, and her brother was also
implicated.  Mr. Snell, however, suffered most in the
sequel.  With great circumspection he had avoided
Rhoda for a month after their walk, then he met her
and proposed another.

"'Twill have to be short, for the evenings close in
so," she said.

"I like the dark so well as you, however," he assured her.

"I only like the dark alone," she answered.

"How coorious!  I only like it in company," he
declared.  "But, if you'm willing, I'll be so bold as to
call at the cot half after two come Sunday week."

"I shall be home that day.  I dare say my sister-in-law
will come too."

"As to her--" began Mr. Snell, then he checked
himself.  "She's a very nice woman; in fact, you'd
have to look a long way further than Sheepstor parish
to find her equal," he declared.  And then he went his
way, dimly conscious that he had chosen his words
awkwardly.

When he arrived Rhoda was ready, but Margaret
had a cold in her face, and the other had not asked her
to join the party.  Mr. Snell's appearance came as a
surprise, and David spoke.

"Why, here's Simon again!  So 'tis him you be
prinked up in that new hat for, Rhoda!"

Margaret laughed despite herself, and the virgin
flushed; but with anger.

"Look at her roses!" said David, whose Sunday
dinner had left him in an easy mood.  Then his sister
instantly restored him to seriousness.

"How dare you!" she cried.  "How dare you laugh,
Margaret, or you say such things, David?  You ought
to be ashamed of yourselves.  I won't see the man!
Never again will I see him!  'Tis you coarse creatures
ought to blush--not me!"

She left them, went to her room, and refused to
descend though Margaret came up and pleaded with her.

"Tell him to go," was all that Rhoda said.

Mr. Snell was placidly regretful to hear that Rhoda
had a headache.

"The headache is a very painful thing; but she'll
soon be rids of it," he said.  "Us was going for a
walk, but 'tis not of any consequence.  I can go just as
easy alone.  Or I needn't go at all, come to think of it."

He went to the gate, hesitated, and returned.

"When she comes down house again, you might give
her my respects," he said; "and if 'tis her stomach that
is out of order, there's nothing better than a little cold
onion broth without salt, taken when the organs all be
empty."

"I'll tell her," promised Margaret, and Mr. Snell
shuffled off.

He walked over the exact ground of the former
peregrination and recalled the former topics very
accurately.

"I shall leave it now till well on into the new year,"
he told himself; "then, if my feelings be so fierce and
fiery as they seem to be at present, I might offer for to
go walking again.  There's nought like a walk for
helping a male to see into the female mind.  'Twas Crocker,
I remember, who said in the bar that if you could get a
girl to laugh at your jokes, 'twas a great thing done.
But 'twill have to be something out of the common
funny to make that woman laugh.  And as to making
a joke--I don't know I'm sure."





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.. _`RHODA PASSES BY`:

.. class:: center large bold

   CHAPTER XIII


.. class:: center medium bold

   RHODA PASSES BY

.. vspace:: 2

A great uncertainty prevailed above Margaret
Bowden, where she sat on the lofty side of Lether
Tor before noon and waited to meet Bartley.  The
aerial doubt was reflected on earth in shadows and
darkness shot with fitful light; an increasing opacity
threatened rain; yet, where the vapours crowded most gloomily
and massed their hooded cowls, light and wind would
break their conclaves and scatter them upon the humid
bosom of the Moor.  Through this welter, sunshafts
fell and flashed over the grey and russet of the wilderness.

A sort of mystery belonged to the day seen in its
huge encounter between cloud legions and the light of
heaven.  Strange things might have been happening
within the penetralia of the fog-banks, where they drove
through the valleys gloomily.  There was an air of
mighty preparation, of imminent explosion, of forces
stealthily taking stand and making ready to declare
themselves in elemental encounter between the armies of
the sun and the rain.  Light and darkness joined battle,
and Mother Earth lowered heavily, in mood to welcome
the victory of her own innumerable cloud children.  The
sobriety of the hour increased.  The distant details of
the land faded; the tors ascended solemn and purple
above the grey.

Yet, through loopholes in the driving fog, the sun
still shot his arrows strongly and, where they fell, there
broke forth fire on dene and dingle, and small roof-tree
isolated in the loneliness.  The watcher marked a
sudden shaft sweep the vale of Kingsett with a besom
of light, while another radiant gleam broke the clouds,
descended upon her old home, and set the far-off
whitewash glimmering like a jewel at the throat of Dennycoombe.

Now the high lands southerly shone for a moment;
now the ragged crest of Sheep's Tor was glorified with
a nimbus of light, that revolved in a broad, wet fan, and
then shut up again, as the clouds thrust between sun
and earth.

In process of time, as the war swept hither and
thither, there grew a cheerful hope in Madge's mind
that the clouds might be beaten.  When all seemed lost
and new vapours gathered even to her feet, she saw the
upper heaven shine with sudden access of glory.  It
collected in close, dazzling centres; it pierced and
riddled the fog beneath with silver that warmed into gold.
And then the earth, that had taken service with storm
and lifted her dark bosom to welcome rain--the faithless
earth paid court to the conqueror and welcomed him
with beauty.  No longer she sulked; no longer the tors
and hog-backed hills answered the dark strata of the sky
with greater darkness, and spread beneath the sullen
colours of the clouds a face still more sullen.  Instead
they donned a brighter aspect; while banderoles of blue
unfurled aloft in the widening rents of the cloud rack.
A great wind gathered strength, scattered the mists, and
drove them flying down the hills; there fell warmth on
the watcher's cheek; the world smoothed out her granite
wrinkles, smiled, and reflected the azure of heaven upon
her manifold stony faces, her water-ways and plains.
Light conquered and upon the skirts of the defeated
fog there burnt cold fires and glimmered the iris.

This transformation and overthrow of the day's dark
prophecy much heartened Madge.  The victory of
sunshine lifted her spirits unconsciously.  She grew
happier with the unfolding serenity of the hour; and
she was singing to herself when Bartley Crocker
arrived.

Of late not seldom they had met unseen in lonely
places, far afield.  Sometimes she waited for him by the
great menhir of Thrushel Coombe; sometimes at Plym
Steps; sometimes in spots even more remote, haunted
by the heron and the shadows of clouds.  But during
the past fortnight Margaret had only seen Mr. Crocker
on one occasion, when she called to know of his mother's
fading health.  Then he made the present appointment;
and now, as she sang, he climbed up through the wild
clitters of Lether Tor to keep it.

"Go on," he said.  "I heard you long afore you saw
me.  'Tis pleasant to my ear; for nought be singing
just now but the robins."

"I was cheered somehow when the sun mastered the fog."

"How's Rhoda?"

"Very well.  She'll come this way herself presently,
by Nosworthy bridge."

"Mr. Snell called again?"

"Not again.  'Tis a pity you can't see a bit more of
Rhoda, however."

"My mother wouldn't let me out of her sight at the last."

"Well I know it, poor dear.  How does she find herself
to-day, Bartley?"

"A bit strange, no doubt; but with my father to
show her the new place.  She's dead."

"Dead!  Oh, Bartley!"

"Yes--thank God.  Faded out at four o'clock
yesterday morning.  Flickered out just the same as a
night-light flickers out.  Wavers and shakes--then
steadies down again--then gets brighter than ever--then
grows dim--slowly, slowly, till there's nought but
a bead of fire left.  And then a flash, and then--gone.
And your eyes think it's there still; but it isn't."

"Dear Bartley, I'm so sorry for you."

"Are you?  But I know you are.  Not many else
will be--not many but me and my Aunt Susan.  She's
torn to the heart.  I couldn't stand no more of it."

"I'll see your aunt to-morrow.  I'll see her to-day."

"She'll thank you.  Make it to-morrow.  My dear
mother wasn't a very much sought after woman--too
wise for that, I expect.  But you could comfort her
sister.  Nobody else will trouble about her."

"To-night I shall go down."

"The funeral's on Tuesday.  Would you put her to
the west where the big holly tree is, or under the
sunny wall where the slates of the Moses family all
stand?"

"She'd have liked to be buried by her husband.  She
told me so."

"I know; but 'tisn't convenient.  He lies at Honiton,
and 'twould cost a King's ransom to take her there.
But I asked her almost the last thing, and she thought
and shook her head.  Past caring then."

"Me and David will be at the funeral--I can promise
for myself, and I'm pretty sure he'll go."

"D'you think you could get Rhoda to come?  D'you
think I might go so far as to ask her to come?"

"I'm sure she'd go if she thought it would give
anybody any pleasure."

"Not pleasure exactly.  You might almost say 'twas
business more than pleasure.  Don't think I'm
hard-hearted and all that sort of thing; but when you're in
love like I am--everything--even the funeral of his own
mother--is used by a man to his advantage, if it can be.
To feel like I feel for Rhoda makes me as hard as a
millstone for everything else.  I want her at the
funeral; because if she sees me there burying my dear
mother, it may bring a pinch of softness to her.  I've
planned to get her there if 'tis possible."

Margaret stared at him in wonder.

"Don't think me daft.  I'm suffering enough; but
'tis man's way to look on ahead.  And I can't look on
ahead into nothing.  I've grown to feel to Rhoda that
she's got to marry me.  And yet 'tis idle to pretend
that I've much right to be hopeful.  What's the best
news about her?"

"There's no news, unless her long, lonely walks be
news.  She must think of something when she takes 'em.
She can't talk to the dogs all the time.  Her mind can't
be empty, can it?"

"Certainly not," Mr. Crocker assured her.  "She
must be travelling over something in her brain, if 'tis
only the joneys on the mantel-shelf in your parlour.
But it isn't about me and Canada she thinks, I reckon.
Canada, perhaps, but not me."

"I will say this: there's no unfriendliness in her.  I
never hear her speak a word against any man, bar
William Screech.  And I go in hopes that she'll forgive
even him and Dorcas."

"She'd forgive 'em right enough if she was married
to me.  Anyway, when my dear mother's laid to her
rest, after a few days are past, I shall ask Rhoda again.
The time has come to do it."

"I think it has."

"Will she be along with you at Christmas?"

"No," answered Margaret.  "'Tis ordained that we
all go to Ditsworthy for Christmas dinner.  'Tis a
longful time since David was to home, and his mother
has planned this."

"Well, you must ask me a bit later.  Or I'll try to
get David to bid me come and eat along with you after
New Year.  I may tell you this: David wouldn't make
any objection."

"None--none at all."

Bartley began to spare a little thought from himself
for Margaret.  He had often wondered whether his
plain hints to her husband brought any fruit for her.
To-day he was in a high-strung and somewhat emotional
mood; therefore he did not shirk the subject as usual;
but prepared to plunge into it.

"Let's get down the hill," he said.  "We'll go so far
as Nosworthy bridge together, if that's not drawing
you too much out of your way."

"'Twill suit very well," she answered.  "I want to
meet Rhoda, and she'll be fetching back by the bridge
afore long."

"You'll be hungry."

"No; I've got a bit of bread and cheese in my pocket.
You can have half, if you mind to."

He shook his head.

"Can't eat to-day.  'Twill be a fast day in my life
for evermore."

"Dear Hartley, I don't say much.  Who can say
anything to the purpose against such a loss?  But I do
feel for you."

"I know it, Madge.  Nobody'll feel for me like you.
Give me your hand.  'Tis a thought steep here; but it
leads to the best road to the bottom."

He helped her down the crooked acclivities, and in
half an hour they were at the bridge beneath.

Here Meavy opens her arms, and shutting them
again, creates a little island.  The waters join once
more below and sing and foam under the ivy-mantled
span of one grey arch.  To-day naked boughs thrust
up from the drooping red mat of the brake-fern, and
the leaves of the willows were reduced to a mere yellow
sparkle of yellow on the boughs.  Only the greater
furze laid a heavy green in great masses on the
harmony of winter colours.

Bartley led the way by mossy stones beside a backwater
where dead leaves danced.

"We'll sit on the island," he said, "while you eat
your food.  There's an old hurdle there, and I'll put
my coat over it for you."

A few moments later they were talking about
Margaret's self, and she felt her heart flutter
somewhat at this sudden and very unexpected change of
subject.

"D'you mind what you told me some time since,
Madge?" he asked.  "At least it can't be said you told
me; but, between the lines of things that you spoke, I
somehow pieced together a sort of feeling you wasn't
as happy as you'd a right to be."

"How can you think so?  I'm sure--"

"Well, anyway, it got into my stupid head, and as
luck would have it I fell in with David a bit after I'd
left you.  You must remember the day, Madge.  It's
idle to pretend you've forgot."

"Yes, I remember.  I was down-daunted and silly.
You oughtn't to have thought twice about my feeble
grumbling."

"You didn't grumble.  Another person would have
marked nothing in what you said; but I know you
so well--quick as lightning I am where you are
concerned, or any woman I care about.  And I talked
to David."

She started and stared at him.

"Then I'm very angry indeed with you, Bartley."

"Are you?  Well, he wasn't.  There's few more
sensible, clever chaps knocking about than your
husband.  Like a flash I opened his eyes, and he thanked
me for doing it.  Thanked me, mind you."

"Opened his eyes!  Whatever do you mean?"

"I mean I opened his eyes.  He's a terrible busy
man and I'm a terrible lazy one.  And 'tis no use being
lazy if you can't use your time to do the busy folk a
good turn.  Fools would say 'twas interference; but
not a wise man like David."

"What did you tell him?"

"Say you forgive me."

"It depends what you said."

"It depends on the result of what I said.  I told
David that I reckoned he was--well--too busy.  I said
he dropped you out of his life a bit too much and didn't
humour you enough.  I told him plump out that he
wasn't so kind as he might be.  Now you're properly
angered with me, no doubt; but just think if you've a
right to be."

She was silent, and her flush faded and her eyes fixed
on him and grew puzzled.

"'Twas only because I knew him so well and his
straight, just way that I dared," he continued.  "And
now you've got to say if that talk did harm or good.
And if it did harm, heap hard words on me; but if it
did good--"

She put out her hand impulsively, but not until a
silent minute had sped.  During the moments she
retraced the past and remembered what had surprised her
and made her happier.  Then she stretched out her
hand and clasped his.

"Good came of it," she said.

"If that's so, I've gained something to-day as well
as lost something, Madge."

"David--it shows what he is, Hartley."

"Yes.  He's high above anything small or mean."

She continued to reflect.  It was impossible to say
much more on the subject, and, indeed, the brightest
that could be said was spoken.  The wife, though she
knew that her husband had long since resumed his old
absorbed attitude and found less and less leisure for
amenity and tenderness, could not whisper this outside
her own heart.

"It was good and brave of you," she said.  "And
dear David belongs to the large-souled sort of men that
ban't above learning even on such a sacred, secret
business as his wife.  But he knew you had known me ever
since I was a little girl."

Bartley nodded.

"So long as you can tell me that good came of it, I'm
content.  Now leave it.  Eat your lunch and then I
must go.  And strive to bring 'em both--Rhoda and
David--to the funeral."

"All Sheepstor will surely go."

She brought her food from her pocket and he watched
her eat some little sandwiches made of bread and cheese.
Their backs were turned to Nosworthy bridge, but they
were quite visible from it.

"There's more here than I want," she said.  "I wish
you'd take some."

The whimsical child in the man, even on this dark
day, broke loose.

"Feed me," he said.  "Don't think I'm a fool for
asking; but feed me.  I mean it.  'Twill comfort me.
I'm cruel miserable, though not to the eye."

Of old she remembered his follies and fancies.

"When you was young you was always like a little,
silly, petted bird or puppy," she said, smiling.

"So I often am still--and especially when I'm down
on my luck.  There's no dear, silly mother to pet me
no more and make me chirrup again.  How she would
do it!  Feed me, Madge."

She held a sandwich to his mouth.

"One more."

"Here's four more.  Eat 'em quick.  And then I
must get going."

One by one she put the morsels of food to his lips,
and laughed at him, in spite of herself, while she did so.
Then he thanked her and declared that he was much
the better and happier for her charity.

"Mother's in heaven," he said.  "And I'm going to
her again some day.  If a man believes that really, and
doesn't only fool himself to think he believes it, 'tis the
greatest comfort of all.  And I didn't ought to be
miserable to-day, and I'm damned if I will be."

"Of course you believe it.  So do I--heart and soul--and
so do every true, faithful Christian creature."

"Of course.  Didn't you say you counted to meet
Rhoda here?"

"Yes--'tis time she came by."

"I shall pass her going back; and I'll tell her you're
at the bridge waiting for her.  Good-bye, Madge; and
the Lord bless you for the kind things you've said to me."

"And thank you, too, Bartley, for--for--"

"That was nought."

He helped her back from the island to the road; then
he left her and went his way in expectation of meeting
Rhoda at every turn.  But he did not meet her, because
she had already passed by.

She had flitted swiftly over the bridge; but stricken
to passivity by a sudden and astounding sight--she
had stood a moment upon the farther side.  She had
then gone forward without disturbing those who
astonished her.

Therefore Margaret and Mr. Crocker were wholly
unaware that Rhoda Bowden had seen her sister-in-law
not only putting food into the man's mouth, but also
laughing at him while he ridiculously imitated the
fluttering action of a fledgling bird.

Rhoda gasped and slipped her foot once or twice
from sheer absorption of mind as she proceeded
homeward.  She considered this spectacle in the light of
news just gleaned at Sheepstor.

"And the man's mother not much more than cold in
her grave-clothes!" she thought.





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.. _`MYSTERY`:

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   BOOK III

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.. class:: center large bold

   CHAPTER I

.. class:: center medium bold

   MYSTERY

.. vspace:: 2

The company at 'The Corner House' had divided
into two groups, and each was concerned with a
separate subject.  Mr. Shillabeer himself, with Bartley
Crocker, Mr. Moses, Simon Snell, and Bart Stanbury,
discussed a strange phenomenon that had of late
startled the dwellers at Sheepstor; while, with their
backs to this throng, Ernest Maunder, his friend
Timothy Mattacott, and Billy Screech whispered together
upon a private problem.

"The thing can be explained in a word," said Moses;
"there be amongst us some high-minded, religious
creature that have got hold of this way of advertising
the Truth.  He have said to himself, 'There's nought
like a gate to catch the eye of the passer-by.'  And so,
where a gate happens to stand by the wayside, he have
gone by night and painted up a Bible truth.  Farmer
Chave found '*Prepare to meet thy God*' on his bullock
byre yesterday morning, and there's 'Eternity'--just
that one solemn word--on every second gate betwixt
here and Meavy."

"He's come out our way, too, since last week," said
Bart Stanbury.  "There be a text up over on the
moor-gate above our house: '*Now is the accepted
time*.'"

Young Stanbury was courting a girl at Nosworthy
Farm, near his home, and this text, staring out of the
dawn-lit desert, had come to him with the force of a
direct command.  But he made no mention of its private
significance in his affairs.

"The party means well enough," declared Hartley.
"There's no doubt about that.  And it can't be denied
that coming upon these solemn things all of a sudden
makes men and women think.  The puzzle is to know
who's doing it."

"Some of the people that own the gates don't like
it, however," said Simon Snell.  "Farmer Bassett, out
to Yellowmead, says 'tis a form of trespass and battery
to write on a man's gatepost; and it don't bring you any
more within the law because you write up Scripture.
The man stuck up '*Let there be light*' on Mr. Bassett's
big gate--the one going into his four-acre field--and
Bassett was cruel vexed and said as how he'd let light
into the chap himself if ever he caught him."

"And he's cleaned his gate with sand-paper," added
young Stanbury.

"'Tis written on again since then," said Mr. Shillabeer.
"I was that way not long since, and there's
words written there again--namely, 'God is Love.'"

"Strange thing is that Ernest Maunder on his
nightly rounds should have never catched the man,"
mused Crocker.

"Not at all," explained Mr. Moses.  "The man no
doubt knows the way of Ernest's beat as well as Ernest
himself do, and avoids him.  They were saying yesterday
that it might even be parson's self; but of course
that's a rash and silly idea.  His reverence is as much
interested in it as anybody--especially since he found
'*The Lord loveth a cheerful giver*' on his own
back-garden door--the one that leadeth out into the lane.
He holds that the man means well; all the same, he
wants him catched and stopped."

"What could be done to him if they did lay hold on
him?" asked Reuben Shillabeer.

"Why, there you beat me," answered Moses.  "I'm
sure I don't know.  The lord of the manor might talk
to him; but I don't think any law has been broken,
whereas 'tis certain many people have been made to
think about religion in consequence."

"My mother for one," asserted Mr. Snell.  "She
came across '*After death the Judgment*' 'pon a broken
paling out Yennadon Down way, and it turned her
faint on the instant and made her very unwell.  But
'twas all to the good, as she herself declared two days
afterwards.  The man's doing a very proper work,
whoever the man is."

"With a pot of blacking and letters cut out of tin he
does it," said Bartley Crocker.  "It ought to be pretty
easy to find him out.  He must have been round here
only a day or two ago.  I see he's been busy at the
bottom of your paddock, 'Dumpling.'"

"Yes," admitted Mr. Shillabeer.  "He knows a bit
about everybody.  '*Swear not at all*' he put up on my
fence, down the bottom end of my cabbage plot.  That
ought to be a lesson to us in this bar, for, try as I will,
the crooked words slip out among you."

"I quite agree," said Mr. Snell.  "I catched myself
saying 'damn' to a young dog only yesternight.  And
no fault of the dog."

"If we was all as careful as you, no great harm would
come to the parish," answered Charles Moses.  "For
my part, swearing never drew me.  I found I could
be righteously angry without it, and also forcible of
speech."

"Some fall back upon it as natural as drink,"
asserted Bartley, "though 'tis certainly no sign of
strength to put in swear words."

"Yet Sir Guy Flamank, his honourable self, be a
great hand with them," argued Snell.  "I've heard him
in the hunting field use the most terrible parts of speech
you can imagine--though not when ladies was out, I
admit that."

"Take my good friend, David Bowden," said Bartley.
"No man ever yet heard him use an oath.  And yet,
by all accounts, nobody gets his way quicker with
smooth words."

Mr. Shillabeer nodded.

"Without a shade of unkindly feeling against the
man, I could wish he wasn't quite so own-self, all the
same," he said.  "That wrapped up heart and soul in
work and money-making, that he haven't eyes for
anything else in the earth."

Mr. Crocker looked round about him.

"What you say is gospel truth, 'Dumpling.'  We're
all friends here, I believe--friends to 'em both.  Therefore
none will think it anything but kindness in us to be
sorry about 'em."

"I met Margaret a while back," said Mr. Shillabeer.
"My wife was terrible fond of her when she was a mere
strip of a girl.  We had some talk together, and--there
'twas.  I'd give my whiskers to make 'em go
along a thought happier; and yet when you say the
word, she'll have nought of it and tell you there never
was a happier, luckier creature."

"In a way that's true," declared Bartley, "but in
another way 'tis false.  What did you say to her,
Reuben?"

"To be plain," answered Mr. Shillabeer, guiltily, "I
was full of rather gloomy thoughts along of it being
the death-day of the wife.  And I said, in my darkness,
that self-slaughter might not be all bad, if a man had
outlived his value.  And she reproved me--yes, she said
the word in season."

"You oughtn't to think of such things, Shillabeer,"
declared Mr. Moses.

"I know it, Charles; yet thoughts will come over the
mind unbidden.  But leave that."

"As to David, he's easier to talk sense to than you
might think," added Crocker.  "I risked it once, and
he took it in a very manly spirit that made me respect
him more than ever.  But I doubt he's forgotten it all
long ago.  Why for don't you try, Moses?  You're a
light among us and carry the weight of the church on
your shoulders.  Catch the man coming out one
Sunday and go a bit of the way back-along with him, and
some of us will take Madge and Rhoda out of earshot."

"No," answered the shoemaker.  "Don't ask me to
attempt any such a thing.  You can't alter it, and they
can't alter it.  'Tis in them: they're built so.  Just a
pinch of salt makes or mars a stew, and just a pinch of
character makes or mars a home.  If we even knew
exactly what 'twas, we couldn't alter it.  You can't
pull out a bit of human nature, like a hollow tooth.  Just
an over-seasoning of pepper in a man, or a pinch of
softness in a woman, may spoil all.  It takes terrible
little to wreck a home, and I've known large tragedies
rise up out of nought but a taste."

"That's true," declared Bartley.  "A man with a
failing, or a fancy, as wouldn't count against him in
one woman's eyes, may come to eternal smash on it if he
happens to wed with another woman.  'Tis the little
twists of character that lead to the biggest troubles, as
the acorn breeds the oak."

Mr. Shillabeer obliged with an instance.

"I knowed a very good Christian girl who was a
moderate drinker and never dreamed of taking a thimble
too much afore she married.  And she never would have
done so afterwards, but for the bad luck of her husband
being a furious teetotaller.  I've seed that man talk
about drink till you'd think he was blind drunk himself!
And so he was--drunk with rage at the thought of there
being such a thing as drink in the universe.  And what
come of it?  She took to drink, that woman did, driven
to it, you might say, out of sheer spite; and the man
catched his only son market merry at ten years old; and
he dashed him to the earth in his righteous indignation
and broke the poor child's arm in two places."

"'Tis just the sort of thing that happens every day,"
declared Charles Moses, mournfully.  "But, please
God, with the Bowden pair, they are both too sensible to
drift apart.  'Tis a terrible sad thing to see husband
and wife lost, as it were--each feeling along alone,
trying to find the man or the woman they loved and
married, and not finding 'em.  For why?  Because
each have gone back to themselves, and put off all that
hoodwinking toggery they was hidden in during the
courting time.  We talk about being disguised in drink,
Reuben Shillabeer, but we ought to talk about being
disguised in love also.  There's nought makes a man
act further from his true self than wanting to win a
woman."

"'Tis supposed to bring out the best of us; but I'm
with you there; I don't know that it does," said Bartley.

Mr. Snell stared.

"For my part, though you might say such a man as
me hasn't the right to lift his voice afore such a learned
person like you, Mr. Moses, yet I do believe in love.  I
wouldn't go so far as to say that I've felt it more than
here and there--back and forward, like rheumatism,
according to the state of the blood and the season of
the year; but when it comes, it makes me more valiant
without a doubt; and that's to the good."

Mr. Crocker looked at his rival.  Then he opened his
mouth to speak; and then he shut it again and kept
silence.

Elsewhere Mattacott, Maunder, and William Screech
debated a great matter.  They argued now as to
whether Mr. Shillabeer should hear the secret, and the
policeman advised against it.

"An honest and an upright man, outside prize-fighting,"
he said; "but in this you can't expect him to take
sides.  We are all his customers--Bart Stanbury just
as much as Mattacott here; therefore I say, 'keep the
thing from him.'"

"And from everybody," added Mattacott.  "If it
get's out, all's marred.  The fewer hear of it, the better;
and I hope you won't tell your wife, Billy."

Mr. Screech laughed.

"That shows how little you know of the world,
Timothy.  Why, 'twas my wife had the brilliant
thought!  She knowed Mattacott wanted for to marry
Jane West, and I told her how another man was after
Jane also, and that she couldn't decide between 'em.
Then says Dorcas--quick as a needle, that woman--'Jane
believes in all that rummage about Crazywell.
So what Mattacott have got to do is to plan to get her
that way come next Christmas Eve; and he've got to
lie hid; and when he sees her, he've got to shout out
the name of t'other chap; and Jane will think 'tis the
spirits; and she'll fancy t'other chap is bound to die
afore the year's out; so he'll be no good to her whether
she likes him or not.  Then, of course, she'll take
Mattacott.'  Those were her very words, as near as I can
call 'em home.  And when did you hear a cleverer thing?"

"'Tis terrible clever," confessed Mattacott.  "But
Jane West wouldn't never go up past the pool alone on
Christmas Eve for a hundred pounds; so us must plan
somehow for somebody to go along with her.  'Tis a
very tricky business to be drawn into a plot."

"All be fair in love," said Mr. Maunder; "else, of
course, I couldn't countenance any such a plan.  But
the matter is outside the law and therefore I'm not
called to take any steps--especially as I very much
want to see Mattacott get the woman.  He's the wrong
side of forty now, and 'tis more than time he was
suited, if it is to be."

Mr. Mattacott looked across jealously at the innocent
Bart Stanbury.

"He's too young for her even if she'd have him," he
said.  "'Tis his sandy hair and his blue, silly eyes have
made her think twice about him."

"Keep to business," interrupted Billy Screech.
"Now it's agreed we get the girl to Crazywell come
Christmas Eve next; and that's nearly two months off,
so we've got plenty of time to cabal against Bart.  The
first question is, who shall take her to Crazywell on the
day?"

They all frowned over this problem; then Screech
solved it brilliantly.

"Why, Bart hisself, to be sure!  What better could
happen?  He hears his doom come up out of the water;
and of course, even if they was tokened, he'd have to
release her after that.  Any man would have to do it."

They applauded and Mattacott was especially
enthusiastic.  But the policeman acknowledged a doubt.

"It don't strike you as too terrible a thing?" he
asked.  "For my part, as a tender man, though guardian
of law and order, I can't think we should let the
fellow hear his own fate.  He might believe it and go
mad.  Stranger things have happened."

"Have no fear: he won't believe it," said Mr. Screech.
"'Tis her that will believe it, and 'tis her that we want
to believe it."

"A fine stroke certainly--to make Bart hear it
himself," admitted Maunder; "that is, if I've got your
word for it the man won't be hurt in his mind by such
an adventure."

"That's settled then; and now there's the great
question of who does the spirit," continued Screech.  "Of
course, 'tis Mattacott's job--not mine; yet I must point
out that his voice is not well suited to the deed."

"I wouldn't do it for anything," said Mattacott.
"I'm nought at a pinch; and if 'twas thrust upon me to
do it, fifty to one but I should go and lose my head and
very like shout out the wrong name, or some such
foolishness."

"'Tis true," said Maunder.  "With all your good
gifts, Timothy, you're the very man to make a mess of
this.  Besides, your voice will surely betray you."

"I ax this here chap to do it," said Mattacott,
turning to Screech himself.  "Maunder, no doubt, would
do it for me, as my lifelong friend; but he's a
government servant and his time is not his own.  Therefore I
ax Billy; and, if it goes right, I'll pay him down a
crown; and if it don't go right, I'll pay half-a-crown;
and who can say fairer?"

"So far so good then," summed up Billy; "and I'm
bound to say I think you're right.  I can put a hollow
sound into my voice and bring it up from my boots, in
a way that would make any girl go goose-flesh if she
heard me after dark on a common week-day, not to
name Christmas Eve at Crazywell.  Leave that to me
when the time cometh.  Now the next thing is, what
shall I say?"

"Nought but the man's name," advised Ernest
Maunder; "the less you say the awfuller 'twill be."

"Just 'Bart Stanbury!  Bart Stanbury!' twice,"
whispered Mattacott.  "You'll be snug hid in a fuzz
bush, of course; and once you mark that she's heard
you, you can slip off home as quick as need be to prove
'twasn't you, if anything comes to be said about it
after."

Billy nodded.

"Just so; but I mustn't say 'Bart' Stanbury," he
explained.  "You see the man's christening name is
'Bartholomew,' and the spirit wouldn't know as we
called him 'Bart' for shortness.  The full name must
be spoken, and that I shall do.  So there 'twill be, and
Jane West will believe that the man's booked for death
afore another year be out."

Mr. Mattacott showed a little emotion on Stanbury's
account, but Billy overruled his qualms.  The matter
was allowed to drop and a diversion threw the two
groups together and turned conversation into a former
topic.

Ellas Bowden came in, cold and rosy, out of the night.

"Evening, souls!" he said.  "On my way up-along
and thought I'd give the pony five minutes and myself
a drop out of the special bottle.  What's the best
news?"

"'Tis for you to tell us what's the latest, master,"
said Bartley.

"The latest," answered Mr. Bowden, "is this: that
pious blade with his blacking brush and his Bible have
been up over!  Ess fay; Nap and Wellington runned
in with the news after daylight.  There's no gates up
my way except my own; but he'd fastened 'pon that,
and there it was.  I heard a dog bark last night, but
'twas dark as pitch and no good looking out the
window."

"And what might he have chosen for you?" asked
Ernest Maunder.

"The solemn words, '*Jesus wept*,'" answered Elias.
"A drop more water to this, Shillabeer, if you please.
Yes, he'd writ those deep words there.  Can't say
exactly why he put them in particular; but they drive the
love of the Lord into the mind and make a man religious,
no doubt.  Not that I'm ever anything else, when you
come to the bottom of me, I hope."

"The thought that the Redeemer of mankind shed
tears is a very sad thought, however," declared
Mr. Moses.  "And yet not all sad, if I make my meaning
clear, because it brings Him nearer to us on the human
side; and the nearer, the better."

"Very well put, Charles," said Reuben Shillabeer.
"The nearer the better, I'm sure."

"Upon the rocks in the warrens too--so the boys
tell me," continued the master of Ditsworthy.  "The
busy man have set up a good text or two here and there.
I doubt he'll take to writing 'em life-size upon the tors
next."

"That's a great idea, now!" declared Shillabeer.
"Then everybody passing by could catch the Word.
In fact, none could miss it if the letters was big
enough."

"For that matter, if I may say so," argued Mr. Moses,
"the tors be the word of God a'ready, and nought out
of the Bible could make 'em grander than they be.  Not
that this curious man thinks so.  Without a doubt he'd
write great Bible news across the moon's self, if he could
only find a ladder long enough to reach her; and a brush
big enough for the work."





.. vspace:: 4

.. _`A PESSIMIST`:

.. class:: center large bold

   CHAPTER II


.. class:: center medium bold

   A PESSIMIST

.. vspace:: 2

Three days before Christmas and an hour before
dusk, Mr. Shillabeer, gun in hand, called at
Coombeshead Farm, and Constance Stanbury opened
the door for him.

"I'm that finger-cold," he said, "that I thought as I
might make so free as to drop in and warm myself a
bit afore going back."

"And welcome.  Come in; come in.  My husband
will be home in a few minutes, so you'll have a bit of
male company.  We women be that chuckle-headed."

"No, no!  Won't hear you run yourself down," said
the 'Dumpling,' gallantly.  "There's no better
company in these parts than your company, and very few
women be in it for sense alongside of you."

"Tea or cider?" she asked.

"A drop of tea, if 'tis making.  And I'll leave a
bird, if you'll please to accept it.  The plovers are on
the Moor very plenty.  A hard winter's in store."

"Each be harder than the last nowadays," she
answered.  "And thank you, I'm sure.  A plover's pretty
eating, but too good for the likes of us."

"Don't you say that.  You'm like me--take yourself
too humble; but 'tis a mistake.  People in the
world always pull us a peg lower than our own conceit
of ourselves.  So we should screw up a peg higher--to
be ready for 'em.  How's Margaret?  You'll never
hear no two opinions about her--such an angel as she be."

"Yes," admitted Constance; "and I'm much feared
that she's got more in common with the angels than us
could wish.  'Tis coming over me worse and worse; and
over her, too, poor lamb."

"What ever do you mean?" he asked.  Then he
walked to the fire, removed his right gaiter and rubbed
his huge leg where the strap had pressed too hardly
upon it.

"My Madge is not like every girl you meet," said
Mrs. Stanbury.

"Wish there was more of the same pattern."

"And I'm terrible jealous for her--I'll fight the
world for her, like a hen with one chick; because her
vartues are her own, and her faults she got from me."

"Faults!--who ever heard tell of her faults?"

"I take no credit in her beautiful goodness,"
continued the mother.  "But I take shame in her softness.
Too soft and gentle and yielding she is for this world,
and the people in it.  And, as her parent, I'm savage--savage
as a wild cat, down in my secret heart--when I
see people don't understand.  'Tis me they ought to
blame, not she."

Mr. Shillabeer stared.  His fingers were spread and
a saucer of tea smoked upon them.

"You do amaze me; but I'll make bold to say you'm
all wrong for once.  'Tis her softness that people take
joy in.  Always wanting to do for others--always
putting herself on one side."

"A few may see her goodness," admitted Mrs. Stanbury;
"but what's the use of that if them nearest to her
can't see?  Her own husband haven't got no patience
with her now and again; and, mind you, I don't blame
him--such a common-sense, hard man as him.  And
Rhoda the same.  'Tis their natures to take a practical
stand."

"Don't be downcast," urged the publican.  "Drink
a dish of your own tea and look on the bright side.  'Tis
rather odd I should say that, seeing I've never been
known to look on the bright side myself since my wife
died.  David's a very good chap, and nobody thinks
higher of him than me; but he's just an everyday
man--wise and businesslike and honest.  There's nought in
him would make Margaret a beautifuller character than
she is.  Us don't want for her to be hard and
business-like, I'm sure."

"'Tis what her husband wants is the thing, not what
we want," explained Mrs. Stanbury.

"If he wants finer than she, he wants better bread
than is made with wheat," declared the old prize-fighter;
"and if he can't see the shining vartue and wonder of
that woman's heart, he must be blind as well as busy."

"All very well; but Margaret's to blame too,"
declared the other.

"Never--nowhere.  'Tis always your way to give
everybody best but your own."

"To say 'blame' is too strong a word, perhaps; but
you must think how 'tis from her husband's point of
view.  No children.  Oh, Shillabeer, 'tis a dreadful
thing!  Just that might have made all right, and
just that won't happen.  Nought worse could have
fallen out--nought worse than that.  A very terrible
misfortune every way.  To Ditsworthy I know they
take an awful serious view of it.  Naturally they would
do so.  And when I see that mother of a quiverful
coming, I wish I could sink into the earth!  Her eye brims
over with reproaches, though never a word she says."

"This is all silly nonsense you'm talking," declared
Mr. Shillabeer, strapping up his gaiter again.  "Never
did I hear such foolishness.  Good Lord, han't there
enough childer in the world?  Take comfort, I beg of
you."

Bartholomew Stanbury entered at this moment and
was glad to see the publican.

"Heard your fowling-piece banging away up over,"
he said, "and hoped as you might perhaps drop in 'pon
the road back.  Well, here's Christmas again, and like
to be a soft one after all.  The weather's changing."

"A busy Christmas in the village," said Reuben;
"but nothing out of the common offering to happen, I
believe."

"Don't you be too sure of that, 'Dumpling.'  What
would you say to another fight?"

"No, no, Stanbury.  No more fighting.  You mean
your son Bart and that chap Mattacott.  They be
galled against each other without a doubt, along
of a she; but fight--no.  Mattacott's ten year older
than your boy.  Bart couldn't hit a man whose hair be
turning grey."

"That's what I said.  Still, they long to be at each
other."

"They'll have to settle their difference some other
way.  No more fighting if I can prevent it.  You
mustn't suppose I'm what I was--far from it.  I look
at life quite different now.  All's vanity, as the Preacher
saith.  I may give up 'The Corner House' afore the
world's much older, neighbour."

"Good Lord! what's come to you?" exclaimed the farmer.

"What come to Bendigo," said Mr. Shillabeer
solemnly.  "I've had the Light, Stanbury.  Make no
mistake: when the Light does come it shows up everything
in a manner very different to what we've seen it
before."

"Well," said Bartholomew, "don't let it turn you
out of 'The Corner House.'  Beer have got to be sold,
and there's nothing in the Law and the Prophets against
keeping an inn and giving good money's worth, same
as you've always been famed to do."

But Shillabeer doubted.  Having drunk another cup
of tea, he rose, wished the Stanburys a Merry Christmas
in a mournful voice, and disappeared.  Constance shook
her head when he was gone and declared that a great
change began to creep over the old man.

"Mark me, he's breaking up," she said.  "He's
casting away all his old opinions and growing more and
more religious-minded and low-spirited.  Nought would
surprise me.  I've seen it happen before.  He'll be a
teetotaller yet, and then he'll go melancholy mad so
like as not."

Her husband protested.

"Such a one you are for looking on the cloudy side!
There's too much good sense in the man for any such
thing as teetotalism to overtake him.  A moderate
drinker always, and won't serve anybody beyond the
twinkling eye stage.  Why, he've made bitter enemies
by withholding liquor where any other man wouldn't
have thought twice about it.  Where's Margaret to?
She was coming over, wasn't she?"

"Yes," said his wife.  "But 'tis nearly dark.  She'll
have changed her mind or been hindered."

Half an hour later Bart arrived, and he was able to
explain his sister's absence.

"She's took ill," he said.  "I met Rhoda back by
Lowery.  Madge have a cold on the chest--nought to
name, but enough to keep her in against this fog.  I'm
feared they won't be able to go up to Ditsworthy for
Christmas now, unless she mends very quick."

At his first word Mrs. Stanbury began to be busy.
Under the lofty mantelshelf before the fire there hung a
row of little linen bags, and in them were various
simples culled through vanished spring and summer.  They
contained elder-flowers, marjoram, thyme, sorrel, and
calamint.  She selected ingredients and took them to
the table.

"Us must see to this afore she gets worse," declared
Constance; and soon she was preparing a decoction of
herbs.

Her son had further news.

"They'm saying to Sheepstor that Bartley Crocker's
off," he announced with his mouth full.

"Off where?" asked Mr. Stanbury.

"To foreign parts.  'Twas always thought he might
go when his mother died.  They do say he's cruel sweet
on Rhoda Bowden, but I don't think she's of the same
mind."

"I've heard Madge say that she would much like it
to fall out," declared Mrs. Stanbury; "but, for my
part, Rhoda don't look to be seeking a husband.  She's
different to her kind, and I don't see her either wife or
mother."

Bart was reminded of another maiden and he sighed,
put his hand to his chin, and looked into vacancy with
a very lack-lustre expression.

"Shillabeer was here afore you comed home," said
his father; "and he says you'm too young to stand up
to Mattacott.  You'd kill the man."

"I may yet," declared Bart gloomily.  "Anyway I
can't wait like this much longer.  No more can he.  She
won't say which 'tis to be, and the strain of mind is
getting a bit too sharp.  Something's got to go scat
afore long--either him or me--or her."

"She ought to decide, no doubt," admitted his
mother.  "But I hope you ban't hopeful, Bart, for I'm
not.  T'other's better off than you and wiser; and Jane
West has found it out, of course."

"He may be wiser, or he may not be," answered
Bart.  "Anyway I'm too wise to wait till Doomsday;
and so I've told her; and she's going to decide afore the
New Year."

"She'll take Timothy Mattacott," repeated his
mother.  "Stanburys ban't no good at competing with
other people.  No more was my family--they always
went under; and now they've gone under altogether,
for I'm the last of 'em."





.. vspace:: 4

.. _`THE VOICE FROM THE POOL`:

.. class:: center large bold

   CHAPTER III


.. class:: center medium bold

   THE VOICE FROM THE POOL

.. vspace:: 2

Mr. Billy Screech found himself more than
usually busy on the eve of Christmas Day; but
when three o'clock came he abandoned his work and set
off into the Moor.  A dismal enterprise lay before him,
and bad weather made the prospect worse; but he had
promised, and failure to keep his promise would upset
others and lessen Billy's credit.  Therefore he went,
and presently, ascending above Kingsett Farm, reached
Crazywell where it stared up out of the waste, like a
blind eye in a black socket.  Silence and desolation
haunted the pool.  It seemed an hour indeed when secret
spirits might wake from sleep, rise, strike the leaden
face of the waters, and bring terror to mankind.  A
heavy and hushed trance held the pool.  But little wind
blew; no cloud stirred in the grey vault of heaven; but
beneath at earth level, fog crept leisurely along in
streaks and hung motionless in patches.  Even
Billy--hardened unbeliever though he was--felt some slight
uneasiness as he sank down into the hollow cup of
Crazywell.  The threatening mist made him both glad and
fearful.  It would certainly help the dramatic force of
the thing to be done; but it might also increase in
density and cause him to lose his way home.  He turned
up his coat collar, found a clump of furze near the
water's brink, and settled there.  All had fallen out as
Mr. Screech desired, and presently Jane West and Bart
Stanbury would pass that way on the road to Princetown
for some Christmas shopping.  Only one fear existed
in the watcher's mind.  If the mists increased in
density, Bart might hesitate to take his sweetheart this
way, but prefer to tramp round by road.

Billy had hidden himself beneath the principal footpath
near the pool, and he knew that the travellers must
pass by him.  It was certain that he would not be called
upon to wait long.  He practised to himself once or
twice, and as he had suffered from a cold in his throat
for some days, the voice of Mr. Screech promised to be
sufficiently sepulchral.

But the day grew more dark and more still.  A lifeless,
listless gloom haunted the spot, a blank despondency
that reached even Billy's nerves, dashed his spirit,
and made him long heartily to be away.  Then came
the crawling tentacles of the fog, and they stole over
the brim of Crazywell and thrust here and there, like
some blind, live creature feeling for food.  They poured
down into the hollow presently and crept over the water
at the bottom.  Half an hour passed and the vapour
increased in density.  It hung drops of moisture on
the thorns of the furze and spread a glimmering dew
over Billy's hairy face and ragged eyebrows; it struck
cold; it entered his sore throat and promised to silence
his voice altogether.

"If they ban't here pretty spry, I shan't be able
to croak no louder than a frog," thought Mr. Screech.

He determined to give Bart and Jane fifteen minutes
more.  If they had not passed by during that time, he
would leave the pool.  It seemed pretty certain that the
plot had failed.  Billy had no watch, but he began to
count slowly up to sixty, and each of these instalments
represented one minute.  The gloom increased, and
unconsciously he hastened his counting.  And then he
heard voices and knew that the man and woman were
passing, high above him in the fog.  They shuffled
slowly along and both spoke, but the plotter could not
hear their words.  He was quite safe from possibility
of observation and so rose and descended to the sandy
shore of the pool.  Then he lifted up his voice and
astonished himself, for his words rose and reverberated in
the fog with a strange resonance, quite proper to the
supernatural creature that might be supposed to live in
Crazywell.

"Bartholomew Stanbury!  Bartholomew Stanbury!"
he cried.

Then he heard a woman's thin shriek up aloft in the
grey mist; and a man's voice answered:

"By God! who's down theer?"

But Billy made no reply to the question.  He hastened
to the further side of the pit and crawled up on to
the Moor; then he ran for a couple of hundred yards,
struck the Kingsett road and so got home, by Lether
Tor Bridge, as swiftly as possible.

Meantime a woman had fainted above Crazywell and
a man was stirring himself wildly to restore her.  It
was neither Bart Stanbury nor Jane West who had been
shocked at the message from the pool, but Bart's mother
and father.  The young couple were far away, tramping
in close communion along the highroad; but Constance
and her husband had been to see sick Madge and
take her and David their Christmas gift and good
wishes.  They were returning from Meavy Cot, and it
was upon their ears--where they moved slowly-fog-foundered
above Crazywell--that this mournful doom
had fallen from invisible lips beneath.

Mrs. Stanbury sank before the shock.  She had just
time to make her husband understand that it was the
spirit of Crazywell who thus addressed them, before she
lost consciousness.  Bartholomew, too concerned for her
to trouble about his own fate, gathered moisture from
the heath, wetted her forehead and loosened her gown.
But it was long before she recovered.  She sat and
shivered for half an hour upon a stone, and only by
slow stages and with much assistance was able to reach
her home.

It had grown dark before man and wife returned to
Coombeshead and Bartholomew got his partner to bed.
She had suffered a terrific nerve shock and was
incoherent until a late hour.  Then she became intelligent,
and her native pessimism thus fortified, broke loose in
the small hours of Christmas morning.

"Never out of my sight shall you go--God's my
judge!  You mustn't seek to do it, Bartholomew.  Your
time's drawn down to within twelve month, and us must
spend it hand-in-hand to the end.  Oh, that awful voice!
And for me to hear the name--me of all people!  God
A'mighty never did a crueller thing; and if I'd knowed
we was going back along by the pool, I'd rather have
walked the soles out of my boots and the flesh off my
feet than do it.  Your name of all names, and it might
have been any other man's.  But you are chosen.  If
they'd only take me--not that I can bide after
you, Bartholomew.  Mark me, I shall be after you
long afore you know your way about in the next
world."

Mr. Stanbury, albeit a man without superstition,
had also suffered not a little under the tragedy of the
day.  He had always laughed at the pool until now;
but this was not a laughing matter.  He could trust
his ears and it was impossible to deny that a very
extraordinary voice, hardly to be called human, had
shouted his name up through the mist from Crazywell.
It struck him also that the words actually ascended
from the face of the water.

"Things look a bit black," he admitted, "and I'm
powerful sorry I've scoffed at thicky water; but I ban't
gwaine to throw up the sponge yet, my old dear, and
no more must you.  If 'tis the Powers of Darkness live
in the pool, then we must call in the Powers of Light
to fight against 'em.  God in Heaven's the only Party
who knows when I be going to be took off, and 'tis a
gert question in my mind whether He'd let it out to
this here queer thing that lives in Crazywell--like a
toad in a tree-stump.  What do you say, Bart?"

Their son had returned and was in great trouble at
this evil news.

"I say that I'd better tell Jane not to come here
for her Christmas dinner," he answered.  "Mother
won't be up for any high jinks to-morrow.  She won't
even be good for getting over to worship.  She's white
as a dog's tooth still.  Why, there ban't hardly a spark
of nature left in her.  And as for the voice, I've no
patience with such things.  I'd have gone down and
pulled the spirit's damned nose if I'd been there, same
as I would any other man's.  I don't believe a word of
it, and faither's right: God A'mighty wouldn't let no
vagabond ghosts poke about on Christmas Eve of all
times--just afore the birthday of the Lord--to frighten
God-fearing, respectable people with their nonsense.
If 'tis a spirit, 'tis a bad one; and I wouldn't care no
more for a bad tankerabogus than I would for a bad man.

"If us can get to church in the morn, I'll ax parson
Merle afterwards," said Mr. Stanbury.  "For my part,
I won't pretend I like it; but all the same, I've got a
right to make a fight for it; and if parson be of your
view, Bart, that I oughtn't to care a button about it,
then I won't care."

"What's the use of telling like that?" asked
Mrs. Stanbury fretfully.  "How be twenty parsons going
to overrule a voice like what we heard a bit ago?  Oh,
my God! my flesh creams to the bones when I call back
them awful sounds."

"'Twas more like a parrot than a human," said
Bartholomew.

"And there'll be some such way to explain it,"
declared the son.  "I'll wager that Mr. Merle will laugh
the whole story to scorn."

"How's that going to mend it, even if he do?" asked
Constance.  "Time enough to laugh when next year
be dead and your father's still living.  But it can't be.
He's got to leave us and I want for to know what
becomes of me then?"

She relapsed into a condition of hysterical emotion,
and her husband sat up with her all night.

In the morning Bart went for the doctor and also
explained to Jane West that the hoped-for meeting at
dinner could not take place.

A medical man reached the fastness of Coombeshead
before midday and found Mrs. Stanbury suffering from
shock.  He was interested and sympathetic.  He drove
Bart home to his surgery six miles off, and, at evening,
Constance took her physic and soon slept in peace.

Bart and his father were in the habit henceforth of
regarding that occasion as the most mournful Christmas
Day within their memories; and when the adventure
began to be known a little later, their friends deeply
sympathised with them and were divided in their
opinions.  Some secretly hoped that the solemn tradition
of the pool would be upheld, and felt that it would be
better for Mr. Stanbury to pass away than that the
great mystery and glory of Crazywell should vanish.
Others flouted the spirit and agreed with Bart that no
sane person should take this meddlesome hobgoblin
seriously.

.. vspace:: 2

Elsewhere Christmas Day brought other discomforts.
Mr. Screech and his wife and children spent the
anniversary at Ditsworthy; but they went reluctantly as a
substitute for David and Rhoda.  This spoilt the
pleasure of Dorcas, and both she and her husband were
glad to be home again.  They criticised everybody at
the Warren House in an unfriendly spirit, and Dorcas
could find nothing genial to say even of her own mother.
Indeed, none of her own had ever been forgiven for
their initial adverse attitude in the matter of Billy.
With her father alone could Mrs. Screech be said to
remain on good terms.

And while the Screech family were able to go to
Ditsworthy, owing to the enforced absence of David and his
household, Christmas passed pleasantly at Meavy Cot.
Margaret did not know of her mother's misfortune, and
as her own health now mended again, she much enjoyed
the day.  Moreover, there came a visitor, for David
invited the lonely Bartley to share the feast, and
Mr. Crocker, after hesitating between his duty to his Aunt
Susan Saunders and his duty to himself, finally felt the
opportunity of seeing Rhoda must be taken, in justice to
his own future plans and ambitions.  He went, therefore,
and added to Margaret's pleasure, but failed to
advance his personal cause.

The dinner was a great success, and Hartley, quite
unconscious that every jest he made was damaging his
most cherished hope, excelled himself in merriment, and
kept David and Madge in much laughter.  Rhoda's
amusement, however, was at the best but frosty.  She
could not forget the past, and when she looked at
Mr. Crocker she did not see an unstable, good-natured, and
kindly spirit, mentally incapable of sustained sorrow,
but a man whose mother had but lately died, and who
found it possible to laugh and utter futile jests before
the grass was grown upon her grave.  She allowed for
no extenuating circumstances; she forgot that Nannie
Crocker's end was a release for which to be thankful.
She only saw an orphaned son playing the fool; and
that he could do so now, to the accompaniment of a
good dinner, did not surprise her; for had he not done
the same upon the day after his mother's death?  She
remembered what she had seen upon the island above
Nosworthy Bridge; and she hardened her heart against
Bartley and his humour.  Rhoda had been influenced
in other directions also by that unfortunate incident.
To explain Margaret's share in it with credit to
Margaret was impossible.  Her brother's wife must
have known that Mrs. Crocker had just died; indeed,
the man had doubtless gone to tell her so.  And Madge's
apparent reply was to conduct herself like a silly and
irresponsible child.  Such an action frankly disgusted
Rhoda, and she was deeply offended and shocked at it.
The emotion waxed with time and even made her uneasy.
She believed that with no man living, other than her
husband, might a woman permit herself such pleasantries.
The past looked more and more unseemly in
Rhoda's eyes.  It lessened her respect for Margaret,
and unconsciously she showed it.  Yet when Margaret,
whose sensitive nature was lightning-quick to mark such
a change of attitude, asked her sister-in-law how she
had offended, Rhoda could not bring herself to speak.
She evaded the question, but made some general allusions,
hoping thereby to remind Madge of her recent folly.
She failed, however, for David's wife did not see the
application of a theory of man's lightness to herself or
to Mr. Crocker.

And now, at this inauspicious hour, and fired thereto
by a successful dinner and an excellent opportunity,
the lover offered himself again.  Chance so to do was
deliberately made by Madge.  She planned with David
to leave her sister-in-law and the visitor, and, before
Rhoda could avoid the trap, Bartley and she were alone
together in the parlour.

"Keep Bartley in good spirits till I come back,
Rhoda," said Margaret suddenly; "I must take my
medicine, else doctor will be vexed when he calls
again."

She hurried off, and as David had already gone out,
man and maid found themselves alone.

.. vspace:: 2

Rhoda frowned; Bartley pulled himself together and
wished he had taken half-a-pint less of the bottled
porter.

Each in secret heart was planning speech, and Rhoda,
not guessing that he had ever again thought of her as a
wife, after her definite reply to his proposal, wondered
now if she might reprove Mr. Crocker himself for his
folly on the island.  Her object was not the welfare of
the man.  She was thinking a little for Margaret and
a great deal for David.  She knew surely what David
must have said had he crossed the bridge when she did.
But to speak to David about it appeared impossible, for
he brooked no criticism of Margaret even from her; and
to approach Madge seemed equally out of the question
in Rhoda's view.  But here was an opportunity to speak
directly to the offender himself; for it could not but be
that Bartley had led Margaret into the lapse of
self-respect with the sandwiches.

Rhoda's mind swiftly traced this path, and she was
preparing to speak when her companion began to talk.
His conversation related to a very different matter, and
for some time the woman found little opportunity.

Mr. Crocker had picked up a photograph album and
was gazing at the picture of the Bowden family taken
at Tavistock in their full and imposing completeness
before David's marriage.

"My word!" he said, "that's a proper piece of work
sure enough.  Let's see--father and mother--boys of
all sizes, your married sister, you and David, and Dorcas
and Joshua.  I hope you've made it up with Dorcas,
Miss Rhoda?"

She flushed.

"You'll do well to mind your own business," she said.

He shut the book and put it on the table.  It rested
upon a red and yellow wool mat, and he was careful to
place it exactly in the middle.

"You're right," he answered.  "When aren't you
right?  I oughtn't to have said that.  It's not my place
to dictate to you--quite the reverse.  I'm sorry."

She did not reply and he spoke again.

"But my own business is different.  I can mind that,
and it's time I thought a bit more about it.  Not that
'tis ever out of my thoughts really; yet life comes
between a man and his deepest desires sometimes, and
life--and death--has stood between me and the first
business of my life lately."

"Has it?" she said in an indifferent voice.

"You know it has, Rhoda.  You know what I've
been through.  You came to the graveside of my dear
mother at my express wish--"

"'Twas at your aunt's wish--not yours."

"Anyway you came, and not being blind, you must
have known what putting her into the ground meant
to me."

She stared at him coldly, but did not speak.  The
grief that Bartley had displayed above his mother's
coffin when it sank to earth was real enough.  He had
mourned her then from his heart.  But while Rhoda
watched the man weep on that mournful occasion, there
had filled her mind, not sympathy at his present real
grief, but sheer amazement at his past equally real
levity.  It was quite beyond her mental endowment to
understand how the same man could laugh on the day
after his mother's death, and weep at the ceremony of
her interment.

Her thoughts now hardened her heart.  She guessed
that he was about to be personal and prepared to waste
no consideration upon him.

"You'll be gone out of England soon, I suppose.
What's Miss Saunders going to do?"

"Lord knows.  My Aunt Susan's been rather
difficult since mother died.  She wants to go to Canada
with me; but--well, my mind's set on somebody else."

"You'll never find anybody to care for you like she will."

"Shan't I?  That's bad news," he said.  "And,
what's more, I'll make so bold as to question it.  Why
should I waste time and beat about the bush?  Look
back a bit--to that day on the leat path, Rhoda.  Well,
a lot's happened since then; but nothing has happened
to my great love of you except it's grown stronger and
stronger.  And you, Rhoda?  Don't say that you
never thought of it again.  Perhaps you blame me for
holding off so long; but you see how I was placed.
Couldn't go on with it and mother fading out day by day."

In the light of her knowledge she believed that this
statement was untrue.  At best the hypocrisy of it
offended her.  The man who played with Madge on the
island was surely not the man to let his mother's last
illness interfere with love-making.

But she did not comment upon this side of the question.
She did not comment at all, but waited for him
to make an end.

"And now, though you might think I was too near
her still, yet I know it isn't so.  And I ask you to
remember what I said before, and answer me different.
You're more to me than all the rest of the world put
together, and I'm sure that I could make you a happy
woman.  I've watched you, like a cat watches a mouse,
these many months.  I've followed your ways and
learned your fancies.  David's self don't know so much
about you as I do--all I know of your beautiful, brave
nature and likes and dislikes--down to the walks by
night with nought but the moonbeams and your own
thoughts for company.  And you--can't you feel a bit
too, and picture your life along with me away over the
water?  Can't you see yourself mistress of such a place
as you've heard me tell about to David?  Can't you let
me love you and make you my dear wife, Rhoda?  For
God's sake think about it, and don't say 'no' again.
I'll wait your pleasure; I'll not hurry you.  Take a
year to say 'good-bye' to Dartmoor if you like; or stop
on Dartmoor if you like; and I'll gladly stop too, if
you say the word; but oh, Rhoda Bowden, do marry me
and find what it is to have a husband who worships your
shadow!"

He stood over her as he spoke, while she sat motionless
and looked out of the window.  Now she saw David
returning and was glad.  But her quick ears heard
Margaret stop him outside, and husband and wife went
into the kitchen together.

"Say 'yes' and have done with it," begged Bartley.

She was thinking, but not of him.  It occurred to her
that Margaret had planned the entire incident.  Her
thoughts retraced many past events, and she wondered
how much more Margaret might have planned.  Then
she asked herself the reason.

Her sustained silence made the lover speak again;
but she was so interested in side views of the situation
that the central fact seemed unimportant.  To him,
however, nothing else mattered; and her answer to one
who had just asked her to marry him, struck the man
as extraordinary.

"Don't be dumb, unless silence is to give consent,"
he said; then she came to herself, looked at him blankly,
and shook her head.

"Good God!  Is that all your answer?" he asked.

"That's all," she replied.

"Why--why--why?  What's between us?  I'm
frank to you; be frank with me, Rhoda.  It's now or
never.  Say everything in your mind to say.  Leave
nothing unsaid.  What is it between us?  What's the
bar?  Can it be got over or broken down?  Where do
I fail?  Can I mend it?  Can I change anything--every
thing to please you better?  Don't fear to hurt
me.  Anything is better than refusal."

"You're too light-minded," she said.  "And, even
if you wasn't, I shouldn't care about you.  You're not
the sort of man that I like."

"What sort do you like then?  Tell me, and I'll
try to be that sort."

She did not answer the question, but reproved him
for the past.  It occurred to her again that by
protesting now against the incident on the island she might
prevent any such folly in the future.  She was only
considering David--not Margaret, and not the man
before her.

"Too light-minded," she repeated, "and I'll tell you
for why I say it.  On the day after your mother died,
you met my sister-in-law and it chanced that I saw you
together.  She don't know it and needn't.  But you'd
better know.  The man who could play child's tricks at
such a time wouldn't be trusted by any woman, I should
think."

He wrinkled his forehead and endeavoured to remember.

"Whatever did you see that shocked you so much?"

She told him and he shrugged his shoulders.

"I'm afraid I can't expect to make you understand
that.  Perhaps no woman that ever I met but Madge
would understand it.  Don't let that come between us.
Be just.  Moods and whims and silliness after a long
cruel strain may happen to men as well as women."

"Well, I despise the men, or women either, who could
sink to such things."

"You were at my mother's funeral.  You know if I
felt her loss or not."

"Things are as they are," she answered calmly.
"'Tis no good us telling any more.  My brother and
his wife want to come in the parlour, and we're keeping
'em out."

Bartley rose.

"I'll be off then.  And mark this: you'll have to
listen to me once more yet before I go.  No man worth
the name would take 'no' for an answer under thrice."

"Better save your time.  You'll never make me feel
different to you.  We're not built to look alike or feel
alike at any point.  The sooner you know that the
better."

"Bid 'em good-bye for me and try to think different."

He offered his hand and she took it.

"I'll never think different so long as I can think at
all," she said.

He departed, and Margaret and David saw him go
and knew that he had failed.

Madge sighed for him; her husband showed no emotion.

"Come what may come, 'twill be best," he declared.
"Rhoda knows her own mind; and that's more than
half the maidens do nowadays."

They returned to her and found her sweeping the hearth.

"Mr. Crocker have gone," she said.  "I was to bid
you good-bye from him."

.. vspace:: 2

Elsewhere the baffled suitor tramped through Dartmoor
under conditions of setting sunlight and approaching
darkness.  Strong winds had scattered the fog of
the preceding evening and now a gale shouted along
the heath and drove the clouds before it.  Flashes of
light broke through the west and, like golden birds,
floated upward over the dark bosoms of the hills.  They
reached the ragged summits of the land, revealed the
granite there, then seemed to take wing into the sky.





.. vspace:: 4

.. _`POINTS OF VIEW`:

.. class:: center large bold

   CHAPTER IV


.. class:: center medium bold

   POINTS OF VIEW

.. vspace:: 2

The folk were coming to church, and some walked
by road; some drove from distant hamlets; some
tramped by sheep-tracks and rough pathways over wide
spaces of heath and stone.  Down through outlying
farms that stretch tentative fields into the Moor; down
past gorse-clad banks and great avenues of beeches;
down past Kit Tin Mine--busy then, but empty and
silent now; down into the valley bottom, drawn by the
thin bell music from the tower above the trees, came
the family of the Bowdens.  It was smaller than of old.
But the boys were growing; Napoleon and Wellington
had become responsible persons in the scheme of life at
Ditsworthy, and even the twins could be trusted to work
without a ruling eye upon them.  Mr. Bowden and his
wife came to pray upon this early summer noon.  Of
women there were only two left at Ditsworthy; therefore
Sarah and her daughter Sophia had to take Sunday at
church alternately; and to-day the widow stopped at
home to cook the dinner.  With the Bowdens came other
of the people.  Susan Saunders appeared beside her
nephew; but he saw her to the entrance only; there he
stopped and talked with a knot of men.  Among them
was David Bowden.  He, however, stayed not long
outside and soon joined his family and Rhoda.  She
was already seated between Joshua and her father in
the Bowden pew.  Charles Moses was finding seats for
chance visitors; Reuben Shillabeer, who never missed
Sunday service, sat in his corner, having just handed
four collecting dishes to those who would presently
carry them through the congregation.  He was a
sidesman now, and Mr. Merle held the old prize-fighter in
high esteem as a valuable example to the young men.

Mr. Screech arrived with his elder child.  Mattacott
met him and they talked apart.  Their conversation
concerned Timothy himself.  Jane West had ceased to
smile on Mattacott since the winter; yet there was no
report of any engagement between her and Bart
Stanbury.  The appearance of Timothy's rival cut this
conversation short.  He came with his father and
mother.  The men entered and Mrs. Stanbury spoke to
Mr. Crocker.

"Be Margaret gone in?" she asked.

"No," he said.  "She's home to-day.  David and
Rhoda are here.  Madge hasn't come."

Mrs. Stanbury sighed with dismay.

"There!  And I want particular for to see her.
Now whatever shall I do?"

"Come and see her," suggested Bartley.  "I'll be
very pleased to walk along with you.  I'm not going
in.  The weather's too fine to miss two hours of it, and
I shan't taste another English June for many a long
day--perhaps never."

Constance considered, and then, the matter being of
some urgency, consented.

"I'll just go into the church and tell master I'm
stepping over to see Margaret.  And I shall have to get
my dinner there.  Everything's locked up at
Coombeshead till evening.  We was all going to take our meat
along with Mr. Moses to-day; but my men can do so,
and I'll ask Madge for a bit."

So it fell out, and Hartley, quite to his satisfaction,
escorted Mrs. Stanbury to 'Meavy Cot.'

First he chattered about his own hopes and
disappointments; then he interested himself in his
companion's affairs.

"Yes, I must be gone.  No good staying here in
sight of that girl--only makes me savage and good for
nothing."

"A pity she won't take you; but she'll never take
anybody.  She's cut out for the single state," declared
Constance.

"How can you say that?  Was ever a finer woman
seen in Sheepstor?"

"Womanhood's a matter of heart, not body, my dear.
To the eye she's female, to the mind she's male--that,
or neither one nor t'other.  I know all about her through
my daughter.  Not that I don't wish with all my heart
you could have her, and take her long ways off.  Not
a word of unkindness do I mean; but 'twould be better
every way, and better for Madge if she lived somewhere
else."

"Yes--I understand that," he said.  "David never
can be everything to Madge while he thinks such a deuce
of a lot of Rhoda.  They're all good friends, however."

"Good friends enough.  But 'tisn't the home it
might be.  You don't see, and strangers don't see; but
I see, because my mother's eyes can't be blinded."

"I see too--I know very well what you mean."

"If you do, then say nought," she answered; "for
'tisn't for you--nor me neither--to stand between a man
and his wife.  D'you know what Madge said to me last
week?  I grant she was down when she said it; but
she's down too often now.  She said, 'Life was sunshine
with only a little cloud three year agone; now it's cloud
with only a little sunshine, mother.'  Not a very nice
thing for me to hear.  But it didn't astonish me.  We're
an unlucky race, I must tell you.  Whether luck comes
through the blood, or through some dark powers outside
us, I don't know yet; 'tis a very real thing, and
some has it from the cradle and some never gets a pinch
of it.  Stanburys don't."

But Crocker was thinking of Margaret Bowden.

"I'm terrible sorry to hear you tell this about her.
She keeps such a stiff upper lip before the world and
looks out with such cheerful eyes, that I never guessed
'twas quite as bad.  Yet now you say it, I mind the
signs."

"Keep out of it, however, and go away.  You can't
do no good if Rhoda won't have you."

"Don't be sure of that.  I was a lot of use once.  I
might again."

Mrs. Stanbury was mildly surprised.

"Seeing David's good sense and patience, I won't
say 'tis impossible to do anything.  But David be
David, and even if he had the will to alter, how can he
do it, more'n the leopard his spots?  There's nothing
you can put your hand upon and say 'there's the evil';
and yet 'tis clear enough.  They've drifted apart
through having no family.  'Tis all said in that word."

Mr. Crocker sighed and felt a moment of real sorrow.

"If she'd married me," he said, "'twould have saved
us both a lot of bother."

The other did not answer and they proceeded some
distance silently.

Then he turned the conversation to Mrs. Stanbury
herself.

"This is telling on you too.  You're not all you
might be, I'm sure.  I wish it was in my power to do
you a good turn."

"Like you to say it.  Many have to thank you for
a good turn.  But 'tis outside human strength to help
me.  I've run against the Powers of Darkness; I've
heard Crazywell tell how my husband is to go inside
the year."

"Does he believe it?"

"I don't know.  He won't talk about it.  He's very
careful of hisself, and he gets a bit short if I run on
about it; so we've agreed to let the matter drop.  All
the same it's aged him, and God knows how many years
it has took off my life."

Mr. Crocker was interested.

"I only heard about it from David.  There may be
some sort of explanation."

"How can there be?  'Tis like a thunderbolt hung
over us.  Bart's the only one who takes no account
of it."

"It might be him just so likely as his father," said
the man.  "Why are you so positive 'twas your husband
the voice meant?  They're both called 'Bartholomew.'"

Mrs. Stanbury stood still, stared at him, and then
sank down suddenly in the hedge.

"But--but that can't surely be?  The one's 'Bart'
always," she gasped out.

"To other people; but if this was some magic thing
from another world, you couldn't expect it to care about
nicknames."

"Oh, my God! where do we all stand now?" cried
out Mrs. Stanbury.  "Nobody ever thought of that afore!"

"One person did, if not others; and that person's
Jane West," he answered.  "I saw her a bit ago and
asked her--out of kindness to Bart--why she held off
and didn't take him.  I know only too well what 'tis
to be hanging about with your heart telling you not to
take 'no' for an answer and your head telling you that
you're a fool.  And Jane said that, so far as it went,
she'd decided between Mattacott and Stanbury.  'But,'
she said, 'though I'm addicted to Bart and like him very
well, 'tis no use taking the man if he'm going to die
afore next Christmas.'  'Twas only by the merest chance
she and Bart didn't hear the voice themselves, for they
went up to Princetown shopping that very afternoon,
and nothing but the fog made 'em go round by road."

But Mrs. Stanbury heard none of these words.  She
had never connected this catastrophe with her son;
neither had Bart himself done so.  Jane West, however,
inspired thereto by Mr. Mattacott, perceived the real
significance of the situation, and she proposed to wait
until time showed whether father or son was to fall.
Now Mrs. Stanbury was herself faced with this hideous
complication, and it struck her almost as harshly as the
original blow had done.  Her weak mind whirled; she
became incoherent and spoke without sense.

"Leave it, for God's sake," urged the man.  "You'll
go mad at this gait.  One thing be just as absurd as
t'other.  Some innocent fool saw your husband through
the fog and shouted to him--perhaps just wished him a
merry season or some such thing--and then went on
his way and thought no more of it.  Be sure you'll hear
the truth soon or late, and you'll live to see your men
as well and hearty next January as they are now."

"You mean kindly to say these things," she answered.
"But 'tis vain, and you'll know it afore the
year's gone."

"Well, give God Almighty a chance," he urged.
"'Tis you will be dead, not them, if you go on so."

They reached 'Meavy Cot' and found Margaret.
Her mother sat down, took off her bonnet and rested,
while Madge stood a few minutes at the gate with
Mr. Crocker before he started homeward.

"Try and cheer her up," he said.  "'Tis that
damned nonsense about the voice at Crazywell.  She'll
fret herself into her grave over it if this goes on."

They discussed the matter for a while; then Madge
spoke of Bartley himself.

"Don't know what to be at," he said.  "My life's
stuck for the minute.  I can't ask her again yet, and
I'm not going till I have.  Just once more.  But the
thing is to know what to be doing meantime--how to
get a bit forwarder.  How is she?"

"She's all right--silenter than ever to me, though.
Sometimes I think she's judging me rather hardly and
don't reckon I'm a very good wife for David."

"I'm sure that can't be.  She's a long way too sensible
to imagine any such nonsense."

"She may be right, all the same.  I don't know
what it is; I wouldn't even name it to anybody but you
and mother; but sometimes I feel as if there was a door
between me and David, and sometimes he tries to open it,
and I'm sure I'm always trying to, but it keeps shut."

"Stuff!" he repeated.  "You're such a parcel of
nerves, Madge--like poor Mrs. Stanbury.  You mustn't
let yourself think such things.  David's wrapped up
heart and soul in you, and if 'tisn't his way to show all
he feels, that's only to say he's a Bowden.  They are
built on that fashion.  You must try and look at life
more with his eyes.  He's a rare man and I envy him
his tremendous power of sticking to a thing till he's got
through with it.  His ideas are big, not little; I can see
that, and you ought to see it.  You and me are a bit
too much alike there, and 'tis our luck not to be rated
at our real value in consequence.  But we mustn't repay
in the same coin.  Because David don't quite
understand you, and Rhoda don't understand me, we, who
are nimbler-witted than them, mustn't be cross.  They
may not see the truth of us and all the virtues that
we've got--and we've both got a rare lot in my
opinion--but we do see the truth of them, and so we must be
patient with their characters."

It was a new light to the woman, and she perceived
the wisdom under his jesting manner.

"If he'd only let me into his secrets!" she said.

"You must be content with mine," he answered.
"David lets you into his good fortune and tells you
when he's drawn a prize.  But the bother and battle he
keeps to himself."

"He doesn't," she answered.  "I'd forgive that.
But he tells Rhoda.  Again and again I've known them
to break off a subject when I came along--as if I was
a baby."

"Try to think 'tis out of their kindness they do it."

"I have tried; but I know different.  David don't
believe in me--that's the bitterness of my life in a word,
Hartley.  He don't trust me like he trusts Rhoda."

"Then tell him so.  Let him see what he's losing by
keeping you out.  And I believe, come to think of it,
that might be good advice to myself too.  With Rhoda
I mean.  How would it be if I took a bit of counsel
with her, Madge--asked her advice, like David does,
and treated her like a man instead of a girl?  Would
that work?"

She considered.

"It would work, no doubt, as far as her being civil
went.  If you asked her questions, she'd answer 'em;
and if you asked her opinion she'd give it.  Whether
'twould lead to anything further, I can't tell.  We've
drifted apart a bit of late, and I see it clear enough
without seeing the reason for it.  However, I daresay
I'm to blame too.  No doubt I don't look at life from
their point of view all I might.  But I wish--I wish to
God she'd take you--as much for my sake as her own."

The woman's unusual bitterness impressed him.

"Follow my advice and have a good talk with David.
Thresh it out and open his eyes a bit.  If you see from
his point of view, as you will now, then 'tis but fair he
should see from yours; and if he can't see your side
single-handed, then you must help him.  We'll meet
again afore long and I'll tell you what comes of my new
idea.  Perhaps we shall both be lucky!"

He left her and she returned to her mother.

Mrs. Stanbury was absorbed in the dreadful new
problems raised by Bartley Crocker's theory of the
voice.  She explained these complications to Margaret,
and her daughter strove to comfort her without success.





.. vspace:: 4

.. _`END OF A ROMANCE`:

.. class:: center large bold

   CHAPTER V


.. class:: center medium bold

   END OF A ROMANCE

.. vspace:: 2

Rhoda Bowden was walking over Yennadon
Down, a broad tract of common above the gorges
of Meavy.  Great spaces stretched beneath her and a
still higher and mightier wilderness heaved upward
beyond the river and the forests to the east.  There
Ringmoor extended, and its lone miles basked in unclouded
sunshine.  Beneath lay Sheepstor and Meavy, each
crowned by a church tower; while beyond rolled out long
leagues of Devon to the margins of the sea.  But
Rhoda's eyes were on the ground and she moved with
less than her usual steady purpose.  An empty cartridge
met her glance and some small grey object that fluttered
in the mouth of it led her to stop and pick up the
fragment.  The cartridge was old and weather-worn; the
live creature that had found this convenient receptacle
was a large and dusky moth.  For a moment Rhoda felt
interested, then, perceiving that this insect had laid
many eggs within the empty cartridge, she shuddered
slightly and flung the moth and its nursery away;
because maternity on such a scale seemed loathsome to
her even in an insect.

She was on her way to Buckland of the Monks with
a message from David, and she welcomed the long and
lonely day promised by this task, for not a few matters
lay heavy on her mind.  Rhoda's responsibilities were
growing beyond power of control.

But the anticipated hours of reflection were largely
curtailed, for when she returned to the highway nigh
Dousland Barn, a light cart overtook her and the driver
was Simon Snell.  His face indicated the most profound
surprise.  He smiled, hesitated, gave her 'good-morning,'
proceeded on his way, then changed his mind again,
pulled up and alighted.

"What a terrible coorious thing as me and you should
both be bound out along like this--on the very same
day too!" he said.

"So 'tis then, and I hope you're well.  Us haven't
met this longful time."

"I was coming over one Sunday this summer," he
declared; "but now will do just so well.  I be going
out to Vartuous Lady Mine to spend the day along with
my brother James and his wife.  You might not have
heard me tell much about him, perhaps?  I've took a
day off--by permission, of course--and I'm carrying
'em a gift, because they'm not very well-to-do, I'm sorry
to say."

"I'm going to Buckland Monachorum for David."

"Well, I never!  What could have falled out better?
I very nearly drove by you; because I said to myself,
'Perhaps it might be too pushing in me to offer to give
her a lift.'  But I'm very glad I didn't, and I hope
you'll accept of a seat till I leave your road.  'Tis a
fainty sort of day, with thunder offering, in my opinion."

"Thank you, I should be very glad if you've got room."

"Room enough.  I'm taking my brother half a pig
as we killed last week, and his wife a bunch of they white
Mary lilies, what grow to a miracle in our garden.
People stop and stare at 'em.  And if you'll sit
alongside me--if it isn't making too bold--"

She ascended and they proceeded together.

"There'll be a thunderstorm afore long, as you say,"
she remarked.

"I quite agree.  And how be you faring?  You'm
looking purty middling; and I be purty middling, and
so's my mother, thank God, though she was into her
seventy-fourth year last month."

"I'm all right."

"I ban't too close to you, I hope?"

She shook her head.  She felt comfortable and easy
with him, as usual, but her heart beat no quicker for
his voice or the inquiring gaze of his great mild eyes.

"My brother was married afore I comed acquainted
with you.  He's a gamekeeper and his wife has a child
every second year.  For my part I think they're
unlucky; but their way is to trust the Lord to look after
the childer.  But I'm not sure.  By the same token you
might not know that you've got another nephew.  Your
sister, Mrs. Screech, had a son yesterday betwixt six
and seven of the evening.  Screech comed in to smoke
a pipe when 'twas all over.  A very clever job, I hear,
and the child to be called after your father."

"I don't want to know nothing about it, thank you."

"Beg pardon, I'm sure."

He was silenced for some time.  Then he observed
that Rhoda had a finger tied up.

"I do hope as you haven't hurt yourself," he said.

"Nothing at all.  A dog bit through when he was
playing."

"They will, and yet mean no harm."

She considered with herself whether this man could
be of any use to her, and she decided that he could not.
It was in any case almost impossible to state her
difficulties.  She found it hard to put them into words even
in thought, where an idea, though it cannot live away
from the symbols of words, yet develops without any
coherent sentences and reasoned speech.  To tell to
another what was in her mind had as yet been beyond her
power; and to mention the difficulty to Mr. Snell, even
if possible, must have proved a futile task.  Her instinct
assured her that his mind was no more built to speak
wisdom on sex questions than her own.  She reflected
thus, while he, employed upon a different matter,
wondered vaguely if he might arrange another walk with
her; whether it was worth while to do so; and whether,
even if she accepted the invitation, he really desired such
a thing.

Presently she uttered a generality which bore
obliquely upon his own ideas.

"What a terrible difficult world it do seem to become,
if you'm married!  And even if you'm thrown much
against married people, you can't escape it.  If you
care a lot about folk, you'm bound to feel for 'em, I
suppose."

"I quite agree--never heard a truer word," he said.
"'Tis the worst of being fond of people that, if they
get in a mess, it makes you feel uncomfortable.  You
can't escape from that."

"The fewer we care about, the more peace we have,
seemingly."

"Exactly so.  I've thought that very thought, and
I've often thanked God that, after my mother, and my
brother, and my brother's wife, and one of my nephews,
there's nobody in the world I should shed a tear for if
they was took."

She nodded, and he suddenly perceived that this was
one of the speeches wherein he had failed of perfect
tact.  Yet to modify it needed some courage.

"I should say one other--one other, if I may make
so bold," he added.

She did not answer and he considered before
continuing.  Then he decided that he could not leave the
matter there.  Yet he was cautious.

"You mustn't think the worse of me for it.  I don't
mean anything by it to cause you any uneasiness.  But
you're the one, Miss Rhoda.  I should certainly be very
vexed if anything happened to you."

"Thank you, I'm sure, Mr. Snell."

"Don't," he said.  "These things don't merit
thanks.  I've never told a lie, and so I won't hold my
reason back.  I think a lot of your character: that's
why I should be sorry if harm happened to you."

"We've understood each other very well, I believe."

"Very well indeed; and you've taught me a lot about
the female sex.  And, but for you, I don't suppose I
should ever have knowed anything at all about them.  I
may tell you, owing to your large understanding, that
I've often considered about the sense of marrying.  But
I'm sure I don't know.  When you look round--the
heart sinks."

"Yes, it does."

Mr. Snell did look round, and the beautiful woman
roused some faint, feeble flicker of his anæmic passion.

"I grant you that the wedded state as shown by
other people--and yet I won't go so far as Bartley
Crocker do."

"How far's that then?"

"Mind, don't you say it against him.  I've no wish
to be thought a tale-bearer.  But, in open speech at the
bar of Shillabeer's public-house, he said that though you
hear of happy marriages, you never see them.  Now
that's too far-reaching--eh?"

"Not much.  He's not far out, I reckon."

"Well, you know better than me; but, begging
pardon for mentioning her again, your own sister is as
happy as a bird.  And I really don't say it's impossible
to be happy with a home of your own."

"The right ones never meet.  I'd warn every man
and woman against it for my part."

With this speech Rhoda quite extinguished the paltry
flicker in Mr. Snell's broad bosom.  He looked rather
frightened.  He stroked his beard.  At heart he felt a
sort of relief that even the shadow of disquiet was now
banished in the light of her plain statement.

"If that's your opinion, 'tis no part for a common
man like me to say a word against it," he answered.
"Sometimes--I won't deny it--I've thought, in uplifted
moments, that the married state with such a meek nature
as mine--and then again, however--"

"I speak what I know; but nobody can be sure they're
right, I suppose.  What do you think about it?" asked
Rhoda.  But why she gave him this loophole she knew
not.  Her interest in Mr. Snell was at a low ebb to-day,
and her own thoughts filled her spirit to the exclusion
of all else.  Still she was always content with him.  He
appeared to her to be a sensible and responsible man
whose opinion was better worth having than that of
most people.

"Now you ask a poser," declared Simon, "for my
own opinion on such a high subject be very unsettled.
In fact, I'd a long ways sooner go by yours, and if you,
of all females, feel as marriage be too doubtful in the
upshot, then I'd so soon, if not sooner, take your word
for it.  And I may say that I will.  There's nothing so
restful as having your mind made up for you by a
better one.  And I can't say the men I know--they'm
all for it in a general way--bring up very strong
arguments.  There's Amos Prouse tokened now, and he goes
about properly terrified, so far as I can see; and there's
Mattacott, from being an even-tempered man, turned
so sour as a sloe, because Jane West keeps him on the
tenterhooks.  To keep company is certainly a very bad
state; and you can't be married without going through
it; so that's another reason against."

"I shall never marry," she said.

"Then no more shan't I," he declared.  "And 'tis
a troublesome weight off the mind to hear you say that."

"Better not go by me, however."

"'Tis just you and no other I would go by.  Because--well,
now since you've spoken and never been known
to go from your word--the coast be clear for me and I
feel so light as a lark in the air.  If you'd said as you
were for it, then my manhood would have--well, God
knows what might have overtook me; for at such times
a man gets into a raging fever and be ready to fight
creation for the female, as the savage beasts do.  But
you've said it; and I quite agree.  I know you'm right,
and I say ditto to it.  And we'll see t'others dashing
into it, but 'twill be nought to us."

"It looks to me as if the useful people be often the
single ones," she said.

"There again!  What good sense!  'Tis the very
height of sense!  And Paul's on our side too.  Better to
marry than to burn, he says in his large wisdom.  But
better not to marry if you'm perfectly cool and
contented, same as what I be, year in, year out."

She did not answer and he spoke again.

"Still, mind this.  If it had been otherwise with you,
it would have been otherwise with me.  Never was a
manlier man in his instincts of self-preservation than
me, as my mother will tell you.  And if by chance I'd
fallen upon a creature of the female sex as appeared to
be looking to me to share life with her, then I doubt it
might have happened.  But not now.  If she comed
along now it would be too late.  Because I've had walks
along with you in my time, and we've been terrible close,
and we've understood each other as well as any two
people could."

"I suppose we have."

"I tell you this, because you've given your word you
ain't going to marry," he concluded; and nothing more
was said until they reached a lane that broke from the
main road.  Then Mr. Snell pulled up.

"Here's my way.  You must get down now.  You
go straight on.  I shall be back after eight o'clock, and
will bide here till a quarter past if I can help you
home."

"No.  I'll be back long afore that, I hope."

So the lifeless, bloodless abortion of a romance passed
stillborn from between them, unregretted by either.
They often met in after life, and they were always
friendly within their natural limitations; but marriage
never again rose as the most dim possibility on the
horizon of the man.

He permitted her to alight without assistance.  They
talked a while longer before separating, and conversation
drifted to David and his wife.

"I hear the people air their opinions and I say
nothing--that being the way of least trouble seemingly,"
declared Mr. Snell.  "But certainly now and again
very outrageous speeches be spoke.  Take Screech, for
instance.  He's no fool, Screech isn't.  But he have a
very coarse way of putting things, to my mind.  His
wife--begging pardon for mentioning her--was saying
something about her brother David.  I've forgot what
it was, except that it weren't flattering, and Screech, he
ups and says, 'Them two'--meaning David and
Mrs. Bowden--'them two,' he says, 'be like a moulting cock
and hen--that down on their luck, and all about nought,
for the man's prospering and getting home the money
with both fists.'  'Twas a vulgar thing to say, and I
went so far as to tell him so."

"You might have told him he was a liar too," said
Rhoda.  "When did anybody ever see David down on
his luck, even if he was?  He don't carry his heart in
his hand.  A cheerful and a steadfast man always; and
if my sister-in-law be not cheerful nor steadfast--that's
another matter, and the fault's not David's.  I tell you
this because you've got sense and was never known to
make mischief."

"And never shall, please God!"

"What does an evil thing like Screech know about David?"

"Nought--less than nought.  He allowed that, for
in my cautious way, I went so far as to ax for chapter
and verse, when he said your brother and his wife weren't
happy.  'I don't know nothing about 'em and don't
want to,' he said in his coarse style; 'but a good few
eyes be open round these parts, and 'tis very well marked
they go different roads when out of sight of each other.'
It might become you to mention it, or it might not.
You know best, living along with them."

Rhoda hesitated but said nothing.  The inclination
to confide in Mr. Snell was not revived.

"Thank you for telling me.  But whether I'll name it--"

"Don't mention me if you do," said Mr. Snell.  "'Tis
only to you I'd have said as much as I have said--out
of respect to the family.  And now I must be going on."

They shook hands and parted.  He returned to his
cart and, the lane leading up a hill, went slowly
forward.  His horse sagged at his collar and the thill
chains clanked.  With each step forward Simon's body
jolted on the board.  One leg of the quartered pig also
waved spasmodically, and the candid lilies powdered
their purity with golden pollen.

Thus it came about that Snell left the woman's
thoughts where he found them.  She tramped forward
full of the matter of Margaret; she did her business;
ate some bread and butter and drank some milk; started
for home again.  But, returning by way of Horrabridge,
she was detained awhile and she did not ascend
a steep hill out of Walkhampton on her return journey
until the evening.  Her brother, who had gone to
Okehampton, was combining business and pleasure in a ride
across Dartmoor.  He would not come back until late,
and it was understood that Rhoda herself might not be
expected home before him.  She, however, pursued her
direct way under the acclivities of Black Tor while yet
it was light, and looking down into the valley, the raw
blue patch of the roof of 'Meavy Cot' stared up a mile
distant and smoke surmounted it.  At nearer approach
Rhoda saw Madge and a man come out of the cottage.
They went off in the direction of Coombeshead and they
walked close together and talked very earnestly.  She
altered her way somewhat, to get nearer to them, and
was able to make sure of Margaret's companion.  At
first she trusted that he had been her brother Bart; but
it was Mr. Crocker with whom Madge proceeded and
with whom she kept such close converse.

Rhoda went back, took the key of the door from a
secret hiding-place, where it was always hidden for the
first home-comer, and entered the cottage.  A litter of
tea things stood on the table and Bartley had evidently
partaken of that meal.

.. vspace:: 2

And on the road to Coombeshead farm David's wife
and David's friend were talking with profound interest
not of Rhoda and not of David--but concerning
Constance Stanbury.  That day, early after noon, Crocker
had met Madge's father in trouble and had taken a
message to the doctor for him, that he might the quicker
return to his wife.  Mrs. Stanbury had quite
succumbed to her nerves again and was suffering much
terror and horror through the hours of night.  Her
agitation culminated in what Mr. Stanbury held to be
"a fit," and he felt that the unfortunate, haunted
woman again needed medical care to help her fight these
superstitious fears.

Mr. Crocker gladly conveyed an urgent message to
the physician, and soon afterwards he walked to Meavy
Cot, that he might tell Madge.  To his satisfaction he
found her alone, accepted her invitation, drank tea with
her, and then accompanied her to learn how her mother
fared.

Now they talked of this curse that had fallen upon
the old woman's life, and Crocker tried hard to conceive
some possible way of relief.  The truth was hidden from
them and he did not for an instant suspect it; but the
thought and care of both were entirely centred upon
this subject, and for a time every other interest remained
in abeyance while they strove to hit on some device by
which Mrs. Stanbury might be comforted.  Bartley
suggested a visit from Mr. Merle; and Madge declared
such an idea to be quite vain.

But Rhoda Bowden knew nothing of these facts.  It
was not until night, when Margaret returned and David
also came home, that she heard the truth from her
sister-in-law.  And her inclination was to disbelieve at
least a part of it.





.. vspace:: 4

.. _`VIRGO--LIBRA`:

.. class:: center large bold

   CHAPTER VI


.. class:: center medium bold

   VIRGO--LIBRA

.. vspace:: 2

A moon at full rolled hugely up over the Moor
edge, outlined a black peat wall and by chance
made a brilliant background for an atom of life that
was there.  Here Rhoda's kitten rested on an August
night after great hunting of moths; and the planet
threw a golden frame around it.

Rhoda herself, sitting alone at hand in the presence
of her mistress, the moon, perceived this accidental
conjunction and noticed her little pet dark against the
immensity of the bright dead world now ascending.
Rhoda sat with her hands folded in her lap and watched
the red-gold rise.  The moon and the kitten, for some
subtle reason, alike comforted her.  One rose clear of
the horizon, and the other vanished.  The work of the
first was to diffuse a warm and wondrous stain upon the
cloudless air; to permeate the earth's atmosphere with
fleeting radiance and then, swimming upwards, to cool
the passing heat of ruddy colour she had created and
to supersede this glow with a pale rain of silver-grey
light.  It poured down into the silence and spread
pools and patches of misty pearl upon the ebony of the
waste.  The work of the second was to come to Rhoda,
stick up its little tail, pad in her lap, purr with infant
heartiness, and, lifting its nose, mirror the moon in a
pair of phosphorescent green eyes.  So from both she
won good and had sense to see that the stars in heaven
and the beasts of earth might each minister after their
fashion to such a soul as hers.  They soothed her; but
they did not advance her reflections or help to solve the
gathering difficulties that conscience cast into her path.
She was troubled and knew not where to turn.  She
stated the situation again and again to herself, but no
light fell upon the picture from anywhere.  Her belief
was that her brother's wife saw far too much of another
man.  That the man in question wanted to marry
Rhoda herself was an added complication; and from
that fact, she judged that Margaret must be fonder of
Bartley Crocker than he could be of her.  Her mind
was not constituted to weigh very subtly the shades
and half shades of this situation, or appraise the extent
of its danger.  She concerned herself with David and
busied her spirit to consider only her duty towards him.
Indifference toward Margaret of late tightened into
dislike.  Secretly she had always felt impatient with the
other's softness; but since that softness began to lead
David's wife astray, she became alarmed and angered.
She retraced the general attitude of her brother and
could see nothing in it at all unreasonable.  He was
very busy, very hard-working, very ambitious.  He
treated Margaret much as Elias Bowden treated his
wife; and Rhoda believed that her mother was always
happy and contented.  But it could not be said that
David's wife was particularly happy.  Rhoda often
broke upon her, when entering the house suddenly, and
at such times Margaret would put on cheerfulness in
haste, as a surprised bather might put on a garment.

What then was this woman to do?  She had a high
sense of duty and that sense had now begun to torment
her.  It was impossible to formulate any charge against
Crocker or against Margaret.  Yet she blamed the man
not a little, for she believed that he ought to know
better than seek the society of Margaret so frequently.
Again justice reminded her that Madge made no secret
of the meetings.  Some, indeed, she might have
had--perhaps many--which were never reported; but of
others (and others which Rhoda had not seen) she spoke
freely afterwards; and she often asked David if she
might invite Bartley to Meavy Cot.

Rhoda remembered that Bartley and her sister-in-law
had been children together and that they had known
each other all their lives.  Herein was comfort, but
reflection dashed it.  At one time most certainly they had
not felt the mere close friendship of brother and sister;
for it was an open secret that Crocker had asked
Margaret to be his wife within a few days of David's
engagement.  But the thinker did not permit this view
long to discomfort her.  She strove with native
resolution to look at the position in a clean and reasonable
light.  David himself had said that Bartley and
Margaret were like brother and sister.  He exhibited
not a shadow of uneasiness; and if he felt no concern,
why should she do so?  This argument, however, broke
down; because Rhoda knew much more than David.  He
went about his business and it absorbed him.  Margaret
was always at home to welcome him; everything was
waiting as he wished it; his whispered word was law, and
his wife anticipated his very thought and remembered
chance utterances and desires in a way that often
surprised and gratified him.  Rhoda could not blame
Margaret's attitude to David, and she could not for an
instant blame David in the amount of time and
consideration he devoted to his wife.  Upon her estimate it
seemed ample and generous.

She considered the brother and sister theory of
Bartley's friendship with Margaret and resolved to cleave
thereto with all her strength.  She reminded herself of
what she felt for David; she was very fair; she
perceived that even as she and David thought and felt alike,
with such mysterious parity of instinct and judgment
that they often laughed when they simultaneously
uttered the selfsame words, so Margaret and Bartley
Crocker were certainly built on a similar pattern.  They
too looked at life through the same eyes; they too
doubtless arrived at similar conclusions.  The side issue of
this man's regard for herself recurred in the weft of
Rhoda's thought; but she drew it out.  That relation
was beyond the present problem and did not influence
her decision.  She had twice dismissed the man, and
doubtless her second refusal would be taken by him as
final.

She came to a conclusion with herself and decided
to do nothing but watch.  Such a task pained her to
reflect upon; but there was none to whom she could
speak, for she had none to be regarded in any light of
close friendship but her brother.  Her father, her
mother, her elder sister were of no account.  Therefore
she determined to wait and watch as a duty to David.
She hoped that a brief period of such work would bring
peace back to her mind; and she went about it with a
rising gorge, in doubt whether to be ashamed of herself
or not.

But it happened, only two days later, that
opportunity to modify this plan offered and David himself
gave it to her.  Thankfully she took it, and after a
conversation to which he opened the way, Rhoda felt a
happier woman than she had felt for many weeks.

He was mending some garden tools in his outhouse
at dark and called for another candle.  She carried it
to him and stopped with him while he worked.  The
man was in a very good temper and happened to wax
enthusiastic over his life and his wife.

"'Tis borne in upon me more and more, Rhoda, that
I have better luck than I deserve.  Me--such a stand-off
chap--yet I'm always treated civil and respectful and
taken as a serious and important sort of person.
Sometimes, looking back, I can hardly believe it all.  But I
suppose 'tis my gert power of holding to work does it."

"'Tis because you'm a straight man and never known
to go from truth and honesty by a hair," she said.
"People see that your word's your bond, and that you
set truth higher than gain.  You deserve all you get
or ever will get--and more."

"Like you to say it; and well you know that my
good is your good, Rhoda."

Then he praised his wife.  His admiration was
genuine but mechanical.

"What with you and her--Margaret--I've got a lot
more than falls to most.  Needn't say nought about
you: we're one; but she's different.  She can't see so
deep and far off as we do; but she can feel more; and
she trusts me; and I'm proud of the simplicity of her.
Never wants no figures nor nothing.  Never asks no
questions.  Leaves her life in my hands as trusting as
the dogs are with you.  And ever thinking for me.  I
said a bit ago as I dearly loved cold rabbit pie, made
after mother's way.  Well, the pie to-night was like
the Ditsworthy pies.  I thought for sure 'twas a present
from home; but not a bit of it.  She went up-along
two days ago and larned the trick of it.  If only--but
'twould be mean in me even to name it with such a
woman--"

"If only what?  All the same, I know.  There's
compensations against childer, David.  Leave that and
go on feeling grateful for her goodness; and--and
wake up to a bit more too."

She spoke suddenly and with no little feeling.  An
inspiration had come to her--a brilliant thought greater
and finer far than her recent solitary imaginings under
the moon.

"'Wake up'!" he exclaimed.  "Whatever do you
mean, Rhoda?  If I'm not wide awake, who is?"

Her ideas struggled within her.  She strove to say
the right thing, yet almost despaired.  He waited
during her silence, then spoke again.

"Don't think I'm not grateful to God for such a
good wife.  I love her more than she knows, or ever
will know.  I'm even down about her sometimes, when
I think she don't know.  Yet what more can I do?  If
there's anything, 'tis your bounden duty to tell me."

He made the way clear; yet she felt a doubt that if
she did speak, he might take it ill.  She was frightened--an
emotion so rare that she did not recognise it and
feared that some physical evil must be threatening her.

"I saw Simon Snell not long since," she said.
"Didn't mention it at the time, for 'twasn't interesting,
except to me; but I will now.  He gave me a lift on
my way to Buckland and said a good few very sensible
things, as his manner is.  He told me of a saying he
heard made by that Screech that married Dorcas.
Screech was speaking of you and your wife, and he
said you was like a moulting cock and hen sometimes--both
down on your luck and didn't know what was the matter."

David laughed.

"So much for that then.  I'll tell you how that
happened.  I fell in with the man--we're friends of a
sort now--and chanced to talk of children.  I may
have just hinted I was sorry to be without 'em.  But
that was all.  He's jealous of me as a matter of fact.
He's getting on pretty well too; but he don't get on as
quick as me; and he's handicapped by his mother and
his children."

"He spoke of Margaret, too, however."

"What he may have heard her say I can't guess.
Nought against her home, that I will swear.  Of course,
'tis only human nature to have our up and down
moments."

"No doubt that spiteful woman--Dorcas I mean--would
be quick to make mischief if 'twas in her power,"
declared Rhoda.

"It isn't.  There's no power on God's earth powerful
enough to make mischief between me and Madge."

"Then look after her closer," said his sister.

It was out and she expected a shower of exclamations
and questions.  But they did not come.  David dropped
a hammer, stood up, and replied.  He had not wholly
understood.

"I will," he answered.  "I'll think this very night
how to give her a bit of a treat.  'Tis natural, without
a cradle in the house, she's moped.  Us must make it
up to her a little, Rhoda.  Such towsers for work as
you and me forget sometimes that some natures call for
a little play as well.  I'll look closer after her pleasure
and such like.  We'll go to Tavistock revel.  I hadn't
thought to do it; but we'll all take a whole holiday and
not do a stroke of work for the day.  At least no more
than we'm bound to do."

"I mean all the time, David, not just for a day."

"Fancy your saying this to me!  And now I'll surprise
you too.  You ban't the first who has talked like
this.  Crocker did the very same a bit ago, and I took
it as kind in him, for I'm that sort of man.  I'm not a
jealous chap--too sensible for that.  But if 'twas
known what I felt for Madge, I dare say people, that
see me so busy and wrapped up in getting on, might
wonder.  Even you don't quite see it, Rhoda.  Still,
this I will say I blame myself as I did before.  I'm
not one to think I'm always right; and love should out,
not lie asleep in the heart.  'Tis nought unless you see
it and let it work all the time, as you say."

"Don't for God's sake, talk like that," she begged
earnestly.  "Who am I to lecture you?  What do I
know of love?  What do I want to know of it?  I only
care for you and your good, else I wouldn't have said
this much."

She was thinking more of what he had just spoken
than what she herself was saying.  Bartley Crocker
had taken her brother to task on this identical theme!
She gasped with secret amazement at such
extraordinary news.  Doubtless this meant that Crocker and
Margaret--  Here she barred her own thoughts.  She
refused to examine what such a fact could mean.

Her brother made an end of his work.

"Now I'm going in to have a tell with Madge," he
said.  "You come too."

But Rhoda refused.

"I'm for a walk.  'Tis a fair night."

They parted; he returned to his house; she loosed
two dogs and went off on to the Moor.

David lighted his pipe and sat by his fire.  Margaret
was working at the table.  For a time he kept silence,
and then she spoke.

"What are you thinking on, dear heart?  I hope all
be going well at Tavistock?"

"I wasn't troubling about Tavistock," he answered.
"I was thinking what a wonder you be, and how you
spoil me, and how I'm not worth it--such a man as me."

"David!"

"To think as you went to Ditsworthy about rabbit
pies!  'Tis things like that make me wonder."

Her face shone and she set down her work and came
to him.

"'Twas nought; but 'tis lovely to know you marked
it and was pleased," she said.

"I don't mark enough," he answered.  "I'm that
set on driving ahead, and making a bit of a splash, and
getting up in the world for you--for you, Madge,--that
I forget here and there.  Don't gainsay me.  Too
well I know it in my leisure moments."

"You shan't say so.  'Tis all along of me being so
small-minded and not looking on ahead like you do, but
living in the stupid every-day things.  I know they
don't matter; and I know what you feel to me; and 'tis
for me to see things with your eyes, not for you to see
'em with mine."

"'Tis for me to set higher store by the every-day
things," he declared.  "'Tis for me to value better the
home you keep always sweet and ready for me; and
the food you cook, and the hundred little odd worries
and bothers many married men have to face, but me
never.  You don't bring no trouble to me; but you'm
always ready and willing to hear my troubles.  I can't
expect you to understand when I talk about figures and
such like.  Such things ban't your part.  But you'm
always ready with your bright eyes to be glad and
rejoice when good comes; and 'tis for me to be glad and
rejoice in lesser things when you tell me about 'em.  I
don't let you know how clever I think you.  And you
always hold yourself so cheap that 'tis my duty to lift
you up in your own conceit, for if you thought half so
well of yourself as I think of you, you'd be the proudest
woman in England, Madge."

She sat on his lap and put her arms round his neck
and kissed him.

"'Tis like life to me to hear you say such things,"
she answered.  "Though too well I know how little I
deserve 'em.  I wish I was a better, cleverer sort to lend a
hand with high matters like figures and work and sheep.
But I'm only useful here."

"Us will each stick to our own share of the load,"
he said.  "We'm both doing our part pretty well, I
believe; and so long as you never forget that I mark
your cleverness and love you better every day of your
life, the rest don't matter.  I've been a thought too
buried in my own hopes of late, and I own it and I'm
sorry for it.  But my eyes was opened half an hour
agone, and I want you to forgive me, Madge.  'Twas
only seeming, mind you; but I doubt it looked real and
it's made you down-daunted, as well it may have; and
I'm truly sorry for it."

"You've a deal more to forgive than me.  Many men
would fling it in my face every day of my life as I'd
brought 'em no family."

"I'm not that sort, and I'm hopeful in that matter
as in every other.  Put that out of your mind, same as
I do.  Man plants, but God gives the increase.  I've
found out--all my life so far--that, if we do our part,
He's very willing to do His.  And if He holds back--that's
His business and not for His creatures to fall foul
of.  Who knows best?"

She tightened her arms round him and her tears flowed.

"Doan't 'e cry," he said, "unless 'tis for happiness.
And I'll speak yet further, Madge, since I'm confessing
my sins to-night.  There's another that must have
credit for this useful talk betwixt me and you."

Her thoughts leapt to Hartley Crocker; but she did
not speak.

"I was saying to Rhoda a minute ago in the shed,
that 'twas just like you to go up to Ditsworthy for the
secret of mother's rabbit pies.  And then she--Rhoda,
I mean--told me a thing or two I ought to have found
out for myself."

"I know right well Rhoda loves me dearly.  Whatever--"
began his wife; then she broke off.

"Of course--like every other mortal.  And she's a
woman, and soft too--though not like you.  She's
content with me as I am, but you're not; and there's no
reason why you should be.  You're right to ask for a
bit of worship from me; and the hard thing is you
should have to ask."

"I never--never did, David.  I was content too--always
content, and proud of you always."

"I know.  You didn't ask with your lips.  But
maybe you asked another way; and I didn't see
the question till--till others in the past, and again
to-day, put it afore me.  I'm a contrite man. I'm--"

She put her hand over his mouth.

"You're a million times too fine and great for me.
And I won't hear another word.  There ban't a happier
she on Dartmoor this minute than me!"

"Look here," he said.  "I'll tell you what: we'll
have a lark next week.  There's a revel to Tavistock and
we'll all go--you and Rhoda and me.  Would you like it?"

"Dearly, and--d'you think, David, that we might ax
Bartley Crocker to come?  For his own sake and for
Rhoda's?"

"Ax him an' welcome.  But I'm afraid 'tis all up.
She's actually against him now, I should judge, and at
best she merely kept an open mind.  She never cared a
straw about the man, and never will.  I'm sorry for
him, because he's very fond of her; but I'm not sorry
for her."

"I am.  Any woman with a good husband must be
sorry for them who haven't got one."

"But 'tis no use thinking about it.  She'll die an
old maid unless something very different from Crocker
comes along.  I met poor Snell but yesterday and asked
him how the world wagged with him.  And he said as
he saw his way clearer than ever he had, owing to a talk
with Rhoda.  Rhoda of all people!  'Glad you see
what a sensible woman she is,' I told him, and he swore
he'd always seen it, but never more than when she told
the risks of marriage were greater than the gains.
'I'm off it for evermore,' he says; 'and so be she--I've
got her word.'  Never a man was more relieved in his
mind, I should reckon."

"Nonsense!" declared Margaret.  "She's young
for her years, and maidens all talk like that.  I won't
believe it yet awhile.  I won't even believe that Bartley's
not the man.  I see a lot of him and none knows him
better.  He's gained a deal of sense and patience of late.
He's a kind-hearted, gentle creature, and she'd soon
wake up to know what happiness really meant if she'd
take him."

"She's happy enough in her own way."

"I hope 'tis so; yet how can such a lone life be happy?"

"The heron be so happy as the starling," said David;
"though one's his own company most times and t'other
goes in flocks.  She needn't trouble you.  However,
since you still think it may be, I'll forget a thing here
and there and help you, though 'tis against my own
wish in a way.  Of course Rhoda's good is as much to
me as my good have always been to her.  I want her to
be a happy woman and a married woman too, if Mr. Right
comes along.  But all the same, I can't think
whatever I should do if Bartley Crocker was to win her
and take her off to Canada."

"The thing is to make her happy," answered his
wife.  "Before all else I want to do it.  We're as
happy as birds.  'Tis for us, one way or another way,
to fill her cup fuller."

"We'll do what we may," he replied.  "At least be
sure that no man nor woman cares for her more than
we do."

"And poor Bartley--don't leave him out.  He
mustn't be left out," she said.

His mind for the moment was on another issue.

"I'll grant in one particular she's not too happy,"
he remarked suddenly.  "And that's over Dorcas.  I'm
not speaking a word for Dorcas.  She behaved very
badly and she's very well out of it, with a lot more luck
than she deserves.  Screech isn't what I thought him,
and I've admitted I was wrong in my opinion of him;
but Rhoda can't pardon her.  I'm feared to say much,
though she knows, for that matter, that I go so far as
to nod to Dorcas now, and give her 'good-morning' or
'good-night' when we meet.  But Rhoda won't budge
an inch.  I suppose 'tis out of our power, Madge, to
soften her a little bit in that quarter?"

"I've tried full often, but I'll gladly try again," she
answered.  "And you're right and put your finger on
the sore place, no doubt.  You can see so deep into
people, David.  For certain 'tis being out with her own
flesh and blood that makes Rhoda wisht and mournful.
But we'll try yet again to bring 'em together.  I know
'tis a great thorn in Dorcas, though she pretends not to
care about it."





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.. _`A SHARP TONGUE`:

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   CHAPTER VII


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   A SHARP TONGUE

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Timothy Mattacott and his life-long friend,
Ernest Maunder, walked and talked together.
The latter was on duty, but since the way led over an
open space skirted with wild and empty land, the
constable relaxed his official manner and gave ear to
Mattacott.

"I ban't too easy," confessed the elder man; "for
it's rumoured that along of that silly business on
Christmas Eve, when Screech hollered out Stanbury's
name in the fog to Crazywell, and the wrong people
heard him, that Mrs. Stanbury's going out of her mind.
Something ought to be done."

"Something certainly ought to be done," admitted
Maunder.  "You couldn't say strictly that it comes
under the head of law, else I should take steps; but we
must consider of it before the woman gets worse."

"I don't want to anger Screech, for he took a lot of
trouble, and 'twasn't his fault that Jane didn't hear the
voice.  For that matter, 'twas as good as if she had
done, and she's holding off even now from Bart
Stanbury, as Screech foretold me she would do.  But I
don't get no forwarder with her, and 'tis only an evil
postponed from my point of view, because she's plainly
told me that she likes Bart better than me, and she's
only waiting to see if there was anything in that voice,
or if 'twas all nonsense and stuff."

"In other words," said Mr. Maunder, "if the man
lives over into next year, which, of course, he will do,
then she'll take him."

"Yes, exactly so.  If he died she'd have me, but
on no other terms."

"I'm afraid then, to say it kindly, Tim, the game's
up," declared Ernest.  "You see, the man ban't going
to die, and you'm harrying his mother silly for nought.
If I may venture to advise, I'd urge for you to let it out
and give her up."

"I don't mind for myself, but there's Billy Screech."

"If you've lost her, 'tis no good keeping up these
hookem-snivey doings.  Nought's gained by it.  To
use craft, though foreign to my nature, I hope, in a
general way, I should advise that Screech lets the thing
out sudden.  He might pretend that he's just heard
tell about it, and his wife could tell Mrs. Stanbury's
daughter, Margaret Bowden.  Then 'twould be all right
in a day, and the poor creature might recover her senses
and rest in peace."

"As 'tis," explained Timothy, "she's in a double
mess, which we never thought upon--no, not the cleverest
among us--for she can't tell whether 'tis her son or
her husband be going to drop.  And she goes in fear
according."

"It oughtn't to be.  It mustn't be," declared the
other.  "'Tis unworthy and improper; and though I
couldn't say 'twas an actual crime against law, yet 'tis
a very indecent situation, and if the poor creature was
to go mad, you'd feel a heavy load on your conscience,
Timothy, even though Billy Screech may be so built as
not to care."

"Yes, I should," admitted Mr. Mattacott; "and
something must be done--especially so, since I've lost
the woman.  'Tis very vexatious in her, for she's as
near as damn it said 'yes' a score of times."

"You'll do better to look elsewhere, whether or no.
Them uncertain creatures afore marriage are often
uncertain afterwards, and then they be the very mischief,"
said Ernest.  "And as for wits, upon my life I don't
think Mrs. Stanbury's the only one that's tottering.
'Twouldn't maze me any day to hear as Reuben Shillabeer
had to be handled.  That man's not what he was."

"He hath a wandering eye, I grant you."

"More than that, and worse than that.  'Tis my
business, in its higher branches, to take thought of
what be passing in a man's brain, Timothy, and oft of
late I've marked the 'Dumpling' waver in his speech
and break off and lose the thread."

"Have you now!"

"True as I'm here on duty.  He don't fix his
intellects as he used."

"He's always down--I grant that.  'The Corner
House' ban't very lively nowadays."

"He is down, and that's a sign of a screw loose.
Say nought, however, for 'twould be libel and land you
in trouble; but mark me, the poor fellow changes from
his old self, though never a cheerful creature since his
wife went."

They overtook a woman and both saluted Rhoda
Bowden.  She had just crossed Lether Tor bridge, and
was proceeding by the road to Lowery.  They talked
concerning Mr. Shillabeer a while longer, and then
Mr. Maunder mentioned Dorcas and her children.  Whereupon
from urbanity Rhoda lapsed into silence, soon bade
them good-day, and turned off the main road into a
lane.  They passed on, and having left the track, Rhoda
pursued the way she had chosen.  It wound to her right,
skirted a quarry on Lowery Tor, and returned to the
main thoroughfare half a mile beyond.  The detour
was of no account, and yet, owing to this trivial
incident, there happened presently an event that set rolling
deep waves along the shore of chance.

The rough footpath led directly behind Mr. Billy
Screech's cottage, and just as Rhoda was speeding by
with her eyes turned from the place, the eldest child
of Dorcas--a boy of more than three years old--fell
headlong out of the hedge at her feet.  The accident
looked serious.  For a moment her nephew lay motionless
and silent, then he began to utter piercing screams
and cry for his mother.  The noise stilled Rhoda's
alarm and brought Dorcas flying from her cottage, with
her mother-in-law after her.  When they arrived at the
hedge Rhoda had picked up her sister's first-born, and
was endeavouring to calm it.

The lesser William Screech was found to have escaped
with no worse hurt than fright and bruises.  He was
soon in his mother's arms, and she handed him on to his
grandmother.  Dorcas thanked Rhoda and told the
elder Mrs. Screech to depart; then, the opportunity
being a good one, she descended into the road herself,
set her face, shook her red fringe out of her eyes, and
resolutely overtook Rhoda, who had hastened forward.

"Stop, if you please," she said.  "It's a free
country and you've no right to deny speech to any
civil-spoken creature.  I want to speak to you, and I'll be
obliged if you'll listen for a minute.  You can't refuse
to hear me."

Even at this moment Rhoda was struck by the calm
authority in her younger sister's voice.  She spoke as
the superior woman, with all the weight of a husband, a
family, and a home behind her.  The aggressive
personality of Dorcas was something new.

"I don't want to have aught to do with you," said Rhoda.

"Nor I with you," answered the other.  "But we've
all got to do a lot of things we don't like in this
world--you and me among the rest."

"Speak then," said the elder.  She had not stood
face to face with her sister for some years, and now she
marked that Dorcas looked better far than of old.  She
had filled into neat matronly lines; her eyes were
stronger; her gift of ready words was still with her.

"'Tis this: I'm weary of the scandal between us.
I'm looked up to and treated proper by other women,
and 'tis a wonder to them all why you hold off as you
do.  I don't want your friendship, God knows, nor yet
your good word; but civility I've a right to ask for, and
'tis a beastly, obstinate wickedness in you that refuses
it.  Here, but three days since, Madge comed in and said
how hard she'd tried again to make you see different, but
not a kindly thought to your own flesh and blood have
you got.  A minute agone, if you'd known 'twas my
child you'd picked up, no doubt you'd have let the poor
little toad drop again.  And Madge says you won't
make friends and be civil, even on the outside, out of
respect to everybody; and I'll ask you why and thank
you to tell me."

Rhoda lacked the usual armoury of women.  Her
mind moved slowly; her words did the like.  She made
no instant answer, but looked down into the angry eyes
of Mrs. Screech and noticed her hands were wet and puffy.

"'Tis washing-day with you, I see," she said in a
mechanical voice.  Why she made this remark she had
not the least idea.  It was certainly not meant as an
offence; but Dorcas held such irrelevance as rude.

"Never mind whether 'tis my washing-day or not.
Please to answer me and give me a reason for what
you'm doing year after year.  I suppose you think 'tis
terrible fine to stick your vartuous nose up in the air,
and pretend you'm a holy saint and not a common
woman.  Terrible fine, no doubt--and terrible
foolish--like many other terrible fine things be.  Don't you
judge your betters so free, and sneer at every woman
who does her first duty in the world and helps the world
along; but look at home a bit and see what a nasty-minded,
foul-thinking creature you be, without enough
charity to keep your brains sweet.  You was very fond
of bally-ragging me in the old days, when I was a stupid
girl and didn't know what I was born for; but you
shan't come it over me no more, and I warn you not to
try."

Her voice was shrill, and Rhoda, listening to the
sound, perceived another whom marriage had made a
shrew.

"What's the use of this noise?" she asked coldly.
"You can't make me have aught to do with you or
your children, and I refuse to do it.  'Tis playing with
the past to ask the reason.  You know the reason.  I
never would speak, and never will speak to any woman
who does what you did.  I'm jealous for women, and
the like of you, that makes them a scorn and a laughing-stock,
should be cast out by all right-minded females.
Then such things as you did wouldn't be done no more."

"No!  If the women were like you, there'd mighty
soon be no more women--nor men neither--a poor,
unfinished thing--like a frost-bitten carrot--good for
nought.  You to talk to me out of your empty life!
You to say I'm not fit company for people--me as be
bringing brave boys and girls into the world, while you
look after puppies and lambs!  Why, damn you, you
be no more than a useless lump of flesh, as might so well
be underground as here!  You--out of your empty,
silly life--to talk to me in my full, busy days!  I spit
at you; and if you think to punish me, then I'll punish
you too.  I can bite so well as bark; and if you ban't
on your knees pretty soon, I'll have you and David by
the ears--then we'll see what becomes of you!"

Mrs. Screech suggested a woman suffering under too
much alcohol.  But she was merely drunk with anger.
Her sister's calm attitude and patient indifference to
this attack did not help to soothe her.  Rhoda looked
at the sun, and Dorcas knew that she was judging the
time of day.

"You'll call for the hours to move a bit faster afore
long," she said.  "Don't you think you can insult me
and my husband, year 'pon year like this, and not smart
for it.  We know very well how to hit back, and if it
hadn't been for a better woman than you, I'd have done
it a long time ago.  I don't forget how you boxed my
ears once, because I knowed how to love a man.  You'd
have better axed me what the secret was and begged to
know it.  But you think you've got no use for a man;
and they've got no use for you and never will have--as
you'll live to find out.  And I'll sting you to the quick
now--now--this instant moment, if you don't say
you'm sorry for the past and promise on your honour
to treat me and mine decent in future.  I warn you to
mind afore you speak."

A malignant light shone over the face of Dorcas.
She set her teeth and panted at her own great wrongs,
while she waited for the other to speak.

"You can't hurt me," said Rhoda, "and you know it."

"Can't I?  We'll see then!  God defend the world
from white virgins like you--that's what I say.  A holy
terror you are; and we're all to be brought up for
judgment, I suppose--to have our heads chopped off,
because we dare to be made of flesh and blood instead of
dead earth.  Pure and clean--is it?  What *you* call
pure.  All the same, the likes of you does things, and
thinks things, us married women would blush to do and
think."

"If that's all you want to say, I'll thank you to get
out of my road," answered the other.

"'Tisn't all, as it happens.  I'm going to talk of
Bartley Crocker now, and then you can take away
something to think about yourself, you frozen wretch!  I
suppose, in your pride, you fancy he's after you all
these days, and comes because he wants to marry
you--wants to marry a lump of granite!  'Tisn't you he
thinks about, or cares about, or ever will; 'tis one whose
shoes you ban't worthy to black--or David either.
Between you she'd be like to die of starvation, I reckon;
and who shall blame her if she does take her hungry
heart to somebody, else?  You and him--good God! 'tis
like living between two ice images--enough to kill the
nature in any creature higher than a dog.  And she
knows it, and a good few more--Bartley Crocker among
the number--knows it.  Belike Madge grows tired of
being moss to his stone, and working her fingers raw
for such as you and her husband.  And even your
precious David ban't the only man in the world.  And
so a decent chap like Bartley comes along, an old friend
that knows a little about girls and what they feel like,
and knows they be different from sheep and heifers.
Hear that!  'Tis not for you the man seeks your house.
He uses your name like a blind.  He laughs at you and
your airs and graces.  He's got no use for you and
never will have.  They meet here and there and
everywhere--and why not?  'Fallen woman' be the word for
me, I suppose.  'Tis you be the fallen woman; and to
call you woman is too good for you!  You never was a
woman; but Madge is, and I hope to God you'll wake
one day to find she've had pluck and sense enough to
leave you and David and run for it with a better man.
You may stare your owl's eyes out of your head.  But
you've got it now, and you've earned it."

Dorcas stopped, panting from her tirade, and passed
her sister and disappeared without more speech.  Rhoda,
left alone, stood quite still for a little while; then she
proceeded on her business.  Not a shadow of anger
clouded her mind, only dreadful dismay at the things
she had heard.  She was not galled for herself; she
did not wince at the foul torrent loosed upon her.  It
passed over her harmlessly.  But her thoughts busied
themselves entirely with David.  That Dorcas should
thus have supported her own fears, and driven home
her own cloudy suspicions and terrors, struck Rhoda
dumb.  Here was the thing that she had hidden and
suffered to gnaw her breast without a sign, now shouted
on the loud, vulgar tongue of the world, as represented
by Dorcas.  Here was the secret that she had suspected,
and searched out in fear and trembling, blurted coarsely
for any ear.

A period of increased happiness had recently passed
over 'Meavy Cot,' and Madge, who appeared to hide
her emotions no more than a bird, went singing and
cheerful through it.  Then matters drifted into the
old ways.  Now much of hope deferred was upon
David's mind and some abstraction and silence clouded
the home again, for the Tavistock appointment
remained still a matter of uncertainty.  But the
circumstance chiefly in Rhoda's thoughts at this moment was
the attitude of her brother to Bartley Crocker.

Their relations had grown more and more friendly
of late.  Crocker often came uninvited to 'Meavy Cot,'
and David always appeared well pleased to see him.
When the younger was not by, her brother often spoke
of him, and both he and Margaret endeavoured to make
Rhoda share their high opinion.  From Madge she had
always turned impatiently away; but to David she had
listened and not seldom wondered that he and she--who
found themselves thinking alike in most questions of
life and character--should differ so widely upon the
subject of this man.  The reason was now easy to
discover: she knew the truth and her brother did not.  Her
judgment was confirmed.  Then, upon this appalling
conclusion, came doubt and deepest perplexity.  Why
should such a woman as Dorcas be right?  Her evil
heart might have invented the whole story with no
purpose but to torture and torment.  Rhoda had next
reluctantly to consider Crocker himself and his bearing
when they met.

If he was acting a lie, he was acting it well.  He had
made it clear half a hundred times, though without
offering another formal proposal, that he would be
rejoiced and thankful above measure if she threw in her lot
with him, and married him, and accompanied him to
Canada.  She asked herself what would happen if she
accepted him.  Her thoughts grew more and more
difficult.  She reached the lowest depth of discomfort
that life had shown her.





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.. _`UNDER THE TREES`:

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   CHAPTER VIII


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   UNDER THE TREES

.. vspace:: 2

There is a lonely wood where Meavy hides upon
her way and whence her waters cry like siren
voices from copse and thicket and the darkness under
great trees.  Hither she passes, amid mossy stones and
through secret places curtained by green things.  At
the feet of Lether Tor there rise forests of oak and
beech; and here, by day and night, through all times and
seasons, two songs are mingling.  The melodies change
as the singers do; but they never cease.  In summer
the shrunken river tinkles to the murmur of the leafy
canopy above it, and her voices ascend fitfully to meet
the whisper of the leaf and the sigh of the larch; in
winter the legions of the branch have vanished and naked
woodland and swollen stream make wilder music.  Then
the trees lend their lyres to the north wind, and the
rocks beneath utter strange cries that combine their
choral measures with fierce throbbing of the forest
harps above.  The foliage fallen, Lether Tor's grey
castles and jagged slopes are visible, lifted against the
west and seen through a lattice of innumerable boughs.
Behind this mountain sinks the sun, now in an
orange-tawny aureole above the purple, and now wrapped with
sullen, lifeless cloud; now upon the clearness of summer
twilights, and now through the flaming arms of a red mist.

To-day, in August, this haunt of Meavy was a nest
of light and cool shadows dappled together, a tent of
leaves--dark overhead, where the sky filled the
fretwork of the tree-tops, and alive at the forest edge with
a glory of gold, where sunshine poured through loops
and ragged, feathered fringes of translucent foliage.
The leaves formed a commonwealth of song and
gladness and harmonious concessions.  Each integral of the
arboreal courts advanced the same beauty, lifted to the
same zephyr, glittered to the same sun and moon, drank
life from the same dew, trembled to the same threat of
autumn and of death.  Beneath, through rifts in the
bosom of the wood, the blue-green brake-fern shone and
panted out her fragrance on the hillside.  A colour
contrast very vivid was thus offered through the frames
of the forest; and beyond this region of rock-strewn
fern there spread a haze of light and darkness--of
indigo and silver blended about the shaggy knees of
Lether Tor where it lifted to the sky.

Through the midst of the dingle under shadows,
yet with her breast bared to those amber shafts of
sunshine that fell upon it, came Meavy, with many a curl
and turn and leisurely dawdling in deep pool.  Fern
fronds, fingered with light, bent over the face of the
water; fresh-coloured flowers of agrimony rose above;
flash of golden-rod and the seeding spires of foxgloves
mingled there; while a ripple of filched fire from the
sun-shaft broke the glass of each smooth pool, and
heaven's blue was also reflected from many a rift in the
veil of the leaves.  Bramble and woodrush spanned the
stream and nodded, linked together with a spider's
trembling web; by broken, subterranean channels the
river held her way; light, sobered into half light where
moss sponges soaked crystal water and golden sunshine
together, penetrated through the heaviest shade;
darkness only dwelt in the deepest rifts and crannies and
upon the black, submerged vegetation of the rocks.  Out
of these mysteries arose new songs and whispers, where
the stream slid stealthily forth from her secret places
and the hidden homes of unseen things that she also
blessed and forgot not.  Here the sun stars, catching
upon her convex ripples, were reflected and thrown
upward, to dance and flash unexpected brightness into
gloom, or set wonderful radiance upon the under-face
of leaves.

Life, in shape of bird and beast and fish, prospered
here; and glittering insects--ichneumons, that hung
motionless like golden beads in some beam of light;
butterflies, that came and went; and long-legged spiders
and great ants--likewise justified themselves.  The trees
were garlanded with ivy, polypody, and many mosses,
that hung in festoons and fell even to the dim, moist
river-ways, where shy flowers blossomed in shade, and
the filmy fern spread its small loveliness upon the stone.

Here, at the hour near summer twilight, when life
ranges at full stress and passion before rest, one may
see, in the low red light that pierces to each inviolate
place, some vision of the shepherd god aglowing; and
through the wail of insects, under the melody of ripple
and frond, there steals sweet warbling of the syrinx at
Pan's own puckered lips.  Music full of the unfulfilled
he plays--music fraught with world sorrow and world
joy.  Now it is mellow as the dying day, now tender
and triumphant as the dawn; but it is never satisfied;
it is never satisfying; because it whispers of precious
things felt but not known; it hungers after the ultimate
mystery; it thirsts for the secrets behind the sunset.

At one spot in this wood a young beech leapt from
a rock, and the earth cushion which supported it hung
over the river.  A little precipice fell beneath to water's
edge, and the whole force of Meavy struck here and
leapt on again, crested with light.  It was a human
haunt and suited well a soul who went between sadness
and fitful happiness, who declared herself reconciled
and contented, yet knew that it was not so.  Hither
Margaret often came and found a temple of peace.  She
brought sorrow and doubt here; and sometimes the glen
lifted it; and sometimes she departed again not happier
than she came.

To-day she sat with her back to the beech; and two
others shared these precincts with her.  One reclined at
her feet; the other watched unseen.

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Prospects of important employment kept David
Bowden much from home at this season.  The matter
was now as good as accomplished and it appeared
certain that, with the new year, he would leave
Dartmoor and enter the service of a cattle-breeder at
Tavistock.  Such a position opened possibilities far better
than the man could have expected at his present work.
With mingled feelings Margaret contemplated the
change; and she met with Crocker on two or three
occasions at this period during her husband's prolonged
absence.  She made no secret of these appointments,
yet it came about that one most vitally interested did
not always hear of them; because Rhoda had of late
lapsed into a very saturnine vein and eschewed converse
with her sister-in-law.  Madge, therefore, judging that
her affairs were of no consequence or interest to Rhoda,
kept them to herself.  They were at 'Meavy Cot' alone
together and, in all kindness, the wife had proposed that
Rhoda should take this opportunity of David's absence
and herself visit Ditsworthy for a day or two.  Mrs. Bowden
had expressed a desire to this effect and the
opportunity seemed good.  But Rhoda curtly refused.
Her dogs might be trusty guardians for the hearth and
home of 'Meavy Cot'; but they could not guard the
mistress of it or protect her from herself.

The elder woman stopped therefore, and, the more
suspicious for this invitation to depart, watched in
secret.

She was watching now, while Margaret and Bartley,
under the beech, sat close together and talked like
kind-hearted children about the welfare of another person.
He had great information for her and promised to lift
a sustained cloud of darkness from her mind.

"What'll you give me for the best piece of news
you've heard this year?" he asked; and she replied that
she had nothing in the world to give anybody but good-will.

"If I could give you Rhoda, I would," she said; "but
nobody can give her to you save herself."

"I've made a great discovery--or so good as made
it," he answered.  "'Twas out of Tim Mattacott of all
people that I got a clue.  Him and Maunder are
well-meaning, harmless men, and in the bar--at
Shillabeer's--three days ago--I heard them talking together.
They were at my elbow and I couldn't help listening to
a few words.  After that I didn't blame myself for
listening to a few more.  It's all about your brother
Bart and Jane West, and your mother."

"Whatever do you mean?"

"Why, there's been a plot, and I'm after the
ringleader.  I may or may not find him, but one thing is
clear, and that's all that matters.  Somebody--not
Mattacott himself but a friend of his--has tried to help
him to get Jane West away from Bart."

"It looks as if they had succeeded too," said
Margaret; "for Bart tells me the girl won't say 'yes'
and won't say 'no.'"

"There it is!  'Twas a deep idea to stop her once
and for all.  How, d'you think?  By letting her hear
the Voice of Crazywell call out Bart's name!  'Twas
planned very clever that she and Bart should actually
hear it on Christmas Eve; and they would have done
so, but for the fog that kept 'em to the road.  Instead,
as luck would have it, your mother of all people, hears
the Voice.  And now, as far as I can gather, those in
the secret--or some of them--hearing how she's taking
on, begin to be a bit uneasy--as well they may."

"Oh, Bartley!"

"'Tis true; but we must go to work witty and catch
the sinner himself.  'Sinner' I call him, yet that's too
strong a word belike.  All that really matters is for
you to tell your mother 'twas nonsense, and that a man
lay hid by the pool, and that 'twas never meant to fret
her to fiddle-strings about it."

Margaret jumped to her feet.

"Sit down," he said.  "Can't let you off like this
before I've been here two minutes.  We'll go up over to
Coombeshead together presently.  Must talk a bit first.
An hour more or less won't make no difference to your
mother."

She sat by him and put her hand on his arm.  Then
she bent and kissed his hand impulsively.

"You've paid me after all!" he laughed.

"I'd give you your heart's desire and the keys of
heaven, if I could," she answered.  "This is the best
fortune that's come to me for many, many a long day;
and I bless you for bringing it."

"Thought you'd be pleased.  But tell 'em to say
nought yet.  I'm putting my mind into it, for I've got
nothing to do now but twiddle my thumbs and wait till
I can decently go to her--Rhoda--for the third and
last time of asking.  I doubt 'tis a vain thing, though.
She likes me less and less, I believe."

"I hope not; but this I know: she likes me less and less."

"You!"

"Yes--for reasons I can't fathom.  Either that, or
she've got some deep matter on her mind that keeps
her more than common silent.  With David away the
nights be cruel.  Sometimes 'tis all I can do to help
crying out and begging her, for pity, to open her
mouth.  I get off to bed so soon as I can; and so like
as not, when I'm gone up, she'll go abroad again and
keep out, Lord knows where, till long after midnight."

"I don't call it respectable," said Bartley, shaking
his head with pretence of disapproval.  "I really don't,
Madge.  I wish I could meet her on one of these moony
walks.  Perhaps she'd listen to reason then--if she
didn't set her pack of dogs on me!"

"'Tis hard to live so close to a fellow-creature and
understand her so little."

"I understand her well enough--if she'd only believe
it," he said.

For a moment they lapsed into silence.  Then he
plucked a long grass-blade and began to tickle her ear.
She shook her head and laughed.  A bright thought
came to her mind.

"I heard by letter from David this morning.  The
matter's settled.  He'll be bailiff of the great breeding
farm--everything under him--the actual head man
under the master.  I feel very proud about it, for it
shows how high the people rate him."

"And well they may.  You could trust him with the
Bank of England.  Never was such a dead straight,
lofty-minded man in the world before."

"I like you to praise him.  He thinks such a
lot of you.  He's even been at Rhoda about you too."

"What will she do if you go to Tavistock?  I reckon
'tis the thought of that more than me, or anything else,
is making her down on her luck."

"I was hopeful 'twould perhaps turn her more to you.
She could never live in Tavistock."

"No," he said, "that's a certainty.  She wants more
room than a town can give her.  You're right, Madge:
this must make her think a bit more of me.  Canada,
or here, or the North Pole--'tis all one to me if she'll
come.  And if she says 'no' again, then I'm off
alone--to the Dominion.  Why I'm drawn that way I hardly
know.  But I am."

"Third time's lucky.  How I hope it will be!"

"If she cared for me, even half as much as you do,
I'd win her."

"If she knew what a rare good chap you are, you'd
win her, or any woman."

"You're always too easy with me," he said.  "Lucky
you didn't marry me: you would have spoilt me utterly--not
that there was much to spoil.  Yet I daresay we
should have jogged along very comfortable."

"Who knows?  Perhaps none too well, Bartley."

"Perhaps not.  We're too much alike," he declared.

"In many things we are."

"But the weak help the weak.  You'll see a pair of
bryony stems twirl round each other, and so do far
better and go farther than ever they could single-handed."

"'Twould be the blind leading the blind--you and
me together.  The oak's more good to the ivy than
anything soft like itself."

"Pity I haven't a bit of David's iron in me," he
confessed.

"It is," she admitted.  "A pity I haven't too."

"And a pity he haven't got a bit of my--"

She nodded strong assent.

"That's pity too," she said.  "That's what I've
wished many and many a time--just like a silly creature
to wish what can't be.  'Tis worse than a child crying
for the moon to want a man's nature changed."

"Yet half the people spend their time wanting the
other half to change," he told her.

Again there was a pause and then he spoke.

"So long as it's well with you, I don't care."

"Well enough--if I could see it," she said.

"If you could see it!"

"I mean if I could feel it."

"If you don't feel it, then 'tisn't well."

"It can't be well because we've got no family.  'Tis
a grievance--and a just grievance.  But yet 'tis well
with me none the less, Bartley.  The real way to be
happy is never to look at home too much.  Perhaps,
better still, never to look at home at all.  By 'home' I
mean a person's own heart.  Keep out of that and
always be busy for other people.  Then you haven't time
to be miserable."

He shook his head.

"We've all got time for that; there's always the
night," he answered.  "Nature gives us the night time
for sleep, and life takes a big slice out of it for trouble."

"I ought to understand him by now.  But 'tis the
ups and downs I never can get used to," she explained.
"My dear man will be a husband in a thousand now
and again, and I'll thank God in my prayers and say to
myself as he understands my poor feeble nature at last,
and that we never shan't see a cloud again; then he's
off and hidden away behind himself for months at a
time, and I can't win a smile from him or hardly a good
word."

"He's so ambitious."

"No doubt 'tis that.  'Twas Rhoda herself got him
into his good way last time; and a right glad week we
had of it.  Then there came all this over his mind.
Somehow he can't bring himself to ask my advice over
anything bigger than his own clothes.  He lets me
choose them, bless him.  That's something."

"And jolly smart he always looks.  But mind this,
Madge, you talk of ups and downs.  That's no
hardship--'tis the natural, healthy state, like the ebb of the
river in summer drought and the seasons coming round
one after the other.  You can't have ups without downs,
and if you want one you must brave the other."

"I don't want neither," she said.  "I'd sooner far we
kept at a steady jog-trot and got closer to each other
every year we lived, and saw with the same eyes, and felt
with one heart."

"Things balance out pretty fair.  That sort be comfortable,
but 'tis terrible tame work.  If you don't fall
out, you never make it up, and my experience of females
is that almost the best part of the fun with 'em is
making it up.  They like it as much as we do too."

"Marriage is different."

"Nought keeps the air of marriage sweeter than a
good healthy breeze now and again."

"You talk as one outside.  You know nothing at all
about it!"

"I'll kiss *you* in a minute--and not on the hand
neither!" he laughed.  "And 'twill be for punishment,
not payment, if you can say such hard things to me.
No, I'm not married, worse luck; but you oughtn't to
throw it in my face like that, for 'tis no fault of mine,
I'm sure."

"I'd be happier than any woman ever was on Dartmoor,
I do think, if she'd take you."

"You've done all you could--so's David.  But there's
no more in your power.  If I can't rise to the skill to
win her, then so much the worse for me."

"Come and do a kind thing," she said suddenly.
"Come and explain to my dear mother this wonder
you've found out.  Nobody but you ever would have
been so clever as to do it."

"And may I come home and have supper with you
and Rhoda afterwards as a reward?"

"And welcome," she answered.

"There's a moon and everything.  I wish to God
she'd let me go out walking in the dark with her
afterwards."

"Perhaps she might.  She took walks with Mr. Snell."

"Not by moonlight?  No--no, 'tis all waste of time
and hope and sense.  But, good Lord! if she's so frosty
under the summer sun, what must she be in moonlight?
Freezing cold enough to make a man's heart stand still!"

"Perhaps 'tis all the other way and the dark hours
soften her," suggested Margaret.

They rose and she brushed his back, which was covered
with scraps of leaf and moss.

Presently they moved away together towards
Coombeshead; and then from her lair in a brake fifty
yards distant, Rhoda departed to return home.  Their
speech had been entirely hidden from her, but their
actions were all observed; and their actions, unlit by
the spirit that informed them, left her soul dark.

Mr. Crocker, on second thoughts, decided that he
would not sup at 'Meavy Cot' until David came back,
and Madge went her way alone after bringing large
comfort and peace to Mrs. Stanbury.  She was full of
the incident when she came back to Rhoda, and gave
her silent and sceptical listener the true account of the
meeting by Meavy.





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.. _`DARKNESS AT 'THE CORNER HOUSE'`:

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   CHAPTER IX


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   DARKNESS AT 'THE CORNER HOUSE'

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As time advanced even the least observant took note
of an increasing gloom that hung over Reuben
Shillabeer.  It fluctuated but set steadily in upon him.
He grew more silent and more fanatical where matters
of religion formed the topic.  He talked of giving up
'The Corner House.'  He declared that had it been in
his power, he would long since have emulated the bold
Bendigo and preached to his fellow men.

"I can't do that, along of having no flow of words,"
said Mr. Shillabeer moodily.  "Speech in the pulpit
manner have been denied to me.  All the same, I may
have done more for the Lord than any of you men know
about."

He addressed a Saturday night bar and reduced most
of those who listened to an embarrassed silence.

"'Tis things like that we don't expect and have a
right to object to in a public house," declared
Mr. Screech afterwards.  "We come here for peace and
quietness and a pint.  At this rate 'the Dumpling'
will very soon want to end the evening with a prayer
meeting; and I for one shall be very glad when he goes
and us get a cheerfuller pattern of publican there."

Many were of Billy's mind.  Two potmen in succession
left 'The Corner House' owing to the depressed
atmosphere of that establishment; the regular guests
held serious meetings to discuss the situation.  Some
were for strong measures; others held the evil must soon
cure itself.

"Either the poor soul will go melancholy mad and
have to be taken from among us--and 'twill ask for half
a dozen strong men to do it--or else the cloud will pass
off," explained Mr. Moses.  "Be it as 'twill, we can't go
on like this.  I advise that we wait till the turn of the
year; and then, if nothing happens, we'll make a regular
orderly deputation, with me and Mr. Bowden as
ringleaders, and wait upon Sir Guy Flamank and explain to
him that 'The Corner House' under Shillabeer isn't
what it should be."

"'Twould be better far," Ernest Maunder had said,
"if the man would be as good as his word and retire.
If we can urge him without unkindness to do so, he
might get calmer and easier in his mind in private life."

"Not him," prophesied Screech.  "Take the life and
company and stir of the bar from him, and he'd become
a drivelling old mump-head in six months.  As 'tis he
may be seen half a dozen times in a week sitting on his
wife's grave, when he ought to be to work in his house."

"Mr. Merle have said the same," admitted Charles
Moses.  "To me the man said it.  'I don't like to have
poor Shillabeer in the churchyard so often,' was his
word.  'Tisn't seemly for the people to observe him
with his hand over his face and his hat off beside him
sitting there.  To display his grief in this manner, after
nearly fifteen years, is not true to nature, and I feel very
alarmed about it.' That was what his reverence said
to me; and I answered that he echoed my very thought."

"The man wants to be lifted to more wholesome
ideas," declared Mr. Maunder.  "Nobody can say of
me that I'm against the Bible; but there's times and
seasons--a time for everything and everything in its
time--as the Book says itself, I believe; but he thrusts
Scripture into conversation and peppers talk with texts
till free speech be smothered.  He ought to go--to say
it without feeling."

And meantime the anti-social instinct in Shillabeer,
filtering by secret ways through the old man's brain,
took another turn and led him upon a road none had
foreseen.  Vaguely at first he glimpsed it, and on his
declining years a dark short cut to peace suddenly
yawned.

The first glimpse of this haunting evil that now crept
upon the old prize-fighter was revealed to a woman; and
on the occasion Mr. Shillabeer not only shocked her with
a thought, but astonished her by a confession.

First, however, there came dark words between them,
as happens at the meeting of unhappy and restless
spirits.  Then Margaret Bowden, for it was she, learnt
the man's simple secret.  It argued some unexpected
cunning in him that he could have pursued his purpose
and also hidden it; and the circumstance taken in
conjunction with the present theme, made her fear for his
sanity.  Not the subject so much startled her as its
existence in this particular man's brain.  She listened,
was surprised to find how reasonable his arguments
seemed, yet strove with all her wits to refute them.

One day on his way back from Princetown Mr. Shillabeer
noted the smoke rising from 'Meavy Cot' under
Black Tor.  He had never seen David Bowden's home
and the opportunity was a good one.  He left the main
road, therefore, and soon reached the house.  David
happened to be away, and Rhoda was also out.  But
Margaret made the visitor welcome, hastened the hour
of tea-drinking, and insisted that he should stop
for it.

"As nice a house as one might wish for," he said.
"And I'd like to say that I'm among them that wish all
joy and good fortune and good luck to your husband.
He's one of the fortunate ones, and well he deserves to
be.  I suppose it won't be long now afore he takes up
the new work?"

"We go after the winter," she answered.

"A position of great trust.  'Tis wonderful to me
to think that when I first come to Sheepstor he was a
little fellow in a lamb's-wool coat, as wanted his mother's
hand to help him over the rough ground.  And I've
lived to see him rise into manhood, and show his valour
in the ring, and take a wife, and now stand up among
leading people and rise to be the right hand of one of the
richest personages in the county."

"Very wonderful, as you say.  Yet not wonderful
neither.  'Tis David that is wonderful--not the things
as happen to him.  Given such a man, he was bound
to get up top."

"True," declared Mr. Shillabeer, passing his cup to
be refilled; "the very same thought often came in my
mind when my wife was alive.  She was the wonder, and
I was sure to be lucky and fortunate when I married
her.  But death's stronger than the most wonderful life
that ever was lived.  She went and took her luck with
her; and her gone, I sank again to be a common man.
And when you feel puffed up, Margaret, always
remember that death lies behind every hedge and makes
ready the gun trigger for this man, the flood for that;
the weak lynch-pin here, and the mad dog there.
Another thing as you may have noticed; 'tis always the
usefulest be picked off.  Heaven's terrible jealous of a
real valuable man.  It ain't got no need of the rogues and
wastrels no more than we have; but if a male or female
be doing for the Lord with both hands, so often as not
the Lord says, 'That's the very man or woman I want
for such and such a bit of real high work.'  And they'm
cut down like the grass of the field."

"Yes," she said.  "The Lord harvests His own way,
Mr. Shillabeer; and because a beautiful, useful life goes,
ban't for us to mourn, but to say 'twas needed for higher
things."

"And another point I'd have you to know," he added.
"I ban't at all sure if the right of private judgment be
withheld either.  Parson will tell you, and most people
will also tell you, that 'tis a very bad come-along-of-it
for a human creature to say 'I ban't wanted no more
and so I'll be off;' but I won't go so far as that myself.
I've tried to look at this matter with the eyes of God
A'mighty, and I've done it."

She stared at him.

"You'm surprised," he said; "but listen to me.  I'm
a man of many troubles and griefs, and I hope you'll
never see half a quarter the sorrows I have.  Still as the
sparks fly upwards, so you'll have your share and know
what it is to suffer."

"Yes, for certain."

"But don't you ever suppose that we're put here for
nought but suffering and nought but happiness.  I tell
you, Margaret, that suffering and happiness be both
beside the great question."

"We're put here for usefulness," she said, and he
eagerly agreed with her.

"The very word!  Trouble or joy be an accident--always
a matter of chance.  You can see it everywhere.
There's wise and sensible people wading through nought
but trouble and opening their eyes on it at every sun up;
and there's born fools sailing along in nought but fine
weather; and so you get men like me full of doubt and
darkness, because we can't trust our own wisdom; and
fools such as--but I won't name no names--thinking
themselves terrible clever and giving themselves terrible
airs because they suppose their good be a matter of their
own making, instead of simple kind fortune."

"I suppose things come out pretty fair all round in
the long run," she said.  "If you've got money, you
miss childer; if you've got love you miss luck; if you've
got health--"

"As to health, nought matters less than that,"
declared Mr. Shillabeer.

"You speak as one who never had an ache or pain,"
she said.

"Bah!" he answered, "this carcase be less to me than
the bones the crows have plucked beside the way.  I've
reached a high pitch of mind now when I could drive a
red-hot needle through the calf of my leg and care
nought for the pang.  D'you think these things matter
to a man who have been hammered into a heap of bruised,
senseless flesh four different times in his life like what
I have?  'Tis the inner pain that hurts me, and if I
was canker-bitten and racked with every human ill, I'd
laugh at it all, if only my wife had been spared to sit
beside me and hold my hand.  Things ban't fairly
planned here.  You say they are, but it isn't so.  I
know 'tis a common speech on easy tongues, but it won't
stand the test of workaday life.  Happy people may
say it to calm their consciences if they be having an
extra good life, but 'tisn't true, and never was true.
Things ban't fair all round--nothing like it."

"No, they're not," she confessed.  "'Tis just a foolish
parrot speech.  I know they're not fair as well as
you do really."

"Then I go on to my argeyment," said Reuben.
"Granted the Lord, for His own secret ends, ban't
concerned to play fair with us, then, being a just God, He
must let us right the balance and use our own judgment
where we have the power.  If even you--with all your
big share of good luck--allow on second thoughts that
things don't fall fair, how much more must the most of
people feel it so?"

"My luck--" she began, and stopped, but her tone
indicated she was about to demur, and he invited her
to do so.

"There again," he said, "we can only speak what
we see, but what we see ban't always the truth.  The
outside ban't a glass pane to show the inside, but more
often a clever door to hide it.  I say in my haste how
that none ever had more luck to her share than you.
Well, I've no right to say that.  Perhaps I'm wrong."

"In a way, yes.  David, you must know, is a great
man now, and 'tisn't the least of a loving woman's
hardships to see her husband growing great and herself
biding little."

"Good Lord! what a silly point of view!" said he.
"Ban't you bone of his bone and flesh of his flesh?
How the deuce can the man grow great and leave you
behind?"

"I can't explain," she said.  "But 'tis so--off and
on.  Sometimes he catches sight of me in his life, if you
understand, and remembers me, and we have precious
days.  Then again he loses sight of me for a bit.  I tell
you these things, because you be such a big-hearted,
understanding man, Mr. Shillabeer."

"I am," he said.  "'Tis my sole vartue to be so.
But my usefulness is nearly over.  So we come back to
that usefulness we started with."

"Your usefulness ban't ended, I'm very sure."

"'Tis only ourselves know about that.  A thinking
creature, unless he's growing old and weak in the head,
knows very well when his usefulness be coming to an
end.  Old I may be growing, but my mind is clear
enough, and it tells me that my work's pretty nearly
done.  Think if 'twas you, Margaret, and them you
loved best was in heaven, and there come into your mind
the certainty that there was nought to keep you an hour
from them--what would you do?"

"Wait the Lord's time."

"What happens must be in the Lord's time, and
can't fall out in any other time.  But if the thought
comes into your heart to join the dead, ban't it the
Lord as sent the thoughts; and if you do join 'em, can
it be done without the Lord's wish and will?"

"Of course nothing can happen without the Lord
permits, because He's all-powerful and wills nought but
good."

"That's all I want for you to see.  And it follows--don't
it?--that if the still small voice tells me I may go
home, the way be clear?"

"Go home!"

"To the home that's waiting where my woman be.
I'm home-sick for it--terrible home-sick.  And the
thought have come very strong of late that there's
nothing left to bide for.  And a simple thing--such a
simple thing!  'Tis merely putting something between
you and the air of heaven for a brief minute--a drop of
water, or a rope round your throat.  Or, if your nature
goes against that way, you can let the immortal soul
out through a hole--"

His great eyes stared into vacancy, and she gazed
with horrified interest at him.

"To kill yourself!  Oh, dear Mr. Shillabeer, what
are you saying?"

"You may call it killing," he said, "but I don't.  I
call it opening the half-hatch of the door and going
home.  They say self-slaughterers be mad mostly--at
least, so 'tis brought in most times by a crowner's jury
of busy men--men as don't care a button about the job,
but want to get back to their work.  But I tell you 'tis
no mark of weak intellects to do it.  A cowardly deed
it may be sometimes, but a coward isn't daft as a rule.
And now and then 'tis the bravest thing a man can do,
and now and then the wisest."

"Never--never!"

"You wait till you've seen life move into the middle
time, or lost what's better than life.  Keep your own
opinions, but don't grow narrow, and don't tell me that
the still small voice ever whispered a lie to a Christian
man.  Usefulness ended, 'tis our place to seek a new
bit of ground again where we can be useful anew; and
if this world have done with us, who's to say the next
won't be very glad of a new workman?"

"But not to go like that, surely?"

"I tell you the Lord's over all," he answered again
solemnly.  "The Lord chooses the fly for the fish, and
hedge-sparrow for the hawk, and the mouse for the owl.
The Lord comes to me by night, and He says, 'Shillabeer,'
and I say, 'I be listening, Lord.'"

Margaret shivered, yet felt no fear of him.

"And then," he continued, "the Lord says 'They've
done with you, Shillabeer; they want a cheerfuller,
hopefuller pattern of man;' and I say, ''Tis so, Lord; I
read it in their faces.'"

He broke off suddenly and spoke of other things.

"D'you mind when holy words sprang up on the
gates and lintels round about--like corn springs after
rain?  'Twas my work!  You're the first to know it,
and I must ax of you to keep it dark 'till I'm gone to
my reward.  But 'twas my thought and deed.  By
night I'd do it; and of lonely grey evenings; and often
afore the sun was up.  I've walked with God, woman!"

"And much good those texts in the lone places did.
I know they warmed my heart more than once, Mr. Shillabeer."

"Yes, they did a power of good.  I could see that."

"To think you was never found out!"

"The Lord hid me.  'Twas His idea, not mine.
Every idea be the Lord's first; and the cleverest things
we can do be planned out by Him and then slipped into
a man's intellects, like we post a letter or whisper into
a ear."

"But the wicked thoughts?"

"Good men don't get 'em.  Proper-thinking people
don't let 'em in.  Be the God of Hosts going to suffer a
humble, faithful servant like me to be pestered with
Satan's nonsense at my time of life?  Would that be a
fair thing?  If a man ban't done with the Devil when
he's in sight of seventy, 'tis a bad lookout for him.
And God's nearly always been a fair sportsman, you mind."

"Somebody far wiser and cleverer than me ought to
hear about this," she declared.  "I do think and believe
you're terribly wrong."

He shook his great head impatiently.

"No, no.  I'm in the right.  I met Mr. Merle in the
churchyard, when I was sitting beside my wife's bones
a bit ago, and he walked over and had a tell with me;
and I axed him if our inner thoughts come from God--just
to see what he'd say.  He answered that every good
and perfect thought comed from the Father of Gifts.
So there you are.  What is it--this thing driving me to
be gone?  Why, 'tis the voice of Heaven calling me--just
like you yourself might call the cows home off the
moor at milking time."

"You make a terrible mistake."

He held up his hand.

"Say not a word, my dear.  'Tis no better than
speaking against the Master of all flesh to tell me I've
heard wrong.  My wife's in Heaven.  I've got her that
loved me best among the angels at the Throne of Grace.
Belike she's just fretting her spirit with cruel impatience
because I hang fire.  You might think, perhaps, that
there wasn't no great haste, eternity being what it is.
But if you loved your husband like my wife loved me,
you'd know eternity's self was none too long for us to
be together again.  There's only one little thing that
makes me hang back."

"'Tis the Word of God."

"Not a bit.  'Tis the way of man.  I'm very doubtful
of parson Merle--not as a righteous creature before
Heaven; but he's human, and he's a terrible narrow
thinker here and there.  If I take myself off, 'tis so like
as not he'll get some bee in his bonnet and withhold the
burial service or maim it over me, like he did when
Pritchard hung himself.  Not that that would trouble
me very greatly; but supposing that he wouldn't let my
bones go beside hers?  Such a thing happening would
turn me into a wandering ghost till Doom without a doubt."

"Don't give him the chance.  Think a very great
deal about it," she urged.  "You may be all wrong in
your opinions, dear Mr. Shillabeer, and right well I know
you are.  Perhaps, if you was to pray about it to Christ,
He'd show you how awful mistaken you was.  And as
for usefulness, there's no more useful and well thought
on man among us."

"I've done my duty, and my duty's done," he said.

"Promise me not to do anything till you've talked
to me again," she urged.  "At least you might do that.
I knew your wife, and she loved me."

"Yes, my wife was very fond of you when you was
a child," he said.  "I'll do your bidding that far then.
You speak what be put into you to speak, no doubt.
Now I look at you, there's sense as well as sadness in
your face.  I hope the sense will bide and the sadness
lift in God's good time."

The old man departed, and that night Margaret told
David of all that she had heard and the condition of
Reuben Shillabeer's mind.  He took the matter very
seriously and resolved to be busy on the sufferer's behalf.

"I can ill spare the time," he said.  "But for a
neighbour in such a fix our own affairs must be put
aside.  I'll go to doctor at Tavistock to-morrow the
first thing.  He's a rare sportsman and a very keen man.
'Twas him that stood referee in the fight.  'Tis time he
took the poor old chap in hand; and Shillabeer's got
high respect for him and will trust him I hope, if he
goes about his work clever."

David was not surprised to hear the secret of the texts.

"As a matter of fact amongst a few of us--my father
and me and others--'twas an open secret," he said.
"Father himself first guessed it.  But we didn't say a
word for fear of vexing poor old 'Dumpling.'  'Twas
a harmless thing, and very likely it did good now and
again."





.. vspace:: 4

.. _`THIRD TIME OF ASKING`:

.. class:: center large bold

   CHAPTER X


.. class:: center medium bold

   THIRD TIME OF ASKING

.. vspace:: 2

The circumstances and necessities of Bartley
Crocker's wooing were peculiar, because one-sided.
Rhoda naturally never assisted him; indeed, many
carefully laid plans for meeting were consciously frustrated
by her when she chanced to learn them.  At last,
however, thanks to Margaret's aid, opportunity fell for a
final proposal, and Bartley used it to the best of his
power.  A day came when David drove Madge over
to Tavistock to look at certain houses, and Rhoda
stopped at home.

Her own plans began to be very doubtful now, and
choice lay before her of returning to her father or
continuing to live with David.  Her love had made light
even of Tavistock; but, in a town, Rhoda's occupation
would be gone: at such a place she must cease to justify
existence.  Her greatest sorrow was reached at thought
of living away from David; and a second emotion, only
less disturbing, made decision doubly difficult.  The
apparent complications and secrets of her sister-in-law's
life had first alarmed Rhoda, and now they
angered her.  She read the facts in the light of her
own wisdom, and her wisdom led her wide of the mark.
She believed that Crocker was using alleged love of her
as a pretence and excuse for very different affection.
Some such dim thought had long haunted her, and it
remained for Dorcas and her brutal speeches to
convince Rhoda that she did Margaret no wrong by the
suspicion.  In sober truth Rhoda had felt shame upon
herself when first the fear arose; but then came her
hidden watches, the spectacle of familiar meetings and
the vigorous word of Mrs. Screech.  She knew that
Dorcas loved Madge and had not spoken to injure
David's wife.  Her sister, indeed, evidently approved;
and the circumstance convinced Rhoda that her opinion
of Dorcas was correct.

And now, upon restless loneliness, came Crocker
knowing that he would find her alone.  He sneered at
himself for a fool as he knocked at the door of 'Meavy
Cot'; but he had sworn to ask her thrice and would not
go from his word, though the vanity of troubling her
a third time was very clear to him.

After noon on a late autumn day did Bartley call,
and Rhoda, not guessing who it was that knocked, but
thinking it to be one of her brothers, who was due
from Ditsworthy, cried out, "Come in!"

She was eating her dinner of a baked potato, bread,
cold mutton, and a glass of water; and she leapt up as
Mr. Crocker appeared.

"Go on," he said.  "Please go on--or I'll walk
about outside till you've finished, if you'd rather I
did."

"I thought 'twas my brother," she said.  "I've done
my food.  David's not at home, if you want him."

"I know," he answered.  "I've come to see the only
one who was at home; and that's yourself."

She stood by the table.  Her mind moved swiftly.
She sought to find some advantage in this meeting; but
she could not think what to say.  David was her sole
thought, and how best to serve him she knew not.

"It's a long time since I had a chance to speak to
you," said the visitor, "and I'm afraid, from your
looks, you wouldn't have given me the chance even now
if you hadn't been caught and cornered.  But there's
no need for you to grudge ten minutes of talk.  'Twill
be the last time--unless there's a glimmer of another
sort of feeling in you."

Her way of escape seemed to lie through this man's
departure alone.  She hated every tone of his voice and
wished that he was dead.

"If you're going out of it, 'twill be by the blessing
of God for all in this house," she answered.

He started and his colour changed to pale.

"A glimmer of another sort of feeling with a
vengeance!" he said.  "But not the sort I was still
fond fool enough to hope for.  You shall talk, since
you're so fired to do it, and I'll listen.  Yes, I'm going.
And you won't come?"

Her silence spoke scornfully.

"Well," he continued, "I'm paid what I deserve, I
suppose: I've made you loathe me instead of love me.
It's bad luck, for I've felt for three years--however,
such queer things often happen."

"You never loved a woman like a decent man, for
'tisn't in you to do it," she said.  "You think you hide
yourself; but you don't.  You're evil all through, and
the touch of you is evil."

"Why do you say these harsh things?  What have I
done but court you like an honest man and a patient
one?"

"Ask yourself--not me.  Ask yourself what you've
been doing, and plotting, and amusing yourself about
of late.  Ask yourself who 'tis you meet in this place
and that!"

"Well, I never!  So you've been interested in me
all the time!  Interested enough to care what I was
doing and thinking about.  By all right understanding
that ought to mean you cared a bit for me.  Women
don't spy on a man, save for love or hate.  And hate
me you can't without a cause, though you speak and
look as if you did.  If I thought you were jealous--but
that's too good to be true.  Who is it?  Out with
it.'  At least I've a right to know who 'tis that I meet
so secret while you peep at us."

He bantered her and cared little that she grew
rosy and furious; for he knew it was all over now
and that they would probably never speak together
again.

"You ask that and pretend--and pretend!" she
burst out.  "As if it might be a score of women!  But
I know, and 'twasn't for love nor yet hate that I
watched you--not for love of you or her anyway."

"Come now--no puzzles!  Then I'm after another
man's sweetheart on the quiet.  Is that it?  Well, who
is she?  I've a right to know in the face of such a
charge."

"You're after another man's wife," she said, and
faced him without flinching.  But still he laughed.

"You maidens!  What hen dragons of virtue you
are, to be sure.  'Another man's wife'--eh?  Then no
wonder you look a thought awry at me.  Poor fellow!
He's terribly wronged, to be sure.  Have you told him
what I'm doing?  Or are you in love with this other
chap?"

"Go," she said furiously.  "You know the truth in
your wicked heart, and I know it, and it's devilish in
you to take it like this.  I'll suffer no more of you; I'll
never breathe the same air with you no more;--and
them I care about shan't, if I can help it.  You ought
to be torn in a thousand pieces by honest men and
women--vile thing that you are!"

He sat down calmly and patted a dog that rose from
the hearth and growled at him in some uneasiness before
Rhoda's fury.

"Can't leave you like this--must understand what
you're driving at," he declared.

"Then I'll go," she said.  "What do you take me
for?  Have you sunk so low that you don't know a
clean-minded creature when you meet one?  I'm not a
fool, and I am not blind; and I've seen too well what's
been doing of late; therefore I warn you to be gone
afore the storm is let loose on you."

"No fear of missing the storm while you're about.
And off I shall be ere long now.  There's nothing more
to keep me, since you've gone out of your wits.  All the
same, I believe you've thrust yourself under the law for
such talk as this.  To tell me I'm going wrong with a
married woman!  Damn it all, Rhoda, what nasty
thoughts have crept into your head?  Why don't you
name her and have done with it?  'Tis bad enough to
know you hate me; but hear this: May the Almighty
find and finish me where I sit if--"

"Don't!" she cried out.  "Don't take His name
here and belike leave your stricken dust rooted in that
chair for me to watch till others come!  I'll hear no
oath and I'll name no names.  I know you--I've seen
it--I've heard it--heard it from another as quick to do
evil as ever you was."

"By God, this is too bad!" he cried, leaping up.
"You--you to accuse me of loose conduct and wrong-doing!
Look to your eyes that have seen what never
happened; and your ears that have listened to lies; and
your tongue too--your tongue that can talk thus to a
man who loved you truly and uprightly and has kept as
straight as yourself from the day he loved you and
longed for you!  You can't love me and I don't blame
you there.  You can't love me; but is that a just reason
why you should lie about me?  See to yourself, Rhoda,
and you'll find a bitter weed in your own heart that's
better out and away.  And threaten no more neither.
You may drag me as deep as you please through the dirt
that's got into your mind--God help you; but don't
drag some innocent woman through it.  Anyway, you'll
never see my face again--spy as you may--for I shall
be gone for good in a month or two."

She did not answer and he abruptly left her.  He
was very angry, very startled, and very shocked that
she could believe and repeat such a monstrous error.
He cast about for some ground in reason, and examined
his life.  He could only think of the meetings with
Margaret Bowden; but that these were actually what
Rhoda referred to did not even occur to him.  He had,
as a matter of fact, travelled recently as far as
Plymouth with a woman, but she was Rhoda's own widowed
sister from Ditsworthy, and it seemed impossible that
she could refer to her.

He puzzled to know what this assault might mean;
but apart from these unexpected circumstances attending
her refusal, the final negative was all that mattered.
That she believed him a libertine soon ceased to trouble
Hartley.  His anger swiftly vanished before the
immediate interest of the future.  Nothing remained but
to follow his previous plans and depart.  He had only
waited for Rhoda and now the coast was clear.  Before
he reached home, he had finally determined to leave
England early in the new year.





.. vspace:: 4

.. _`BAD NEWS OF MR. BOWDEN`:

.. class:: center large bold

   CHAPTER XI


.. class:: center medium bold

   BAD NEWS OF MR. BOWDEN

.. vspace:: 2

Mrs. Stanbury's habit of mind died hard,
even after the truth concerning the Voice at
Crazywell had been impressed upon her.  Slowly she
appreciated the great fact that neither her husband nor
her son might longer be considered as under sentence
of death; but often still she woke in fear or rose in
gloom, while yet her mind retained only the past terror
and forgot the more recent joy.  Billy Screech had
explained to Bartley; and since Bartley was of opinion
that no real blame attached to anybody, and that the
plot was perfectly reasonable in its original purpose--all
things being fair in love--the matter soon blew over.
Bart, indeed, declared that Mattacott and Billy ought
to pay the doctor's bill for his mother; but they were
not of his mind, and Mr. Stanbury, who, despite stout
assurances of indifference, felt really much relieved
when the truth appeared, very gladly met this charge.
The immediate result of the event was a decision on the
part of Jane West.  Bart, having safely emerged from
these supernatural threats of extinction, found her in
the most oncoming spirit, and they were now definitely
engaged to be married.

With the turn of another year this fact became
generally known, and there fell a Sunday in late January
when the party from 'Meavy Cot' visited Coombeshead
and assisted at a formal meal given in honour of Bart's
betrothed.

David made efforts to rouse his mother-in-law from
her invincible distrust--both of herself and her blood in
the veins of the next generation.  They talked apart
after the meal, and she, as her custom was, doubted her
son's ability to fight the world successfully for a wife
and possible children.

"A very good son, I can assure you--never a better.
But whether he'll prove a husband of any account, I'm
sure I couldn't say," she murmured.

"Of course he will," answered the other.  "You
don't know what a clever chap Bart is.  Jane's a very
lucky woman; and she knows it well enough, and her
family know it well enough, even if you don't."

It was an amiable fiction with Margaret's husband
that she was largely responsible for his success in life.
He often solemnly declared that but for her at the helm,
he should never have prospered as was the case, and
certainly never have won the great prize at Tavistock.
This statement he would make repeatedly, despite his
wife's protests and Rhoda's silences.  He made it now
to Mrs. Stanbury.

"Look at Madge," he said.  "If she's such a
splendid wife, why are you afeared that Bart won't be a
splendid husband?  Madge took after you; Bart takes
after his father.  Why, where should I be if it wasn't
for Madge?  Not where I stand, I can tell you.  She's
the corner-stone of the house, and always has been, and
always will be.  You ought to believe what people tell
you about your children."

"'Tis very well to know you think so," she admitted;
"all the same, a mother's eye can't overlook the
defects."

"Not in your case, seemingly; but 'tis just what a
mother's eye be cleverest at doing as a rule,"
declared he.

"'Tis no good pretending with yourself, as you do,"
she answered.  "You think our Madge have helped you
to greatness, and if love and worship could bring you
up top, you'd be right.  But it can't.  You was too
strong and steady a man to want any woman's help."

"No, no--never was such a man as that," her
son-in-law answered, and firmly believed it.  "Madge has
helped me to take big views," he continued.  "Why,
there's no work that we do can taste so good as the
work we do for other people.  Your daughter teached
me that."

The afternoon advanced and Margaret entered the
parlour to say that tea was ready in the kitchen.

Bart and Jane comported themselves with high indifference
under the ordeal of this entertainment.  They
had accepted the good wishes and the chaff; they had
eaten heartily and departed together as soon as dinner
was done.

"They won't be back for tea.  They don't want no
tea," declared Mr. Stanbury.  "Why, they've even got
to naming the day!  'Twill be Martin West's turn to
find the spread and give the party this time; and if he
does all I did for you and Madge, David, I shall be
surprised--though he's a richer man than me by a good
few pound, I warrant you."

Talk ran on the new romance; then Rhoda reminded
David that a Princetown man was to see him that
evening within an hour from the present time.  He rose at
once and prepared to depart.  But Margaret did not
accompany him.

"I shan't be back afore supper," she said.  "Bartley
Crocker's coming up presently.  He won't see my
father and mother no more, for his time is getting
short.  So I shall bide here till he's been and gone."

"He's so dark about dates," declared David.  "We
all want to give him a bit of a dinner at 'The Corner
House'--a real good send-off; and there's a little
subscription started to get the man a remembrance.  But
he's not in very good spirits now the time's so near;
and he rather wants to escape without any fuss.
However, if you have the chance, try and find out exactly
when he's going, Madge.  He'll tell you the secret.
The date is fixed, I expect.  Try and worm it out of
him; and fetch him along to supper, if he'll come."

She promised and David departed with Rhoda.

Bartley Crocker appeared in the valley as they went
their way; and he saw them going, but they did not
see him.

His sister's affairs now largely occupied young
Bowden's mind, because the future, from her standpoint,
was difficult.  He, however, did not quite
comprehend the moody and irritable spirit which Rhoda
had of late developed.  It fell out, indeed, that this
taciturnity and self-absorption caused David first
uneasiness and then mild annoyance.  Rhoda had ceased
to be herself.  She was not interested in the future.
She spoke of going out of his life.  She showed no
enthusiasm in any direction, and her attitude to
Margaret he had secretly resented on several occasions.
He deplored it to Margaret herself, but she had begged
him not to think of it again, and declared it a matter
of no account.  She could afford to be large-minded
now, for she believed that Rhoda would soon be gone
from her home for ever.  As for David, he supposed
this unsettled and cloudy weather of his sister's mind
to be caused entirely by the forthcoming great upheaval
in her life, and the extreme difficulty of deciding on a
plan of action.  That she had finally refused Crocker
and determined to stop in England, he knew; but
whether she intended to accompany him and Madge to
Tavistock, or return to Ditsworthy, he did not know.
None knew--not even the woman herself.  Her brother
attributed Rhoda's darkness to the trouble of decision;
yet it surprised him that she should find decision so
difficult.  She was one who usually made up her mind
with swiftness and seldom departed from a first
resolution.  But, for once, she appeared unequal to the task
of concluding upon any form of action.  The truth of
Rhoda's difficulties he could not know; and in his
ignorance he revealed a little impatience.  Observing this
disquiet, she believed that the time had at last come to
speak.  She knew the danger and perceived that the one
thing she cared for in life--her brother's regard--might
be imperilled by such a step; but as he, in his
turn, now began openly to resent her implicit attitude
to Margaret, some decisive action was called for.

And Rhoda upon that homeward walk proposed to
speak, to put her discomfort and fear before him, and
to trust his affection and wisdom to tide them all over
a terrible difficulty.  What might have fallen out had
she done so cannot be estimated.  In the result she
never spoke, for there fell an interruption and she was
still casting about for the first word, when her brother,
Napoleon, rode up on a pony.  He had come from
Ditsworthy to 'Meavy Cot,' and his attire marked
some haste, for he wore his Sunday coat and waistcoat,
but had taken off his trousers and substituted workday
garments of corduroy.

"Just been to your place," he shouted as he
approached them.  "Farther was took bad in the night,
and he's a lot worse to-day and reckons he may die of it.
And Joshua's gone for doctor, and mother's in a proper
tantara.  And faither wants for you and Rhoda to
come up this moment."

For an instant they stood, aghast and smitten.

"What's took him?" asked David.

"His breathing, and he's all afire and can't let down
a morsel of food.  You'd better get on this pony and
go right up along, David."

"I suppose I had.  Chap from Princetown will have
his walk for his pains; but it can't be helped."

Napoleon dismounted and David took his place.
"You'll come on, you two, after me," he said.  "Best
to go across through Dennycoombe wood.  Please God,
'tis of no account.  Faither's so strong and never
knoweth ache or pain; therefore what may be a small
thing would seem worse to him than it really is."

He started and then turned back again.

"When you pass Coombeshead, just run in, Nap, and
tell Margaret what's happened.  I may be back home
to-night, or I may not be.  And bid her remember the
calves."

"I shall be back for that," said Rhoda.  "I shall
go back to-night in any case."

"All right then," concluded David.  Then he
galloped off and soon disappeared.

His sister and the boy tramped without speech
together until, glowing like the bright fur of a wolf all
grey and russet, Dennycoombe wood rose before them,
flung on the distant side of Sheep's Tor in evening
light.

"I'll wait for you by the gate yonder," said Rhoda.
"Your nearest way from here be to the left.  Don't
you stop talking, mind: you may be useful up at home.
Just tell Madge what's fallen out and then come after me."

"I can travel twice so fast as you," answered the
boy.  "No call for you to wait.  I'll over-get you long
afore 'tis dark."

He left her and she went forward, passed under Down
Tor, crossed the stream and skirted the great wood
beyond.  She reached the gate and stopped for her
brother as she had promised: but he did not come, and
presently she went her way through the edge of the
trees.  Then suddenly, going on silent feet, she heard
voices at hand.  A great stone towered there and in a
moment she understood that her sister-in-law and
Bartley Crocker were on one side of it, and knew not that
she was upon the other.  She guessed that the man had
taken leave of the party at Coombeshead Farm and that
Margaret had departed with him.

This indeed had happened.  Bartley made but a
short stay at the Stanburys' and Madge left when he
did.  They were now sitting together and talking.

Rhoda listened but could not hear more than a chance
word intermittently.

"Your husband wanted to give me a spread and a
send-off in the old-fashioned way, but, somehow, I've no
stomach for any such thing just at present," declared
Mr. Crocker.

"'Tis natural you shouldn't have."

"I shall write to David.  I can't stand all these
good-byes, and all the leave-taking business."

"'Tis crushing to think you're so nearly gone."

"But mind you keep the secret of the day and tell
none, Madge--till I'm off.  Those I care for shall hear
from me--t'others don't matter.  There's nothing left
to keep me but you, and I can't make you happier by
staying."

"Don't say that."

"Not really I can't.  We're beginning new lives in
new places--you and me."

"So we are in a way."

"What does Rhoda do?"

"She can't make up her mind seemingly.  She's very sad."

"She's very mad, if you ask me.  I wish to God some
man could find how to sweeten her mind.  And you're
sad because she is.  I knew it the moment I heard your
voice half an hour ago."

"'Tis wonderful to think how you can always tell by
my tone of voice how 'tis with me!  But then there's
nobody like you for understanding us women.  You'd
have made a rare husband for the right one, Bartley."

"Yes; and the right one--well, perhaps I'll find her
over the water.  'Tis the day after to-morrow I go.
I sail off from Plymouth, so that's all easy and
straight-forward."

"Be the *Shamrock* a good big ship?"

"Big enough for my fortunes."

"We must see one another once more, Bartley."

"Of course we must, Madge."

They moved forward as they spoke, and Rhoda saw
Bartley kiss Margaret and observed that her sister-in-law
was weeping.  Then came hasty feet and Napoleon
appeared.  He shouted from a distance.

"She ban't there!  She's gone!  I waited a bit and
had a dollop of figgy pudden and told 'em the bad news
about faither."

"Hullo!" said Bartley to Rhoda.  "You!"  He
looked blankly at her, but she ignored him and turned
to Margaret.  Hate was in her voice.  She spoke
quickly and waited for no reply, then moved on with
her brother.

"Napoleon have been to seek you at your father's
farm, Margaret Bowden, but you was better employed
seemingly.  My father is took very ill indeed, and your
husband be gone up over to him.  You'd best get home--if
you can spare the time to think of your home.  I
shall be back by night, but David may not be able to
come."

She swept on her way and left them staring at each
other.  Margaret was dishevelled and the shock of this
meeting had dried her tears.

"Good Lord! that's bad luck.  She saw me kiss you,
I'll swear," murmured Bartley.  "And now she'll
believe there's another married woman in the case!  Will
she tell David?"

"What if she does?  I'll tell him myself.  D'you
think he'd care?"

"Shall I go after her and explain?"

"No," she answered.  "Let her be."

"It's time I was off anyhow.  But poor old Elias!
'Very ill indeed,' she said.  I hope he's not booked.
Can't think of Ditsworthy without him."

They talked a little longer and Mr. Crocker was glad
that there had come distraction for Margaret's mind.
She deeply felt parting from him, for he had bulked
largely in her life, and he too had enjoyed her loyal
friendship and owed her much, though her labours on
his behalf were all fruitless.  But now the moment was
come in which they must part; and he knew that the
parting was probably eternal.  He did not, however,
intend that she should know it.  He lied glibly about
coming over to 'Meavy Cot' on the following day; then
he talked of other matters, and then, when they had
drifted down to Nosworthy bridge, pretended to be
amazed at the time.

"I must be pushing back in a hurry.  My boxes go
off first thing to-morrow.  And I daresay I shall get
up to Ditsworthy after dark and may have a tell with
David there.  But if Rhoda has already told him she
saw me kissing you--!"

"He'd laugh.  He's not the sort to mind that between
me and you."

"I know he isn't.  I was only joking."

She revealed extreme solicitude for his future.

"You'll take all care of yourself wherever you be;
and you've promised, on your word of honour, to come
home and see old friends inside five year."

"On my word of honour.  And you've got to write,
and keep me up in the news, and tell me all about the
house at Tavistock and everywhere else that's interesting."

He shook hands and moved off quickly, while she,
too, went on her way.  But, when her back was turned,
he stood still and took his last look; for, despite promises,
the man had no intention to see her again.  His ship
was to start after noon on the following day, and he
meant to leave Sheepstor at dawn of the morrow.

Now Margaret swiftly faded into the dusk, and he
went forward, subdued and as melancholy as his spirit
allowed.

"So good and brave a woman as ever walked this
earth," he said to himself.  "God send me such
another; but 'tis hardly likely."

For her sake he made time that night to go to Ditsworthy
and speak with David; and the following evening--at
the hour in which he had promised to visit 'Meavy
Cot' for a final farewell--he was aboard and watching
Devon fade swiftly along the edge of the sea.  A shadow
lay above the grey, rolling ridges; and then that shadow
sank out of his eyes for ever.

But Bartley Crocker belonged to the order of lighter
spirits who can close the book of their past without a
pang; and he did so now.





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.. _`RHODA AND MARGARET`:

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   CHAPTER XII


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   RHODA AND MARGARET

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When Rhoda returned from Ditsworthy, she
stated briefly that a doctor had seen Mr. Bowden
and declared there was no immediate cause for
uneasiness.  David, however, proposed to stop for the
night and help his mother.

The women supped silently--each angered with the
other; and then happened that which loosed the flood-gates
of Rhoda's passion and precipitated a deed which,
since the recent meeting in the wood, she had strongly
considered.  She had changed her mind with regard to
David; and now, instead, it had come to her as a
reasonable thing to attack Margaret directly.  But she
hesitated to do so until the latter unconsciously provoked
her.  Rhoda had not spoken to David of the meeting
with Madge and Bartley Crocker; but now David's wife
returned to the subject and awoke anger in Rhoda, so
that she lost self-control and spilled out all the bitterness
of her mind.

"Since your father's not in danger, one has time for
one's own thoughts again," said Madge, "and they are
dark enough for the minute.  You looked terrible
surprised in Dennycoombe wood a bit ago, and you was
terrible rude to me; but why for I don't know.  You
puzzle me sometimes, Rhoda.  Can't you even feel
that 'tis sad the man who loved you so well be going so
far ways off?"

"The sooner the better."

"You're heartless, I do believe."

"You make up for it, if I am."

"I suppose you're shocked because I kissed him.  Did
you tell David?  I lay he didn't pull a very long face
about it.  But what's come over me?  To think of me
talking in this loud, wild way!  Forgive me, Rhoda.  I
meant nothing.  You can't help being what you are,
and feeling what you feel, any more than I can.  I'm
not myself to-night.  I shall miss him cruel, and I don't
care who knows it."

The other kept silence.  Her colour had gone and
her breast was rising and falling rapidly.  Anger put a
strain on her lungs and called for air.

"Oh, Rhoda," cried Madge feebly, "why didn't you
take him?  Nobody will ever love you like that again;
and nobody will ever understand you so well as Bartley
did.  You were a fool--a fool not to take him.  Now
look at it--your life all useless and nowhere to turn,
unless you come to Tavistock with us.  Think better of
it even now.  Go to him to-morrow; keep him here afore
'tis too late and he's gone."

Then the other rose to her feet, and spoke slowly,
and crushed the slighter creature for ever.

"So you've sunk to that!  You can dare to sit there
and say that openly to me.  I'm to marry him--I'm to
drag myself through the dirt of that man's life, so that
you can have him always at your elbow!!"

Margaret stared, and in her turn grew pale.

"What are you saying or thinking?" she cried.
"Are you out of your mind?"

"If I am, I've had enough to make me.  But I'm
sane enough--for my brother's sake.  I've kept sane
all these cruel, cursed months, while you've gone your
way, and forgotten yourself, and disgraced his name.
Hear me, I say!  Don't you shout, for I can shout
louder than you.  What I tell be God's truth; and if
you don't confess it, I'll do it for you.  D'you think I
don't know what men are?  Nine in ten be of the same
beastly pattern; and this man's the worst of all, for he's
a liar and a thief, and he came to me with his false tales,
but his mind was always running on you; and he came
to David and pretended to be his friend and--and--"

She caught her breath and Margaret spoke swiftly.

"What do you accuse me of?"

"I accuse you of being unfaithful and untrue to my
brother; and right well you know it is so.  I've
watched--I know--and I'm not the only one.  My sister
Dorcas--clever enough in evil she be--she knows it too.
And belike a many others among that knave's friends,
for he's the sort to rob a woman of her all, and then
laugh to men about it.  Maybe all the world knows it
but David's self.  I say you've sinned against my
brother, and I say he must know it--now--now--afore
he begins at Tavistock.  And, please God, he'll put you
away from him, and choose rather to live his life maimed
alone, than with a foul wretch like you under his roof."

"These are hideous lies--you're dreaming--you're
mad to say such things.  You--you to come to an
honest wife with this filthy story!  'Tis you shall be
cast out--'tis you.--Oh, my God! to think that I should
hear such words uttered against me by another woman!"

Madge's brief flash of fight died even as she spoke.
She was not fashioned to carry the battle with a high
hand.  She began to think of her husband.

"You shall say this to David and see where you find
yourself," she continued.  "Is not a man's wife nearer
to him than a sister?  Will he believe you rather than
me?  Will he believe Dorcas rather than Bartley
Crocker himself?  That you--you, Rhoda, of all
women, could sting me so!  That you--you we thought so
pure and clean as newly-fallen snow--could invent such a
thing!  That you, who know me so well and my love and
worship of David....  Oh, Rhoda, I'm sorry for you!"

"Be sorry for yourself.  Well--and too well--I
know you.  I had to spy.  I ban't ashamed of it.
There was nothing else but to tell him and let him spy.
And I couldn't do that till I knew.  'Tis all of a
piece--all clear to any human mind--foul or fair.  God
judge me if I was quick to think evil.  I was slow to do
it.  I fought not to believe it.  I tried heart and soul
not to see it.  But you took good care I should see it.
Wasn't you always after him?  Didn't you meet him in
secret places scores of times?  How could I not see?
And him coming to me; and you pretending to want me
to take him.  Yet 'twas no pretence neither, for 'twould
have suited you both well enough.  And David, working
day and night, and trusting you, and always ready at
a word to pleasure you.  That proud of you and
hungry for your happiness--  But it's ended now.  It
ended to-day when I saw you in the wood.  Not that
I've not seen you kissing him afore--fawning on his
hand, by God!  I've watched--yes--and seen enough
to know all I didn't see.  And he's going to know it
too--David.  He's got to know for his own honour's sake,
and he shall."

"Will he believe it?  Never!  May God strike me here
afore you, and kill me slow the awfullest way that ever
woman died, if by thought or deed I've been false to him."

"Ah!  Even so the man talked, and he's alive yet.
But the A'mighty won't forget either of you.  You add
lies to lies as he did.  But I know they're lies.  You
needn't talk as if I was a fool; I know him well
enough--none better.  Did such as him--lecherous-minded
beast that he was--dance about in lonely woods and
secret places with you for nothing?  If an angel from
heaven told me you was honest I'd not believe it.  And
I'm stronger than you think--stronger far than
you--with David, I mean.  He knows I'm single-minded,
anyway.  He knows I've got no thought or hope in the
whole world except his good.  He knows right well that
I've been a kind sister to you, and never done anything
but strive for your happiness as well as his.  Till
now--till now.  And he'll believe me; for he knows that I
couldn't lie if I was tortured for speaking the truth.
And I am tortured--tortured as never a woman was
tortured yet.  But he's got to hear it; and he shall hear
it afore that man goes.  And, as for you, whether he
believes me or you, God's my eternal judge but I'll never
ope my mouth to you again as long as I live."

She said no more and went up to her room.  Margaret
waited a while and then followed her; but Rhoda's door
was locked and she refused to answer when the other
spoke.

Then the wife descended and sat with companionship
of her thoughts.  She lived through many hours of
poignant grief.  Again and again she fell away
stricken by her own heart; but she returned as often
to the theme; she strove to pierce the problem and see
what her sister-in-law could mean.  How was it possible
that such transparent innocence as Margaret's could
from any standpoint look so vile?  The bitterest enemy
was powerless to throw one shadow over her friendship
with Bartley Crocker; and yet here was her brother's
sister frenzied with this fearful idea, and speaking of it
as a fact proved beyond question.  Rhoda believed in it as
surely as she believed in her own life.  She was prepared
to stake her future and David's love for her upon it.
She was going to separate Margaret from David, or
herself from David, forever.  One or other event must
inevitably happen.

A thousand plans of action rushed through the wife's
brain, and their number defeated their varied purposes.
Her native timidity served her ill now.  She did nothing
but sit and think and reconstruct the past.  She
remembered all the meetings with Bartley and their many
plots and plans to win Rhoda for him.  She recollected
the most intimate conversations, when her nature or his
formed the subject of their speech.  She had once kissed
his hand in a sudden impulse, when he announced the
means to cure her mother.  But she did not recall a
single perilous or dangerous pass between them; for
indeed no such thing had ever existed.  Their regard
was based on close and lifelong understanding and
friendship.  There never had been a reciprocal passage
of passion, even in the days of her freedom.  Her
regard was the regard of an ordinary woman for her
favourite brother--an affection absolutely untinged by
any conscious sexual emotion whatsoever.  Even at
that, she had not loved him as Rhoda loved David.  She
was not cast in the great mould of Rhoda--great if
unfinished.

At waste of night she began to perceive that she
could be no match for Rhoda.  Her instinct of
self-preservation inclined her first to David, then to Bartley,
and then to her father's home.  She determined at last
to rest until day, and sought her bed.  She lighted a
match in the dark after a sleepless hour.  It went out
before she could reach a candle, and she was struck by
the trivial phenomenon that, long after the match was
extinguished, its light shone in her eyeballs and throbbed
in the gloom like fiery rings until the impression
waned.  She rose an hour before dawn and dressed and
descended.  Then she went out and breathed the chill
morning wind.  As yet it was quite dark.  Looking
up, she saw that a candle burned in Rhoda's room.
Some subtle psychological instinct crushed her spirit
before the spectacle of that woman's steadfast and
unsleeping watch.  An impulse to get away from Rhoda
overpowered Margaret.  She returned, fetched her
sun-bonnet, and hastened off without any fixed purpose of
destination.

When David's sister came down before six o'clock,
the house was empty.  She, too, had passed through
storms; she also had faltered at the hour when life's
pulses beat lowest and midnight sets its dead weight
upon human hearts.  She had longed to rise and get
into the air; but she was determined not to lose sight
of Margaret until David came home.  Yet for a time
she had lost consciousness and slept awhile at edge of
dawn.  And during those fitful slumbers, Margaret had
departed.

The day found Rhoda assured of her own action,
though the result of it she could not foretell; but thus
to have thrust matters upon their climax was a relief
to her, and she felt only interested further to learn the
extent of David's future sufferings and her power to
lessen them.

That Margaret had disappeared did not much astonish
her.  She doubted not that her sister-in-law was
gone to have the first speech with David.  Rhoda
reviewed her own knowledge of facts and prepared her
own statement.  She perceived that she herself must
come vilely out of it, as a spy and informer; but she
kept her intentions and object in view, and believed that,
suffer as he must, David would not lose sight of her
motives.  Her only desire was that her brother's home
might be cleansed--at any cost to its inhabitants.  She
thirsted to speak to David and hear his voice.

Yet, when she saw him coming alone through the
morning, her thoughts flashed along another train, and
she held her peace until a more fitting time for speech.
And this she did because she guessed that something
vital had happened to Margaret--something which must
justify her attitude and sweep away the last shadow
of doubt.

Then her brother surprised her mightily; for, when
she told him that Margaret had gone from the house
before daylight, he seemed but little astonished to
hear it.





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.. _`THE SEARCH`:

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   CHAPTER XIII


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   THE SEARCH

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More for thought of Margaret than the sick
master of Ditsworthy, had Crocker climbed to
the Warren House upon his last evening at Sheepstor.
He asked to see David, spent half an hour with him, and
spoke explicitly of Rhoda, of his final failure to win her,
and of the attitude that she had adopted towards him
during that interview.

"God knows I wish her nought but good," he said;
"and first and best that her mind should be cleansed of
things she's heard from some unknown enemy and
believes against me.  She's got it in her head that I'm a
worthless blackguard, born to make trouble.  When she
met me with your wife in Dennycoombe wood, a few
hours since, she spoke as if I'd no business to be talking
to Margaret.  I say this for Margaret's sake; because,
before saying 'good-bye,' I kissed Margaret, and your
sister saw me do so, and went white with passion.
There's that about kissing she can't forgive or forget,
seemingly.  But I'm off to-morrow and don't want to
leave any trouble behind me."

David nodded.

"You must allow for Rhoda.  She's terrible fretted
and has got a deal on her mind just now," he said.

"That's true enough; and she's often right; and
I'm a fashion of man not worthy to name in the same
breath with her.  I only mention these things for your
sake and Margaret's.  Your sister is cruelly wrong
about me, anyway, and maybe time will show her so.
Only she mustn't be wrong about Madge.  Me and
Madge did very often meet, and even in secret, if you
like.  But why?  Not to hide anything from anybody
but Rhoda herself.  Madge was very wishful for me to
have Rhoda, and again and again we planned and
plotted together what she could do, and what I could
do, to bring it about.  You understand that?"

"Why, yes; Margaret always told me about it of course."

"But perhaps Rhoda didn't see what we wanted to
be together for behind her back.  A stupid muddle
sure enough, and nothing but Madge wanting to do her
and me a good turn was the cause of it.  You clear her
mind for her the first minute you can, David.  And if
she's had a row with Margaret, make 'em be friends
again.  Only you can do it."

Thus he spoke, and the other saw all clearly.

"Rhoda's been unlike herself a good while," he
answered.  "And now I begin to see daylight.  Of course,
if she had some wild, silly fancies against you, and
people have been telling her that you're not straight, she
may have been vexed and anxious that you saw so much
of my wife.  For my sake she'd have felt so.  But why
she should have believed anything against you, or who
spoke against you--that I can't say.  However, your
character is safe with me.  I'll soon have it out and let
loose some common sense into her brains.  You must
allow a bit for unmarried girls like her.  They can't
see life whole, and they get wrong opinions about men's
minds.  She's wise as need be every other way; but
where men and women combined are the matter, she
never can take proper views.  She's jealous for me
without a doubt--maybe because I was never known to be
jealous for myself: too busy for that.  And why should
I be with a wife like mine?"

"You may well ask it.  Madge would rather die than
think an evil thought, let alone do an evil deed, against
you.  As for Rhoda--she beats me.  Most of the
man-hating sort be ugly and a bit hard at the angles; but
she--she's as pretty as any wife you ever saw in the
world.  The Lord may send her a husband yet!  And
mind you let me know if it happens, for I'd like to give
her a wedding present worth having."

They parted then.

"Well, good luck to you," said the elder; "and don't
forget to let us home-staying chaps have a sight of
you again presently, when a few years be past and
you've started on your fortune."

"And all good wishes to you, David; and, for a last
kindness, I'll ask you to get Madge to see my Aunt
Susan Saunders sometimes and cheer her up.  She badly
wanted for me to take her along to Canada--poor old
lady; but of course I couldn't do that--such a wanderer
as I shall be till I find that place that pleases me."

Thus it came about that when David returned to his
home and heard that Madge was not there, he felt no
intense astonishment.  He doubted not that sharp words
had passed and that his wife had left Rhoda until he
should come home.  For the time, however, he kept
silence.  He determined to speak to Rhoda and Madge
together when the latter reappeared.  He felt certain
that she had gone to Coombeshead; and he also believed
that she would stop with her parents until he went to
fetch her.

"Put on the griddle and cook me a bit of meat for
breakfast," he said to Rhoda.  "I'm very hungry,
along of having sat up most of the night with father.
He's come well through it.  He slept off and on, and
feels he's safe this morning.  I shall go up again later,
when Madge be back."

He ate, then started to Coombeshead; but his wife
was not there, neither had any news been received
concerning her.  Then he walked across to Sheepstor, but
none had seen or heard of Margaret.  He called at 'The
Corner House' to drink, and stopped there a while.
But his mind was now much agitated.  He soon set off
for Ditsworthy; and he prayed as he went that there
his increasing fears for Madge might be laid at rest.

It was after noon when he arrived at his father's
house, to learn that the doctor had pronounced
Mr. Bowden better.  But no news of Margaret greeted him.
His twin brothers were just setting out for Princetown,
to procure certain medical comforts for their father.
Now they went as far as Coombeshead with David, and
there he left them and returned again to the Stanburys.
Still they had heard nothing.  In grave alarm the
husband went home, but Margaret was not there.  Night
now approached, and the man braced himself to set
about systematic search and summon responsible aid.

Rhoda had left a hot meal for him and he ate it
quickly; but she herself had departed.  A pencilled
note explained that she had gone to seek Margaret at
certain farms where chance might have led her.  David
now much desired to cross-question Rhoda closely as to
the matters that fell between her and Margaret on the
preceding evening; but for the present this was impossible.
He was just about to set off, give the alarm, and
institute search parties, when the twins, Samson and
Richard, suddenly appeared together and brought news.

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When David's wife left her home before dawn, she
walked aimlessly onward until thought worked with her
and directed her footsteps to a definite goal.  The first
note of light in the sky presently beckoned her, and
unconsciously she set her feet in that direction.  She
moved along eastward by the leat, where it raced down
a steep place under Cramber Tor; and she reflected
between three courses.  Her first thought was to seek
David before all others, tell him what Rhoda was going
to tell him, and explain the truth.  Then she feared.
The day broke very cold and dawn chilled her and
lowered her spirit.  Next she considered of Bartley;
and it seemed a wise thing to seek him and go to David
with him.  Finally she thought of her father, and
wondered whether wisest action might not take her to her
old home.  It was a father's and a brother's part to
fight this battle for her.  They would stand before
David, man to man, and refute the infamy that Rhoda
had prepared for his ears.  But some mood led to
Bartley Crocker before the rest.  She turned presently
and set her face to Sheepstor.  And thus it happened
that standing near the village, on high ground above it,
she actually saw the early departure of her friend.  He
drove swiftly away under her eyes, and she was powerless
to reach him now or to communicate with him.  He
had promised to see her again that evening; but doubtless
to escape emotional leave-takings and an elaborate
departure he had planned this secret exit.  She did not
blame him; but now that he was irrevocably gone, she
doubted terribly for herself and asked herself what next
must happen.  She did not fear David, but she greatly
feared Rhoda.  She knew her husband's estimate of
Rhoda, and she suspected that in a deliberate contest
between them he might lean to the stronger nature.  He
had never been jealous or shown the shadow of such an
instinct, and that thought comforted her; but Rhoda
was very strong, and if Rhoda was not mad, then she
must be armed with arguments to support her awful
belief.  Margaret had nothing but denials--and
Bartley was gone.  Perhaps, against the lying testimony
that Rhoda possessed, and doubtless believed, her bare
denial would prove all too weak.  She amazed herself
to find how calmly she considered the sudden situation--a
situation that yesterday she would have fainted to
consider.  Now, looking at the empty road when Bartley's
vehicle had left it, she felt that salvation lay in
one direction alone.  She must see David before Rhoda
could see him.  He would return that morning; therefore
her safest course was to go home swiftly, lie hidden
by the way, and intercept him as he came along.  She
set off again, and as she returned, became conscious of
physical hunger.  But the sensation passed and she
pressed forward until her home appeared.  She came
back in time to find herself too late; for she saw her
husband descend the hill to 'Meavy Cot' and enter the
house while yet she was half a mile distant.

Now active fear got hold upon Margaret.  In spirit
she heard Rhoda's voice; she listened to the indictment;
she pictured David's incredulity.  He would surely
start to see Bartley Crocker on the instant; and he
would find Bartley gone for ever.  And then?  Her
thoughts turned again to her own people.  She cried
out from her heart for protection.  Her mental
weakness gained upon her as she grew physically more feeble.
Her legs trembled under her.  She turned, and crouched,
and crept behind a wall, that no chance eye from
'Meavy Cot' might see her aloft on the hill.  Then she
started to go to Coombeshead, and ran some distance
until she grew suddenly weak and was forced to sit and
rest herself for fear of fainting.  David would
doubtless guess that she had gone home.  He would follow;
he was certain to be upon the way now, and he must
overtake her long before she reached Coombeshead.
Increasing terror and decreasing reason threw her into a
shivering sweat.  She jumped up and left the road to
Coombeshead, and so in reality avoided David, who had
now set out for the farm of the Stanburys.  She
actually saw him pass within a hundred yards of her, and
she rejoiced at her escape.  Then, when he had gone by,
she went forward to Crazywell and hid there, in deep
gorse brakes not far distant from the water.  Here she
was safe enough for the present.  She drank from a
spring, and then sat on a stone until she grew very cold.

The time for useful thought or a sensible decision
was past; the critical hours, when this woman's humble
intellect might have led her to salvation, had gone by.
Now she stood weak every way--physically reduced,
mentally depressed and fear-stricken.  She had declined
upon a state which found her a prey to unreal terrors,
phantom-driven, pervious to the secret evils of heredity.
These intrinsic ills, latent in her blood and brain, now
found their vantage, and presently reduced the daughter
of Constance Stanbury to a condition of peril.  It
was in this pitiful case, as she wandered some hours later
near Crazywell, that there came to her two children,
and she had speech with them.  She was light-headed;
but they did not know it.  They stared at the things
she said and thought that brother David's wife was
making very queer jokes.

Samson and Richard, with their basket carried
between them, staggered steadily homewards through
thickening dusk.  They wondered which of the luxuries
in the basket their father would eat first; and they
rather envied him his collapse, when they considered the
attractive nature of these prescriptions.  Then they
came suddenly upon Margaret standing by the gorse-brakes.
She started and was about to dive into cover,
like a frightened beast or bird, when she recognised the
boys.

"Hullo!" cried Samson.  "Why, 'tis Madge!
Whatever be you doing up here all by yourself?"

She stared at them as they set down their basket and
rested their arms.

"Oh, Lord, these good things be heavy!" declared Richard.

"Have 'e got a bit of meat there, Dicky?" she asked,
her nature crying for food.

"I should just think we had.  A half of a calf's head
for soup, and three bottles of jelly, and a bottle of wine.
I wish I was faither!"

"And grapes, took out of a barrel of sawdust," said
Samson.

"A long journey for your little legs; but nought to
mine," she said.  "You must know, you boys, that I be
going to set out on a journey myself as far as from here
to the stars--or further."

They laughed at the idea.

"Be you?  And what'll David say?" asked Richard.

"He'll understand very well.  'Tis for him I shall
do it.  I lay he'll be glad."

"Why don't he go along with you?"

"Not yet; but he'll come after some day."

"Where's your luggage to?" asked the practical Samson.

"Don't want none--no luggage--no money--no
ticket--only a pinch of courage.  Mr. Shillabeer taught
me the way.  If you've out-lived your usefulness, 'tis
better to make room for better people.  And there's no
such thing as wrong-doing, Dick, because God A'mighty,
being all-powerful, won't let it happen.  You and
Samson might think as you do wrong sometimes."

"So they tell us," admitted Samson.

"Not you--you're God's children and can't no more
do wrong than the birds and the angels."

"That's worth knowing," said Richard.

"Nor yet me: I must do what I must, and the
journey's got to be took.  Because I may be useful in
one place, though I can't be in another....  'Tis a
bitter cruel thing to be misunderstood, Samson."

"So it is--as I said last time Joshua gave me a lacing
and found out after 'twas Nap," he answered.

"When might you start?" asked Richard.

"There's nought to keep me--my usefulness be
ended.  But I'm that terrible hungry."

"I should go home along and have a bit of supper
first."

"No, no, Sam.  Good-byes be such sad things.
Better I go without 'em.  Bartley, he went off without,
and he was wise.  But I see'd him set out.  All the
same, his journey's but a span long to mine."

The boys were puzzled.  They talked together.

"Might us give her a biscuit--one of them big uns?"
whispered Richard; but Samson refused.

"No.  'Twill be found out, and of course they'll say
we ate it."

"Where do 'e set out from?" asked Richard.

"From this here pool."

"Funny place to go on a journey from," said Samson.
"'Tis my belief you'm having a game with us."

Margaret shook her head.

"Never no more," she said.  "We've played many
and many a good game--you two and me.  But they
all be ended now.  I'm going to new usefulness
somewhere long ways off--terrible busy I'll be, without a
doubt; and you be both growing into men, and busy
too.  But don't you forget me, you boys--because I
never will forget neither of you."

"You talk as if you wasn't going to come back,"
said Richard.  "I'm sure David would make a terrible
fuss if you was to go for long."

"But Rhoda won't," added Samson.  "Rhoda don't
like you overmuch.  For that matter, she don't like
anything but David and dogs.  Me and Dick don't set
no store by Rhoda, do we, Dick?"

"No," said Richard.  "We do not."

"I'll come back--I'll come back to watch over
David," said Madge suddenly.  "Yes, I won't bide
away altogether.  I couldn't.  But not same as I am
now--not a poor, broken-hearted, useless good-for-nothing,
as have worn out her welcome in the world.
I'll be a shining, joyous thing then--winged like a lark,
and so sweet a singer too."

"You can sing very nice, and always could," said
Dick graciously.

"I'd sing to you boys now, but there's no time.
Be it night or morning with us?  I'm sure I couldn't
say, for I've been up and about these days and days."

"They'm looking for you, come to think of it," said
Samson suddenly.  "David was up over after dinner."

"Was he kind or cross?"

"Neither--but a good bit flurried seemingly."

"He don't know about the journey, you see.  I'm
afraid he'll be sorry--after.  He'll be sorry, won't he,
Dicky?"

"He'll be terribly vexed without a doubt," declared
Richard.  "In fact, if I was you, I'd change your mind.
You oughtn't to do nothing without telling him--ought
her, Samson?"

"No, her oughtn't," answered his brother.

"You two--two at a birth," she said.  "Got together
and born together!  'Tis a very beautiful thing--a
beautiful thing, sure enough.  You'm one--not two at
all--one in heart and thought and feeling, one in your
little joys and fears and hopes.  And even so I'd
thought to be with David.  But I wasn't strong enough
and understanding enough for that.  He's too much
above me.  And us had no childer, you see.  There
comed no babby to my bosom, and so--there 'tis--the
usefulness and hope of me all gone--a withered, worn-out
blossom as never set no fruit.  And when the flower
be fallen, 'tis all over and forgot.  My mother knowed
best, you see.  She always feared it wouldn't come to
good.  How right she was!"

"What silly old rummage you do talk," said Richard.
"Never heard the like!  Why for don't you go home?
Didn't Madge ought for to go home, Sam?"

"Yes, she did," said Samson, "this instant.  She'm
mazed, I believe."

"Pisgies been at her, I reckon," hazarded his brother.

"I'm going home," she answered.  "On my solemn
word of honour, as a living Christian, I'm going home;
and if I'm there afore them I care about--what's the
odds?  Only there's no marrying nor giving in marriage
there.  Won't Rhoda be happy then!  But I tell you
two witty boys that I'm wickedly wronged, and the
world will know it.  I won't stoop to defend myself--I'm
above that; but my God will defend me, and you
must defend me--both of you.  'Tis a very cruel thing
to tell lies against the innocent--them as never did you
harm--them as only thought and planned always to
better you and bring you happiness.  And wasn't my
sorrow large enough, the black sorrow of the women that
never rock cradles--but she must--? .... you'll
always have a good word for me, Richard--won't 'e?--if
'tis only for the sake of the fun we've had."

"So we will then," said Dick.  "And if anybody
says anything against you, me and Sam won't suffer it.
Because you're a jolly good sort and always have been.
Never was one like you for cake--never."

Samson pulled at Richard's sleeve in the gathering
gloom.

"Us had better go," he whispered.

"Us must go now," repeated Dicky to Margaret.

"Good-bye then, and God bless you both--such little
men as you be growing!  Yet 'tis cruel not to give me
a bite from your basket.  I'm faint for want of
food--God's my judge but I am."

"Can't, for fear of catching it.  You'll do best to go
back home," advised Samson.

"I shall be there afore you are.  'Tis beautiful to be
there first of all, to welcome all the rest as they come in
one after t'other, like homing pigeons.  If they only
knowed ... if they only knowed how dearly I've loved
'em all--Rhoda, too.  I tried so hard to make her a
happy woman.  But they will come to know at journey's
end.  And she'll know then.  'Twill all be burning light
then, with nothing hid and the last heartache lifted."

They took their basket and crept off.  In the dark
they stopped and listened.  She was singing.

"Never knowed her like that afore," said Richard.
"I've a good mind to take back a biscuit for her and
chance what they'll say.  She's terrible leery[#] and
terrible queer."

.. vspace:: 2

.. class:: noindent small

[#] Hungry.

.. vspace:: 2

"Us had better get home and tell about her."

They pushed on for a quarter of a mile, and then
Samson had another idea.

"We'm nearer 'Meavy Cot' than anywheers," he said.
"Us had better go and tell David.  'Tis his job to look
after Madge, I should think--him being her husband."

"'I'm cruel tired," answered Richard; "and as 'tis we
shall catch it pretty hot for being such a deuce of a
time."

"'We'll leave the basket here, and just run down and
then come back for it.  And as to catching it, we shall
catch it worse if we don't tell David, and he comes to
hear about it after Madge has sloped off."

"You go, and I'll bide here and keep guard over the
basket," suggested Dick; but Samson would not have
this.

"No," he answered firmly, "I'm not going without
you.  You know very well us can't do nought apart."

They left the basket on the top of a wall and turned
back and reached 'Meavy Cot.'  Then they told David
that Madge was by Crazywell, and much to their
disappointment, he seized his hat and rushed from the
house before they had time to give any description of
their remarkable conversation with her.  Rhoda was
not in, and finding themselves alone, the boys sought
the larder and ventured to eat heartily.  Then they
went on their way, cheered at consciousness of
well-doing and the reward of well-doing.

All that David had heard was how his brothers had
met with Madge by Crazywell.  More he did not stop to
learn; and when some time afterwards he stood by the
pool, tramped its shores and shouted Margaret's name
until the hollowed cup of the little tarn echoed, he
judged that the children had been mistaken in the
darkness and imagined that some other was Madge.
Because he saw no sign of her and heard no answer to
his cries.  For a time he wandered through the night
and splashed along the fringes of the pool; then he
abandoned the search, groped his way upwards, and
returned home.

His wife, however, had been within sound of his voice.
Through the locked portals of a sleeping ear his cries
had reached and wakened her.  When Samson and
Richard were gone, she sang a hymn about the joys of
heaven; and then nature made a sudden and imperious
appeal for sleep.  She had not slumbered for forty
hours, and now, succumbing swiftly, lay down under
the gorse and sank into oblivion.

Anon her husband's voice reached her brain, and
roused her consciousness.  His loud summons, filtering
through the sleep-drenched avenues of her brain, begot
happy dreams therein.  She smiled and wakened.
Then she heard him calling in the darkness, and sudden
terrors bound her hand and foot.  His voice, lifted in
deep anxiety, to her seemed laden with wrath.  Her
dismantled mind hid the truth and turned the man's
cry into a sinister threat.  Therefore she cowered
motionless, breathless, like a bird that sees a hawk at hand,
until he was gone, and silence returned.

She slept no more, but it was not until midnight that
her wounded intellect again roused itself.  Then chance,
quickening propensities that had for ever remained
asleep in another environment, swept the woman to action.





.. vspace:: 4

.. _`DAVID AND RHODA`:

.. class:: center large bold

   CHAPTER XIV


.. class:: center medium bold

   DAVID AND RHODA

.. vspace:: 2

Dawn brought forth a wonder in the sky and
lighted accumulations of little clouds that ranged
in leagues under highest heaven.  Like flakes of
mother-o'-pearl upon a ground of aquamarine the cirri
were evenly and regularly disposed.  Seen horizontally,
perspective massed them until they hid the firmament,
but overhead the pale interstices of space appeared.
Like a ridged beach at low tide was the sky--like a
beach at break of day when morning twinkles, between
bars of wave-woven sand and touches the transparent
green water there.  A glory irradiated heaven, and each
of the myriad cloudlets moving above the sunrise was
streaked upon its breast with amber.  Then the herald
light fell from them into earth-born mists beneath.

These phenomena were reflected in the eyes of Reuben
Shillabeer; and for a moment they roused within him
thoughts of the gates of pearl and the streets of gold
that belonged to the haven of his hopes.  He had risen
before day, and now moved across the Moor with his
mind steadily affirmed.  The journey concerning which
Margaret had babbled to her husband's brothers, this
old man now meant to make.  But he had hidden his
secret close, and those who knew him best supposed that
his mind had entered a more peaceful and contented road
of late.  They were right.  After decision came great
calm.  His affairs were in order; his work was finished.
He walked now as one who had already taken his farewells
of the earth and all that belonged to it.  The sky
pleased him with its splendour, for it promised happiness.
He thought of his wife and supposed her behind
the dawn, moving uneasily, eagerly, full of excitement
and joy, counting the minutes that still separated him
from her.  He was going up to Crazywell to drown
himself.

On his way the man stood still before one of his own
messages.  Black along the top bar of a gate, a text
confronted him: the same that had led Bart Stanbury
to hasten his proposal of marriage.

"*Now is the accepted time.*"

The old prize-fighter was well satisfied at this omen.
He tramped through mist and over frost-white heaths
among the ruined lodges of the stone men; he breasted
the gorse-clad hill above Kingsett, and presently stood
and looked down into the cup of the pool, and saw the
fire and flame of the morning sky mirrored sharply
there.  A thin vapour still softened the reflections from
above and hung about the water, and a scurf of ice lay
round the edges of Crazywell.  The place was deserted.
Winter had made a home here and darkness of sleeping
vegetation encompassed all, save for the silver frost and
the splendour of the sky above.  Heath, furze, grass,
alike slumbered.

Shillabeer was panting with his exertions.  Now, very
cautiously he trusted his huge body on a path winding
down to the water, and presently he stood at the brink
of the pool and trod the sandy beach.  Crazywell was
supposed to be of fabulous depth; tradition declared
that all the ropes from the belfry of Walkhampton
church had not plumbed it.  Reuben reflected upon this
story.  "No call to sink so deep as that," he thought.
"Please God; come presently, they'll fetch me out and
let me lie beside her; not that it matters much where
they put this here frame, so long as the thinking soul be
joined to she.  Still--till Doom--I'd like to bide with
her; and I hope parson will be large-minded enough to
allow it."

For some little time he walked beside the water, then
suddenly addressed himself to action.

"'Tis no good messing about," he said aloud.  "I've
got to go through the pinch, and the sooner 'tis over
the better."

He took off his coat and hat, moistened his hands
with his tongue, as one about to do some hard work,
clenched his fists, snorted like a bull, and plunged in up
to his knees.  He felt his boots sinking upon the mud,
but the water was still shallow.  Not far distant at the
edge of the pool, on the further side, a great stone rose.
"I'll drop in off that," said the man; "'twill throw
me out of my depth and make a quicker job of it."

He emerged, walked round the margin of Crazywell,
and clambered on to the stone.  Beneath it, where the
water was more than four feet deep, light fell full and
radiant, and made all crystal-clear.

Shillabeer was about to jump when he found himself
not alone.  Separated from him only by the smooth
surface of the pool, there appeared a fellow-creature.
A woman seemed to be looking up quietly at him from
beneath.

The recent past, forgotten since he had slept, turned
back upon him and he remembered that Margaret
Bowden was missing on the previous night.  He glared
down at her now.

"Well might they fail to find you!" he said.  "Poor
lamb--her of all women!  Whatever should take her
in the water?  And how long have she been there?"

He forgot his own purposes absolutely.  He lowered
himself into the pool until his feet were at her side.
Then he drew a long breath, dived in his arms and head
and groped round till he held her.  A touch brought
her to the surface: in the water she weighed nothing;
it was only afterwards, when he dragged her out, that
he found even his strength only equal to carrying her
body to the bank.

How long she had been dead he knew not; but her
face he found not unhappy.  It was impossible to bear
her single-handed to her home, and Shillabeer now
climbed out of the cup and started to the adjacent farm
of Kingsett.  But he marked a man by the leat and he
shouted to him and attracted his attention.

Twenty minutes later Simon Snell and the innkeeper
carried Margaret Bowden between them on a hurdle.
Mr. Shillabeer's coat covered the corpse.  They
proceeded slowly and at last came in sight of 'Meavy
Cot.'

"I'll go so far as the wicket," said Snell; "but no
further.  I couldn't face that chap--not with this
load."

"'Tis I that have been told off for the purpose.  'Tis
I that have found her, though 'pon a very different
errand, I assure you.  Yet not different neither, Simon,
for I went to meet death; and when I looked down in
the water, there was death, sure enough, glazing up
at me."

"And yet just as if she was no more than sound
asleep--poor young woman--save for the blueness,"
said Mr. Snell.

"And so she looked, poor creature, when first I
seed her.  But death be the name for sleep under water."

"What was you doing up over, 'Dumpling'?"

"There again!  The ways of the Lord be past
finding out, Simon.  My wife waiting at the golden
gate--waiting and watching for the sight of a certain
man--namely me--and instead this young Margaret comes
along."

"My word!" said Mr. Snell.  "Was you going for
to make away with yourself, Mr. Shillabeer?  Please
don't say so, for I've had as much as I can stand this
morning.  I'm quivering to my innermost inwards."

"I was going to do it; but not now--not now.  Abraham
found a ram in a thicket, you'll remember; I find a
woman in the water.  The Lord works with strange
tools, Snell."

"Without a doubt He do; and here's the gate.  I'll
take her no further.  David Bowden can come out and
lend a hand hisself now."

"And you'd best to let it be known far and wide,"
said Shillabeer.  "And doctor ought to see her, though
of course no good.  Still 'tis the fashion.  And crowner
will sit--here's the man!"

David Bowden appeared and Simon Snell ran away.
For a moment Shillabeer set himself between the dead
and living.

"'Tis I found her--Madge.  She's gone to glory--she's
drownded herself--dead.  Lord's will, David."

"Found!  Thank God--where?" asked the husband.
He had only heard the word 'Madge.'

"If you can thank God, 'tis a good thing, Bowden.
'Twas long afore I could, when this happened to me,"
answered the other.  "Come.  She's here--behind the
edge of the wall.  'Twas the best I could do."

David had passed him, and when Shillabeer turned,
the husband knelt beside the hurdle.  A moment later
he tore at the clothing of the corpse and pressed his
hand over her heart.

"Us must go for doctor as a matter of form, and
he's at Princetown to-day--his day there from eleven
o'clock till two--so I'll traapse up over and tell him to
call.  And I'll ax you for a dry shirt afore I start, poor
man."

"She's dead!" said Bowden.

"And cold.  There's nought in all nature so cold as
them that die by drowning.  But you must think of her
as far ways off from here."

"Dead--dead.  God help me!"

He rose to his feet and stared down.

"You take it wildly, same as I did," remarked the
elder.  "When my wife died, 'twas all three strong
men could do to tear me off her.  And when the two old
women comed to do what was right, I nearly knocked
their grey heads together, for I said, in my mad way,
what business had them to live to grey hairs and my
wife die afore a lock was touched by time?  Brown her
hair--pale brown to the end.  Let me help you.  She'm
water-logged--poor blessed creature."

Margaret Bowden was brought to her little parlour
and laid upon the sofa.

David said nothing; Shillabeer maundered on.

"Like a dog on a grave you'll be, my poor David.
And time's self will find it hard to travel against your
heart.  You'll dare him to push on.  I know--I know.
And to think that I'd have been back with her--my
own wife--but for this.  Ess fay!  Crazywell would
have me if it hadn't had she.  But you mustn't speak
about that.  One be taken and t'other left."

"She killed herself!" burst out the other man
suddenly.  "Mark me--this was no accident.  She took
her own life--and to think that I was there calling to
her and she past hearing by then."

"Yes, she went her way.  She knowed, I suppose--but
what did she know?  Weren't she useful no more?
'Tis only failure of usefulness allows this deed."

"Useful!  What have I done?  God knows what I've
done.  'Tisn't me--'tisn't me, I tell you--there's nought
between us and never was--nought but faithful love.
There's another have done it--some other--and I shall
never know--and her dead.  Is she dead?  Maybe
there's a flicker in her yet, if we only knowed what
to do."

"Don't distress yourself," said Shillabeer; "only
Christ could raise her from the dead.  I know death.
She was lying like a woman asleep under the water.
She's dead enough, and as a thinking man who knows
trouble very close, I'll tell you for why.  'Tis along of'
being childless--all because she had no child."

"What folly and wickedness to think so!  If I didn't
mind--why should she?"

"But they all mind, and the less sense, the more they
take on.  It was just the same with mine; and only her
large belief that God couldn't make no mistakes kept
her quiet."

"Go--go!" suddenly cried David.  "Who am I to
bide here talking to you, and that woman dead behind
the door?"

"I will go--this minute--'tis natural and quite
proper, poor David, that you feel like this.  Break
away from man you must; but don't break away from
God.  Kneel beside her body and pray your heart out.
'Tis the only thing will keep your brain steady.  Work
and pray--work like a team of bosses and pray like a
team of saints.  Out of kindness I say it.  I'm
gone--  She saved my life, mind.  You must let me share the
praying, for by God's grace her death kept me alive.
A pity you might say, poor man, in your black misery
and ignorance.  But God knew which was wanted most.
I must live--He only knows why; and this young lovely
thing, in full joy of health and happiness, must cut
her thread.  'Tis too much to expect we can
understand; but we ban't expected to understand all that
happens.  I tell you the longest life ban't long enough
to explain the way of God to man, David.  Now fetch
me a wool shirt while I draw off this one.  Then I be
going to catch doctor.  And I must look at her once
more."

He went into the other room and David, having
brought him a dry garment, followed him.

"A picture of a happy creature," said Reuben, as
he stripped to the waist and dried his huge body.
"Remember that.  This be only a perishing bit of clay
now, David--blue-vinnied, you see--ready to sink into
earth--but Madge--a very different tale.  A lovely,
shining angel is she singing over our heads, along with
my wife and all the good dead women.  You keep that
in mind and say no more cruel words against Heaven
than you can help.  They will out, but fight 'em down,
same as I did."

A few minutes afterward Shillabeer went away; but
he was still talking aloud to himself, rolling his head
and waving his arms.

Then David, left alone, strove wildly for some faint
sign or promise that his wife was not dead.  He stripped
her, fetched blankets, lighted a fire, thrust hot bricks
to her feet, and strove to warm her body.  Thus he
laboured only that he might be doing something, and
through physical exertion cheat mental torture.  He
knew that all efforts were vain, and presently he
abandoned them, left his wife in peace, and went into the
kitchen and sat down there.

Nobody came to him for some hours.  Then the
doctor arrived, expressed deep sympathy, and promised
to see those in authority.  He departed in less than
half-an-hour and the man was left alone again.

Two women came presently, did their office for the
dead, and went away again.

Bowden's thoughts rose and fell like an ebbing and
flowing sea.  They wearied him and sank away, leaving
his mind a drowsy blank; then, with a little rest, intellect
gripped the catastrophe once more and the tide of
suffering flowed and overwhelmed his spirit.  He
connected Rhoda with this event.  The more he considered
the more he suspected that something terrible must have
happened between the women.  He went several times
to the door to look for Rhoda.  But she did not come.

She had taken her nightly way with the search
parties and at dawn she was in Sheepstor.  There, too
weary to return home, she had gone to the wife of
Charles Moses and slept in her house.  For several
hours they had not wakened her, but suffered her to
sleep on.  She rose a little before midday; and then
she heard that Bartley Crocker had left England very
early on the previous morning, about the same time
that her sister-in-law disappeared.

All search for Margaret had proved fruitless and
news of her death did not reach Sheepstor until Rhoda
left it.  Several met her and asked for news, but none
knew the truth.  She believed now that the facts were
clear and she strung herself to tell her brother what
had doubtless happened.

At dusk she returned to 'Meavy Cot' and found
David, with his head on the kitchen table, fast asleep.
Outside it was growing dark and some chained, ravenous
dogs were barking loudly; inside all was silent.

David slumbered uneasily owing to his position, but
his sister hesitated to wake him.  First she mended the
fire and made tea.  She drank to fortify herself.  Then
she went out, fed the dogs, and loitered until darkness
gathered upon the earth.  Then she came in and lighted
a lamp.  Still her brother slept.  She reviewed the
words that she must speak, and then she wakened him.

Reluctantly, irritably, he returned to consciousness
and stared at her.

"What the devil--?" he said; then he rubbed his
eyes and yawned.

"Take a dish of tea," she said.  "I'm back.  There's
no news of her yet, but I believe--"

Slowly he began to connect his thoughts and link
himself up with life again.

"I believe--I'm afraid I know--I'm almost certain
I know."

"What do you know?" he asked.  Then the truth
returned to him in a wave that submerged him.

"My God, my God!" he cried out.

"'Tis bitter enough, but maybe the best that could
have happened--for you, David."

Rhoda arrested him.  She was looking straight into
his face.

"Make yourself clear," he said.  "What do you
know--or what do you think you know?  What's done
be done, anyway."

"'Tis done---and better done, since it had to be."

"What do you know?" he repeated harshly.  "Don't
beat about.  How much do you know?  D'you know
why?  What's the reason?  I can't go on with
my life till I know who have done it.  She never did,
I'll swear to that.  'Twas forced upon her from
outside."

"Maybe I can't tell you more than you've found out
for yourself, if you speak so," she answered.  "Yet
'twas she and only she could have done it.  None else
had the power to."

"Stop!" he cried out.  "Don't play no more with
words, if you don't want to see me go mad afore your
eyes.  Speak clear and tell me exactly what's in your
head.  I can't stand no more cloudy speeches.  My
mind's a frozen fog.  If you've got the power to throw
one ray of light, then do it.  Light, I say--but there's
no more light for me in this world now."

"Don't speak like that, David.  Who can tell?  Say
nothing till time works its way.  If I hurt to heal,
forgive me; and if I'm wrong, I'll beg for you to forgive
me.  But I'm not wrong.  It all joins together very
straight and smooth.  She's gone beyond finding, else
they'd have found her by now."

"Gone beyond finding."

"Surely.  There's not a brake or pit this side of
Princetown, and not a house and not a ruin that some
man haven't hunted through and through for her.  But
they'll have to hunt the ships of the sea afore they'll
find your wife that was.  She's gone---she went the same
time that Bartley Crocker went--to an hour.  Oh,
David, she's with him!  Find him and you'll find her.
That's the awful truth of it--clear--clear as truth can
be, and 'tis the worst that have ever fallen to me that
I had to tell you.  But only I knew, and too well I knew
through the bitter past."

He stared at her and laughed.

"What a clever woman you are--and so wonderful
understanding!"

"She's happy enough, if that's anything.  She's got
what she played for--she's--"

His voice rose in a sudden yell.

"Leave her name alone!  Don't you take her name in
your mouth again or I'll silence you for evermore!"

"I'm not afraid," she answered.  "I'm doing what
God Almighty drives me to do.  If I fail, I fail.  I
knew 'twas life or death.  You can silence me when you
please and how you please.  And the sooner the better;
for if you're going to hate me, I'd want to die as quick
as you can put me out of the way."

"Go on," he said quietly.  "I'm sorry I roared.
You needn't fear me.  Say what you want to say.
Explain just what you think you know."

"I've said it.  O' Sunday night, when I came back
from Ditsworthy, I spoke out to her.  I couldn't hold
it in no more.  'Twas poisoning me heart and soul.  I
was going to tell you, but there came the boys and
father's sickness held my tongue.  Then I met her--your
wife with that man--Crocker--and he kissed her--God's
my judge if I don't tell you truth.  And that
night I spoke to her and told her all I knew and all I'd
seen.  I'd watched them many a time--spied if you
like--but only for you--only for your honour's sake.  And
I taxed her with it--with being untrue to you."

He put up his hand and she was silent.  He struggled
to master himself and succeeded for one moment more.

"And what did she answer?"

"She denied it, but--"

"And Christ will deny you, you wretch!" he thundered
out.  "All's clear--all's clear now!  You thought
to damn her; but you've damned yourself--damned your
own soul through the blazing eternity of hell!"

He leapt up and she faced him without flinching.

"I know what I know," she said.

"Then know a little more than you know!"

He seized her by the wrist and dragged her into the
adjoining room.  It was dark.  Only blankets that
covered the dead made a streak of pallid light in the
gloom.

"With Crocker--eh?  Happy--eh?  Go there!  Get
on your knees, murderess--look under that blanket and
then ax yourself whether your carcase be fit to feed
dogs!"

She realised in a moment the thing that had happened.
She moved the blanket; she touched; she recoiled;
but she made no sound.

"Your work--your filthy, lewd work, to drive that
angel of goodness to make an end of herself.  She
couldn't breathe the same air with you no more.
Murder, I say, if ever murder was.  You--you--to
think that you--behind my back--in my home--  You
thrust her in the water--you held her down under it!
Get out of my sight to hell--hide yourself--call the
hills to cover you afore the decent world finds what you
are and tears the flesh off your bones!"

He flung himself on the dust of his wife, and Rhoda
went out of the room.





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.. _`NIGHT TENEBRIOUS`:

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   CHAPTER XV


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   NIGHT TENEBRIOUS

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Aimless, almost mindless, Rhoda Bowden dragged
herself away from the valley under Black Tor.
She knew not where to turn.  But there awakened no
desire to escape from the tyranny of existence; she
suffered rather from a mental palsy that blocked and
barred every channel of thought or outlook on action.

She moved through the night-hidden valley of Meavy,
and found herself presently at Sheepstor village.  The
place slept and she drifted among the darkened cottages,
forgetting all else but the problems that now cried
vainly to be solved before the coming of another day.
By instinct her weary body obeyed the call of least
resistance, and she sank down the hill instead of
climbing upward.  Mechanically she descended, as water
seeks its own level, and by a footpath presently reached
the bottom of the valley and stood at Marchant's bridge,
a mile under Ringmoor Down.  Across that wilderness
lay her nearest way home; and now it seemed to her, as
she became conscious again of her vicinity and physical
condition, that her goal must indeed be Ditsworthy.
She was far spent and the time now approached midnight.

The hour was dark, mild, very still under a clouded
moon; and for a moment, thinking upon the length of
the way, Rhoda doubted her strength to reach the
warrens.  She drank of the river and bathed her face.
Then she began the long climb upward to the Moor.
Where her path left the main road and ascended
easterly, through furze-brakes beside a wood, a tall
grey shape, full eight feet high, stood silent by the
way.  It was Marchant's Cross that appeared there on
her right hand underneath an ash tree; and the monument's
high, squat shoulders and dim suggestion of alert
and watchful humanity startled her.  Then she
remembered what it was, and climbed on.

At the edge of the woods reigned sleep universal,
and not one of the common voices of night broke in
upon it.  The firs had ceased for a moment their eternal
whisper; the bare boughs of oak and larch were still.
The hour was breathless and so silent that the world
seemed dead rather than asleep.  Once only a small
creature hurried from Rhoda's path and rustled in the
leaves beside her; but for the rest no cry of night bird,
no bay of hound, no whinny of roaming horse broke the
great peace.  Only the river lifted its voice like a sigh
in the dimness, but other murmur there was none.
Diffused light scarcely defined a way amid the black
hillocks of the gorse.  Earth under these conditions quite
changed its contours and withheld its tones.  Such
colour as persisted was transformed and only the palest
things--tree trunks and boulders streaked and splashed
with quartz--still stood forth in the vague blur of
darkness.  Such obscurity and obliteration, with its
hint of unseen dangers and obvious doubts, had been
sinister, if not terrific, to many women; night's black
hand upon the extinguished world had driven most
feminine spirits even from grievous thoughts to present
dread; but for Rhoda darkness was only less familiar
than noonday.  There existed nothing in this immanent
concealment to distract her torments, and all the formless
earth was distinct, clear, explicit as contrasted with
the chaos of her soul.

Upon Ringmoor she came at last, and there some
faint breath of air seemed to be stirring by contrast
with the stagnation beneath.  It touched her forehead
and she sucked it in thirstily.  Here the mighty spaces
of the waste were faintly lighted within a little radius
of the wanderer, but beyond, the naked earth rolled
away into utter darkness at every side.  The sky, while
luminous in contrast with the world beneath it, was
entirely overcast.  A complete and featureless cloud,
without rift or rent to break its midnight monotony,
spread upon the firmament.  Even the place of the
moon might not be perceived.  Below, Ringmoor
soaked up the illumination to almost total extinction;
above, the sombrous air hung heavy and clear,
permeated evenly by lustre of the hidden moon.  Only at
the horizon might one perceive the immense difference
between the light of earth and sky, and the large
illumination spread by the one and swallowed by the
other.

Ringmoor's black bosom opened for Rhoda, then shut
behind her and engulfed her.  Along the path, from
darkness into darkness, she proceeded and bore her
weight of agony through the insensible waste, as a
raindrop passes over a leaf and leaves no sign.  Futile
shadow of a shade, she crept across the darkness and
vanished beneath it; broken with the greatest suffering
her spirit was built to bear, she put forth upon the void
and tottered forward to the shuffle of her footsteps and
the muffled drumming of her own pulse.

She rested presently where a great stone thrust up
out of night beside her way.  She knew it for a friend
and sank upon it now, and put her forehead against
it.  Here reigned such a peace as only the deaf and
the desert sentinel can know--a peace beyond all
experience of gregarious man---a peace impossible within
any hand-wrought dwelling but the grave.  There was
no wind to strike sound from dry heath, or rush, or
solitary stone; no water flowed near enough to send its
voices hither; no rain fell to utter its whisper on earth.
The silence was consummate.

Light had long since been extinguished in the few
dwellings visible from Ringmoor.  Trowlesworthy and
Brisworthy and Ditsworthy--all were dim.  No ray
penetrated the sky or glowed upon the land; and night's
self now began to darken, as the moon sank to her
setting.

And then from afar, out of the gloom of the south,
a distant beacon flashed even to this uplifted solitude;
and a beam that blinked for the ships now reached one
life-foundered creature, where she sat in a silence as
deep, in a loneliness as vast, as the silence and the
loneliness of the sea.  The light was familiar to Rhoda;
through wanderings and vigils in high places she had
seen it many times; and she knew that it spoke of danger
to the vessels and guarded them upon their ways.

Time rolled on; the earth rolled on; only this
conscious fragment of life stranded here between time and
earth lay still, chained down with her load of grief and
horror.  Long she remained, until there stole over
Ringmoor the unspeakable stupor and lifelessness of the hour
before dawn.  Now even creatures of night had made an
end of their labours and were sleeping in holt or den;
and through this trance and absolute desistance, the
woman's soul still battled with its burdens and cried out
to her oblivious environment.

She walked onward again and forced herself and her
pangs upon the earth's suspended animation.  She
outraged inert Ringmoor by thus moving and suffering
within its bosom, when the rule of the time was cessation
and dreamless peace.  She rolled unsteadily in her
going, where all else was stable and motionless; she
throbbed in her body and in her soul, where all else was
unconscious; her dust endured the tortures of hunger
and profound physical exhaustion, where nearly all
other living things were filled and sleeping; her mind
rose, racked to a new and higher anguish at the thought
of the future, where all else was mindless and without
care or grief.  She considered what must follow the
rising of another sun, and she longed that she might
wander and suffer here, through a moonless night, for
evermore.

Again she sank to earth for a space, and again she
rose and breasted the last slope which separated her
from her home.  Then another life made vocal utterance
and complaint of fate.  A dog-fox barked out of
darkness, and the lonely ululation struck very loud upon
the silence.  To the fellow-being who heard him, his
forlorn protest spoke of a creature to be envied; for he
was only hungry and time would ease his want.

Among the burrows of the warren she threaded her
way until, black against the night, towered Ditsworthy.
And she opened the outer gate, reached the door, struck
upon it and cried two words.  Mournful they rose, and
deep, and heavy with the weight of her torments.

"Father!  Mother!"

They came down to her out of broken sleep.  They
found her collapsed and carried her in and roused the
smouldering peat upon the hearth.  Then to their
questions as they crowded round her--men, women, boys,
candle-lit, grotesque, hastily robed from bed--she
answered slowly--

"Margaret is drowned--driven to it by me--and
David have cast me out."

.. vspace:: 4

.. class:: center

   THE END

.. vspace:: 4

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