Front matter (continued 3)

'What is a pity?'

'The hare hunt.'

'What of that?' he asked angrily.

'That it was not put off a month, then changed to a stag hunt,' she replied, and went through the door quickly, lest he should knock her down.

Mrs. Veale went to her kitchen, and seated herself by the fire. She was paler than usual, and her eyelids blinked nervously. There was work to be done that morning, but she neglected it.

Her scheme had failed. She had endeavoured to force Charles Luxmore on to steal of his master, thinking that this must inevitably break the connection with the Luxmores. Taverner, she thought, could not possibly pursue his intentions when he knew he had been robbed by Charles. She was disappointed. What next to attempt she knew not. She was determined to prevent the marriage if she could. She had not originally intended to steal the cash-box, nor, indeed, to rob it of any of its contents, but she had been forced to take it, as Charles would not. Now she was given her dismissal, and if she left, she would take the money with her. But she had no desire to leave without further punishment of her ungrateful master. She had spent fifteen years in his service. She had plotted and worked and had not gained any of her ends. She had at first resolved on making him marry her. When she found it impossible to achieve this, she determined to make herself so useful to him, so indispensable, that he would in his old age fall under her power, and then, he would leave her by his will well off. She was now to be driven out into the cold, after all her labour, disappointments, to make room for a young girl. This should not be. If she must go, she would mar the sport behind her back. If Taverner Langford would not take her, he should take none other. If she was not to be mistress in the house, no young chit of a girl should be.

She stood up and took down from the chimney-piece a china dog blotched red, and turning it over, removed from the inside a packet of yellow paper.

She was so engrossed in her thoughts that she did not see that someone had entered the kitchen by the open backdoor.

'I declare! They'd make a pair!'

Mrs. Veale started, a shiver ran through her from head to foot. She turned, still quivering, and looked at the speaker. Kate Luxmore had entered, and stood near the table.

'Well, now,' said Kate, 'this is curious. We've got a dog just like that, with long curly ears, and turns his dear old head to the left, and you've one with the same ears, and same colour, turns his head to the right. We'd a pair once, but Joe broke the fellow. I reckon you'd a pair once, but your fellow is broke. 'Tis a pity they two dogs should be widowers and lonely.'

Mrs. Veale stared at her; Kate had never been there before. What had brought her there now? Were all the Luxmores coming to make that their home, even before the marriage?

'And what have you got there?' pursued Kate, full of liveliness. 'Why, that is one of the yellow paper rat-poison packets the man sold at the fair. I know it. 'Tis a queer thing you keeping the poison in the body of the dog. But I suppose you are right; no one would think to go there for it.'

'What do you want here?' asked Mrs. Veale, hastily replacing the packet and the dog on the mantel-shelf. 'Why have you come? We've had enough of you Luxmores already. Your brother Charles has played us a pretty tune, and now your sister's like to lead a dance.'

'I have come for Honor. Is she here?'

'She—no! She's been gone some time. Ain't she home? Perhaps she's walking over the land, and counting the acres that may be hers, and prizing the fleeces of the sheep.'

'She is wanted. As for Charles, there's naught proved against him, and till there is, I won't believe it. I've just had a talk with someone, and he tells me another tale altogether. So there—not another word against poor Charles. He wasn't ever sweet on you, I can tell you. 'Tis a pity, too, about those dogs. They're both water-spaniels—what intelligent eyes they have, and what lovely long curly ears! They ought to be a pair some day.'

'I tell you,' said Mrs. Veale, 'your sister is not here.'

'Our dog,' went on Kate, unabashed, 'don't belong to father. He is Honor's own. She had the pair, till Joe knocked one of them over. Her mother gave it her. 'Tis curious now that her dog should turn his blessed nose one way, and this dog should turn his nose the other way. It looks as if they were made for each other, which is more than is the case with some that want to be pairing. A mantel-shelf don't look as well with a spaniel in the middle as it do with one at each end. That is, I suppose, why your master is looking out for a wife. Well! I think he'd have matched better with you than with someone else whom I won't name. A house with one in it is like a mantel-shelf with one odd dog on it. Does this chimney ornament belong to you or to the house?'

'Never mind, go your ways. Don't you think ever to pair them two dogs, nor your sister and the master. There is a third to be considered. If one be broken, there is no pairing. Do y' know what the ash said to the axe?

Whether coupled or counter is wisht (unlucky) for me,

My wood makes the haft for to fell my tree.'

CHAPTER XXXIII.

AMONG THE GORSE.

'Where be you going to, Larry?' asked his father. 'I've just seen the Red Spider running Langford way. Take care Uncle Taverner don't sloke that one away as he tried to sloke t'other.'

Hearing that Honor was gone over the moor to Langford, Hillary took that direction, and, as he had expected, encountered her as she was returning to her cottage, before she had left the down.

'You are going to give me a quarter of an hour,' said Larry. 'I dare say you may be busy, but I can't spare you till we've had it out with each other. I've but one arm now that I can use, but I'll bar the way with that, if you attempt to escape me.'

Honor looked at him hesitatingly. She was hardly prepared for the inevitable trial, then. She would have liked to defer it. But, on second thoughts, she considered that it was best to have it over. Sooner or later, an explanation must be made, so perhaps it would be as well for her that day to pass through all the fires. There on Broadbury, when the gorse is swaled (burnt), the cattle are driven through the flames. They plunge and resist, but a ring of men and dogs encloses them, armed with sharp stakes, and goad them forward, and at last, with desperation, lowing, kicking, leaping, angry and terrified, they plunge through the flames. Honor thought of this familiar scene, and that she was herself being driven on. Sooner or later she must enter the fire, be scorched, and pass through; she would traverse it without further resistance at once.

'I am ready, Larry,' she said in a low voice.

'My dear, dear Honor, what ails you? You are looking ill, and deadly white! What is it, Honor?'

'We all have our troubles, Larry. You have a broken arm, and I have a breakage somewhere, but never mind where.'

'I do mind,' he said vehemently, 'What is amiss?'

'You told me, Larry, the night your arm was hurt, that—your pride had sustained a fall and was broken.'

'So it was.'

'So also is mine.'

'But what has hurt you? How is it? Explain to me all, Honor.'

She shook her head. 'It is not my affair only. I have others to consider beside myself, and you must forgive me if my lips are locked.'

He put his left arm round her, to draw her to him, and kiss her. 'I will keep the key of those lips,' he said, but she twisted herself from his grasp.

'You must not do that, Larry.'

'Why not? We understand each other. Though we did not speak, that night, our hearts told each other everything.'

'Larry, do you remember what I said to you when we were together in the paddock?'

'I remember every word.'

'I told you that I regarded you—as a brother.'

'I remember every word but that.'

'You have been a friend, a dear friend, ever since we were children. You were always thoughtful towards us, my sister and me, when you thought of nothing else. You were always kind, and as Charles was away, of late, I came to think of you as a brother.'

'But I, Honor, I never have and never will consent to regard you as a sister. I love you more dearly than brother ever loved sister. I never had one of nay own, but I am quite sure I could not think of one in the way I think of you. I love you, Honor, with all my heart, and I respect you and look up to you as the only person who can make me lead a better life than I have led heretofore.'

Honor shook her head and sighed. It was her way to answer by nod or shake rather than by word.

'I have good news to tell you,' he went on; 'my father is delighted at the prospect, and he is nearly as impatient as I am to have your dear self in Chimsworthy.'

'I cannot go there,' said Honor in a tone that expressed the desolation of her heart.

'Why not?'

She hesitated.

'Why not, Honor? When I wish it, when my father is eager to receive you?'

'Dear Larry,' she said sadly, 'it can never, never be.'

'Come here,' he exclaimed impatiently, and drew her along with him. 'What is the meaning of this? I will understand.' Before them for nearly a mile lay a sheet of gold, a dense mass of unbroken gorse, in full blaze of flower, exhaling a nectareous fragrance in the sun, that filled the air. So dense were the flowers that no green spines could be seen, only various shades of orange and gold and pale yellow. Through it a path had been reaped, for rabbit-shooters, and along this Hillary drew her. The gorse reached to their waists. The fragrance was intoxicating.

'Look here, Honor,' said he, 'look at this furze. It is like my nature. It is said that there is not a month in the year in which it does not blossom. Sometimes there is only a golden speck here and there—when the snow is on the ground, not more than a few flowers, and then one stalk sets fire to another, as spring comes on, and the whole bush burns and is not consumed, like that in the desert, when God spoke to Moses from it. It has been so with me, Honor. I have always loved you. Sometimes the prickles have been too thick, and then there have been but few tokens of love; but never, never has the bloom died away altogether. In my heart, Honor, love has always lived, and now it is all blazing, and shining, and full of sweetness.'

'Larry,' answered Honor slowly, 'look here;' she put her hand to a gorse bush and plucked a mass of golden bloom.

'Honor!' he exclaimed, 'what have you done?' She opened her hand, it was full of blood.

'I have grasped the glorious flower,' she said, 'and am covered with wounds, and pierced with thorns.'

'No—no, dear Honor,' he said, taking her hand, removing from it the prickles, and wiping the blood away with the kerchief that bound his broken arm. 'There shall be no thorns in our life together. The thorns will all go from me when I have you to prune me. I have been wild and rough, and I dare say I may have given you pain. I know that I have. I was angry with you and behaved badly; but I was angry only because I loved you.' Then his pleasant sweet smile broke over his pale face, and he said in an altered tone, 'You do not harbour anger, Honor; you forgive, when the offender is repentant.'

She raised her eyes to him, and looked long and steadily into his.

'I forgive you for any little wrong you may have done me, heartily and wholly. But, O Larry! I must wrong you in a way in which I can expect to get no forgiveness from you.'

'That is quite impossible,' he said, smiling.

'Larry, you cannot even dream what my meaning is. When you know—there will not be a flower on the furze-bush, the last gold bud of love will fall off.'

'Never, never, Honor!'

'You do not know.'

He was perplexed. What could stand In the way of her ready acceptance of him, except his own former bad conduct?

'Honor,' he said, 'I have had some sleepless nights—these have not been altogether caused by my arm—and during the dark hours I have thought over all my past manner of life, and I have quite resolved to break with it. I will no longer be idle. I will no more boast. I will no more let the girls make a fool of me. I will work hard on the farm as any labourer—indeed, Honor, I will work harder and longer than they. If you mistrust me, prove me. I deserve this trial. My father would like you to be his daughter-in-law at once; but I know that I do not deserve you. In the old story, Jacob served fourteen years for Rachel, and I am not a Jacob—I will wait, though fourteen years is more than my patience will bear, still—dear Honor, dear heart!—I will wait. I will wait your own time, I will not say another word to you till you see that I am keeping my promise, and am becoming in some little way worthy of you. I know,' he said in a humble tone, 'that really I can never deserve you—but I shall be happy to try and gain your approval, and, if you do not wish me to say more of my love till I show you I am on the mend, so shall it be. I am content. Put on the kerchief when I am to speak again.'

He stopped, and looked at her. She was trembling, and her eyes cast down. Now, at last, the tears had come, and were flowing from her eyes. One, like a crystal, hung on her red cloak. Knowing that he awaited an answer, she raised her head with an effort, and looked despairingly right and left, but saw no help anywhere, only the flare of yellow blossom flickering through a veil of tears.

O, infinitely sweet, infinitely glorious was this sight and this outpouring of Larry's heart to her—but infinitely painful as well—piercing, wounding, drawing forth blood—like the gorse.

'Larry!' she said earnestly, 'No—no—not for one moment do I doubt your word. I believe everything you say. I could trust you perfectly. I know that with your promise would come fulfilment, but—it is not that.'

'What is it then?'

She could not tell him. The truth was too repugnant to her to think, much less to tell—and tell to him.

'I cannot tell you; my father, my brothers and sisters.'

'I have thought of that, you dear true soul,' he interrupted. 'I know that you will not wish to hurt them. But, Honor, there will be no desertion. I have only to cut a gap through the hedge of your paddock, and in three minutes, straight as an arrow, you can go from one house to the other. Round by the road is longer, but when you are at Chimsworthy we'll have a path between; then you can go to and fro as you like, and the little ones will be always on the run. You can have them all in with you when and as long as you like; and my father will be over-pleased if your father will come and keep him company on the Look-out stone. Since Uncle Taverner and he have quarrelled father has been dull, and felt the want of some one to talk to. So you see all will be just right. Everything comes as though it were fitted to be as we are going to make it.'

Again he paused, waiting for her answer. Whilst he had been speaking she had worked herself up to the necessary pitch of resolution to tell him something—not all, no! all she could not tell.

'Larry! it cannot be. I am going to marry another.'

He stood still, motionless, not even breathing, gazing at her with stupid wonder. What she said was impossible. Then a puff of north-west wind came from the far ocean, rolling over the down, gathering the fragrance of the yellow sea, and condensing it; then poured it as a breaking wave over the heads of those two standing in the lane cut through the golden trees. And with the odour came a humming, a low thrilling music, as the wind passed through the myriad spines beneath the foam of flower, and set them vibrating as the tongues of Æolian harps. The sweetness and the harmony were in the air, all around, only not in the hearts of those two young people, standing breast deep in the gorse-brake. The wind passed, and all was still once more. They stood opposite each other, speechless. Her hand, which he had let go, had fallen, and the blood dropped from it. How long they thus stood neither knew. He was looking at her; she had bent her head, and the sun on her hair was more glorious than on the gorse-flowers. He would have pierced to the depth of her soul and read it if he could, but he was baffled. There was an impenetrable veil over it, through which he could not see.

'You do not—you have not loved me,' he said with an effort. This was the meaning of her coldness, her reserve. Then he put out his left hand and touched her, touched her lightly on the bosom. That light touch was powerful as the rod of Moses on the rock in Horeb. Her self-control deserted her. She clasped her hands on her breast, and bowed, and burst into convulsive weeping, which was made worse by her efforts to arrest it and to speak.

Hillary said nothing. He was too dazed to ask for any explanation, too stupefied by the unexpected declaration that cut away for ever the ground of his happiness.

She waved her hand. 'Leave me alone. Go, Larry, go! I can tell you nothing more! Let me alone! Oh, leave me alone, Larry!'

He could not refuse to obey, her distress was so great, her entreaty so urgent. Silent, filled with despair, with his eyes on the ground, he went along the straight-cut path towards the road, and nearly ran against Kate.

'Oh! you here!' exclaimed the lively girl, 'then Honor is not far distant. Where is she? What, yonder! and I have been to Langford to look for her. What is the matter? Oh, fiddlesticks! you have been making yourselves and each other miserable. There is no occasion for that till all is desperate, and it is not so yet. Come along, Larry, back to Honor. I must see her; I want to tell her something, and you may as well be by. You are almost one of the family.'

She made him follow her. Honor had recovered her composure when left to herself, unwatched, and she was able to disguise her emotions from her sister.

'Oh, Honor!' exclaimed Kate, 'I have something to tell you. I think you've been a fool, and too precipitate—I do indeed, and so does Sam Voaden. A little while ago I chanced to go down the lane after some water, when, curiously enough, Sam was coming along it, and we had a neighbourly word or two between us. I told Sam all about Charles, and what Mr. Langford charged him with.'

'Kate—you never—!' gasped Honor in dismay.

'I did. Why not? Where's the hurt? Sam swore to me he'd tell no one.'

'What is this?' asked Hillary.

'Don't you know?' retorted Kate. 'What, has Honor not told you? Faith! there never was another girl like her for padlocking her tongue. I'm sure I could not keep from telling. Sam saw I was in trouble and asked the reason, and my breast was as full as my pitcher, so it overflowed. Well, Honor, Sam is not such a fool as some suppose. He has more sense than all we Luxmores put together—leastways, than we had last night. He says he don't believe a word of it, and that you was to blame for acting on it till you knew it was true.'

'It is true. I know it is true,' said Honor disconsolately. 'It is no use denying it.'

'But, as Sam said, why act on it till it is proved? Where is Charles? All you know is from Taverner Langford, and he is an interested party; he may be mistaken, or he may put things wrong way on wilfully.'

'No, Kate, no! You should not have spoken.'

'But I have spoken. If a pitcher is full, will it not run over the brim? I have been over-full, and have overflowed. That is nature, my nature, and I can't help it. No hurt is done. Sam will not talk about it to anyone; and what he says shows more sense than is to be found in all the nine heads that go under our cottage roof, wise as you consider yourself, Honor. Sam says nothing ought to be promised or done till Charles has been seen and you have heard what account he can give of himself.'

'His letter, Kate?'

'Well, what of his letter? He says nothing about stealing in it—stealing a thousand pounds. What he says may mean no more than his running away and leaving ninepence a day for nothing.'

'I am sorry you spoke,' said Honor.

'I am glad I spoke,' said Kate sharply. 'I tell you Sam's brain is bigger than all our nine. He saw the rights of the matter at once, and—look here!—he promised me that he would go and find Charles if he's gone no further than Plymouth.'

'You told him where he was!' exclaimed Honor, aghast.

'Of course I did. I wasn't going to send him off searching to Lundy Isle or Patagonia. Well, Sam says that he'll go and find him on certain conditions?'

'On what conditions?'

'Never mind, they don't concern you, they are private. And he wants to have a talk with Larry first; but Sam says he don't believe Charles took the money. He's too much of a Luxmore to act dishonourable, he said.'

Honor was still unconvinced. 'Larry,' continued Kate, 'will you go at once to Swaddledown and see Sam?'

'Yes; but I understand nothing of what this is about. You must explain it to me.'

'No, Larry, go to Sam—he knows all.'

In after years, when the gorse was flowering full, Honor said to Larry, 'The honey scent always brings back to my memory one day.'

'Yes,' he replied; 'the furze is like love, thorns and flowers; but the flowers grow, and swell, and burst, and blaze, and swallow up the thorns, that none are seen.'

CHAPTER XXXIV.

THE VISITATION.

The amazement of Larry was equalled by his indignation when he heard from Sam Voaden the whole story of the charge against Charles, and of Honor consenting to save him at the cost of herself. He did not share Sam's confidence in the groundlessness of the charge; he thought Charles quite rascal enough to have robbed his master and bolted with the money. Nevertheless he thought that the best thing that could be done was for Sam to go after Charles, as he himself could not do so, on account of his arm and collar-bone; and he urged on Voaden to use his best endeavours, if he found Charles, which was doubtful, to persuade him to return the money, through him, to Langford.

'When he finds that he is suspected he may do that, especially if you threaten to hand him over to the constables should he refuse.'

'I don't believe he ever took it,' said Sam. 'I know Charles better than you.'

Hillary was coming away from Swaddledown, along the road or lane to Broadbury, when he met his uncle Taverner, in his Sunday suit, a hat on his head, walking along lustily, with a stick in his hand.

Larry stood in the way.

'Uncle Taverner,' he said.

'Stand aside,' said Langford roughly.

'One word.'

'Not one! I have nothing to do with you or yours. Stand aside that I may pass on.'

'I cannot; I will not! You are in my path, not I in yours—that is, in the path of my life's happiness.'

Langford looked at him interrogatively.

'Uncle Langford, I must speak to you.'

'I am busy, I have to go to the church. It is the rural dean's visitation. I am churchwarden.'

'I will not detain you long.'

'I will not be detained at all.'

'I must speak to you, uncle. You are too—too cruel! you have come between me and happiness.'

'Get along. Don't think anything you say will make me leave Langford to you.'

'It is not that. I have not given that a thought. But, Honor——'

'What of Honor?' asked Taverner sharply, stopping.

'I love her, uncle—I love her with my whole heart. I always have loved her, more or less, but now I love her as I can love no one else.'

'Oh, that is it!' exclaimed the old man, bending his brows, and disguising his agitation and annoyance by striking the stones out of the road with the end of his stick. 'A boy's fancy, light as thistle-seed; and a boy's head is as full of fancies as a thistle is of seed.'

'Nothing of the sort,' said the young man vehemently. 'There is no one but Honor can make me what I know I ought to become. I have never had a mother or a sister to guide me. I have grown up unchecked, unadvised, and now I want my dear, dear Honor to help me to be what I should be, and am not. Uncle! you sneer at Chimsworthy because it is full of docks, and thistles, and rushes, but I am like that—worthy land, and none but Honor can weed me. Why do you come cruelly in between us, and kill her happiness as well as mine? Her you cannot make other than noble and true, but me!—me, without her you will ruin. I must have Honor! I cannot live without her. Oh, uncle, uncle! what are you doing? It is unworthy of you to use poor Honor's necessity to wring from her her consent. You know she only gives it to save her brother. Why, because she is generous, would you take advantage of her generosity?'

The lad pleaded with earnestness, vehemence, and with tears in his voice. Taverner looked at him, and thought, 'How like he is to his mother! This is Blandina's face and Blandina's voice. He is not a Nanspian, he is a Langford.' But he said roughly, 'Pshaw! let me go by. The rural dean is waiting. Do not you mistake me for a weathercock to be turned by every breath. You must get over your fancy—it is a fancy—or change it to regard for Honor as your aunt. Do not attempt to move me. What is settled is settled.'

As Hillary still interposed himself between Langford and his course the old man raised his stick.

'Come! must I strike you?' he said angrily. 'I've spoken to you more freely than you deserve. Stand aside. I am not to be turned from my way by you or any other.'

He went forward headlong, striking about him with his stick, and was not to be further stayed. He went, as he said, to the church to meet the rural dean, but not only because summoned—he went also to see him as surrogate, and obtain a marriage licence.

'A Langford cannot be married by banns,' he said. 'And I'm not going to have everyone in church sniggering when our names are called.'

As he went along the road, head down, muttering, the face of Hillary haunted him—pale with sickness, refined, spiritualised by suffering, not the suffering of the body but of the mind. He was strangely like Blandina in her last sickness, and there were tones in his voice of entreaty that brought back to Langford memories of his sister and of his mother.

He arrived at the church before the rector and the rural dean. The latter was taking refreshment at the parsonage a mile away. Would Nanspian be there? He did not wish to meet him, but he would not be away lest it should be said he had feared to meet him. Nanspian was not there. He had forgotten all about the visitation.

'He wants a deal of reminding,' said the clerk, who had unlocked the church. 'He forgets most things worse than ever since his stroke.'

Langford disengaged himself from the clerk and entered the church—a noble building, of unusual beauty. In the nave at his feet was a long slate stone, and the name TAVERNER LANGFORD. He knew very well that the stone was there, with its inscription and the date 1635; but as he stood looking at it an uncomfortable feeling came over him, as if he were standing at the edge of his own grave. He was alone in the church. The air was chill and damp, and smelt of decay. The dry-rot was in the pews. The slates were speckled, showing that the church roof was the haunt of bats, who flew about in flights when darkness set in. If it were cold and damp in the church, what must it be in the vault below? He knew what was there—the dust of many Langfords, one or two old lead coffins crushed down by their own weight. And he knew that some day he would lie there, and the 'Taverner Langford' on the stone would apply to him as well as to his ancestor. How horrible to be there at night, with the cold eating into him, and the smell of mildew about him, and the bats fleeting above him! The thought made him uneasy, and he went out of the church into the sunlight, thinking that he would pay a woman to scour the stone of the bat-stains which befouled it. He had never dreamed of doing this before, but when he considered that he must himself lie there, he took a loathing to the bats, and an indignation at the vault-covering stone being disfigured by them.

He walked through the coarse grass to where his sister was laid. She was not buried in the family vault. Nanspian had not wished it.

The clerk came to him.

'Mr. Nanspian had a double-walled grave made,' said the clerk, who was also sexton. 'Folks laughed, I mind, when he ordered it, and said he was sure to marry again—a fine lusty man like he. But they were wrong. He never did. He has bided true to her memory.'

'I would never have forgiven him had he done other,' said Langford.

'I reckon you never forgive him, though he has not,' said the solemn clerk.

Langford frowned and moved his shoulders uneasily.

'The grave is cared for,' said he in a churlish tone.

'Young Larry Nanspian sees to that,' answered the clerk. 'If there be no other good in him there is that—he don't forget what is due to his mother, though she be dead.'

Langford put his stick to the letters on the headstone. 'In loving memory of Blandina Nanspian, only daughter of Moses Langford, of Langford, gent.' 'Oh!' muttered Taverner, 'my father could call himself a gentleman when he had Chimsworthy as well as Langford, but I suppose I can't call myself anything but yeoman on my poor farm. Blandina should never have married, and then Chimsworthy would not have gone out of the family.'

'But to whom would both have gone after your death, Mr. Langford?' asked the clerk. ''Twould be a pity if an old ancient family like yours came to an end, and, I reckon, some day both will be joined again, by Mr. Larry.'

'No, no!—no, no!' growled Taverner, and walked away. He saw the rural dean and the rector coming through the churchyard gate.

An hour later, Taverner was on his way home. He had paid the fee, made the necessary application, and would receive the licence on the morrow. It was too late for him to draw back, even had he been inclined. Taverner was a proud man, and he was obstinate. He flattered himself that when he had once resolved on a thing he always went through with it; no dissuasion, no impediments turned him aside. But he was not easy in mind as he walked home. Never before had he seen the family likeness so strong in Larry; he had caught an occasional look of his mother in the boy's face before, but now that he was ill in mind and body the likeness was striking. Taverner still laid no great weight on Larry's expressed attachment for Honor; he did not know that love was not a fiction, and was unable to conceive of it as anything more than a passing fancy. What really troubled the old man was the prospect of disarrangement of his accustomed mode of life. When he was married his wife would claim entrance into his parlour, and would meddle with what he had there, would use his desk, would come in and out when he was busy, would talk when he wanted quiet. A housekeeper could be kept in order by threat of dismissal, but a wife was tied for life. Then—how about Larry? He might forbid him the house, but would he keep away? Would not he insist on seeing his old friend and companion and love, Honor? That would be dangerous to his own peace of mind, might threaten his happiness. He remembered some words of Mrs. Veale, and his blood rushed through his head like a scalding wave.

When he came to his door Mrs. Veale was there. She seemed to know by instinct his purpose in going to Bratton.

'Have you got it, master?' she asked with husky voice and fluttering eyelids.

'Got what?'

'What you went to get—the licence.'

'It is coming by post to-morrow. Are you satisfied?' he asked, sneering, and with a glance of dislike.

'A corpse-light came up the lane and danced on the doorstep last night,' said Mrs. Veale. 'And you are thinking of marrying! "I'd better have left things as they were," said the man who scalded his dog to clear it of fleas. The spider spread for a midget and caught a hornet. "Marry come up," said the mote (tree-stump), "I will wed the flame;" so she took him, embraced him, and——' Mrs. Veale stooped to the hearth, took up a handful of light wood-ash, and blew it in her master's face from her palm, then said, 'Ashes, remain.'

The ensuing night the house was disturbed. Taverner Langford was ill, complaining of violent sickness, cramps, and burning in the throat. He must have a doctor sent for from Okehampton.

'Get a doctor's foot on your floor and he leaves his shoes,' said Mrs. Veale. 'No, wait till morning. If you're no better then we will send.'

'Go out of my room,' shouted Taverner to the farm men and maids who had crowded in. His calls and hammerings with the stick had roused everyone in the house. 'Do you think I am going to die because I'm took with spasms? Mrs. Veale is enough. Let her remain.'

'I reckon I caught a chill standing in the damp church with the smell of the vaults in my nose,' said Taverner, sitting in his chair and groaning. 'I felt the cold rise.'

'It is waiting,' remarked Mrs. Veale,

'What is waiting?' he asked irritably.

'The corpse-candle; I see it on the doorstep. And you that should be considering to have the bell tolled ordering a wedding peal! Those who slide on ice must expect falls, and elephants mustn't dance on tight-ropes. Rabbits that burrow in bogs won't have dry quarters. The fox said, "Instead of eating I shall be eaten," when, seeking a hen-roost, he walked into a kennel.'

CHAPTER XXXV.

A WARNING.

The day was wet; a warm south-westerly wind was breathing, not blowing, and its breath was steam, a steam that condensed into minute water-drops. The thatch was dripping. The window panes were blind with shiny films of moisture. There had been dry weather for the haysel, glorious weather, and now, just when wanted, the earth was bathed in a cloud. It would be inaccurate to say that it rained. It rained only under the eaves and beneath the trees; the earth was taking a vapour bath.

Honor and Kate were in the cottage, basket-weaving. The children were at school. No wet dismays the Devonian, but east wind throws him on his back, and he shrivels with frost. Kate had recovered her spirits marvellously since her interview with Sam Voaden. She had a buoyant heart; it was like a cork in water, that might be pressed under, but came up with a leap again. She felt keenly for the time, but wounds speedily healed with her. It was other with Honor; she remained depressed, pale, thin looking, and silent. She said nothing to her sister about Hillary. Kate had some glimmering idea that Honor liked the young man, but did not suppose that there was more in her heart than a liking. But Kate, though she dearly loved her sister, was somewhat in awe of her. She never ventured to peer into her soul, and she understood nothing of what went on there. Honor was scrupulous, precise, close; and Kate, though a good-hearted, true girl, was not close, but open, not precise, but careless, and ready to stretch a point of conscience to suit her pleasure. Kate, in the presence of Honor, was much like an unmathematical boy set over a problem in Euclid. She was sure that all was very true in Honor's mind, but also that the process by which it arrived at its conclusions was beyond her understanding. Honor possessed, what is the prerogative of few women, a just mind. Forced by her position into dividing between the children who looked up to her, obliged to consider their complaints against each other in petty quarrels from opposite sides, and of deciding equably, she had acquired breadth and fairness and self-restraint, against action upon impulse. Kate was eager to take sides, and was partial; Honor never. She was always disposed to consider that there was something to be said on the side opposed to that first presented to her, and was cautious not to pronounce an opinion till she had heard both sides. This Kate could not understand, and she regarded her sister as wanting in warmth and enthusiasm.

'No news yet from Sam,' said Kate. 'That is odd. I thought we should have known at once about Charles.'

'How could that be? Plymouth is a large place, and Sam Voaden will not know where to look. It is even possible that Charles may have sailed.'

'If he has sailed you need not be tied to old Langford—that is, not unless you like.'

'I have passed my word. I cannot withdraw.'

'Fiddlesticks-ends! You only promised on condition that Mr. Langford would not proceed against Charles.'

'He has not proceeded.'

'He can't—if Charles is out of England.'

'But he might have done so the day he discovered his loss, before Charles got away. I gave my word to prevent his taking immediate action, and so Charles had time to make his escape from the country.'

'Taverner Langford had no right to ask it of you.'

'He did ask it, and I gave my word. I cannot withdraw now. That would not be fair and right.'

Kate shrugged her shoulders. 'I should pay him out in his own coin.'

'Like Charles at the circus?'

Kate coloured. 'That was another matter altogether. Mr. Langford had no right to put such a price on his forbearance. Besides, I don't believe in Charles's guilt. Sam does not, and, thick as some folks think Sam, he has as much brains as are wanted to fill a large skull, and these of first quality. Sam can see into a millstone.'

'Yes, Kate, but what is in a millstone?—the same as outside.'

'Sam says that he knows Charles is innocent.'

'What reasons does he give?'

'Oh, none at all. I did not ask for any. He thinks it, that is enough for me.'

'He thinks it, now; he knows it, a minute ago.'

'I am quite sure that Charles never took the money.'

'Why?'

'There you are again with your "whys." Because Sam says it.'

'Yes, dear Kate, Sam is a good-hearted fellow, who will not think badly of anyone, and he supposes others are as straightforward as himself.'

'You have a dozen splendid reasons for thinking Charles a thief, and not one of them convinces me. I don't know why, except that Sam is so positive; but I will scratch all the silver off my looking-glass if I am wrong. Charles did not take the money.'

Honor said no more. It was useless arguing with Kate, and nothing was gained if she did convince her. The girls worked on for a few minutes in silence; then Kate burst out with, 'After all, I do not see anything so dreadful in becoming Mrs. Langford. One cannot have everything. Taverner has not the youth and looks of—say Sam Voaden, but Sam Voaden has no money of his own, and Mr. Langford can roll in money when his back itches. Langford is a very fine property still, and the house is first-rate. If I take Sam at any time—I don't say I shall—I shall have to put up with poverty. If you take Taverner Langford you must put up with ugliness. You can't catch herring and hake at one fishing.' Then she burst into a ringing laugh.

'It will be worth while marrying him only for the fun of making Larry Nanspian call you aunt.' Honor winced, but Kate was too tickled by the idea to observe her sister's face.

'When is it to be, Honor? It is mean of you to be so secret about the day. I am your sister, and I ought to know.'

'I only do not tell you because you cannot keep a secret, and I wish no one to know till all is over. Some morning when nothing is expected, it——' She shivered and turned her face to the wall.

'I will not blab. I will not, indeed, dear.'

'Some day this week. Well, if you must know, Thursday. Pray be secret; you will only add to my pain, my shame, if it be known, and a crowd of the curious be assembled to see. He also wished it to be kept from getting wind. Indeed, he insisted.'

'I don't like a marriage without smart and bridesmaids. Who is to be best man? I don't believe old Taverner has a friend anywhere. Why—Honor, he'll be my brother-in-law. That is a strange prospect. We'll come up to Langford and see you every day, that you may not be dull. What are you going to do with Mrs. Veale? You are surely not going to keep her! Do you know, Honor, in the kitchen is a darling china spaniel, just like ours yonder on the mantel-piece, and he turns his head the opposite way to ours. I'm really glad you are going to marry Mr. Langford, because then the dogs will make a pair. They look so desolate, one here and the other there; they are ordained to keep company.' Honor said nothing; she let her sister rattle on without paying heed to her tattle.

'Honor,' said Kate, 'do you know whence Charles got the notion of putting the five-pound note under the dog? Guess.'

'I cannot guess. It does not matter.'

'Yes, it does matter. Charles got the notion from sweet Mrs. Veale. When I was at Langford looking for you, I saw that she used the dog as a place for putting things away that must not lie about. If you turn one of these china dogs on end, you will see that they are hollow. Well, Mrs. Veale had stuffed a packet of rat poison into the dog. You remember the man at the Revel who sold hones and packets of poison for mice and rats? Do you not recollect the board above his table with the picture on it of the vermin tumbling about as if drunk, and some lying on their backs dead? All his packets were in yellow paper with a picture on them in small like that on the board. It does not seem right to let poison lie about. I should lock it up if I had it; but Mrs. Veale is unlike everyone else in her appearance and in her talk, and, I suppose, in her actions. She keeps the yellow paper of rat-poison in the body of the china spaniel. I saw her take it thence, and stow it in there again. The place is not amiss. No one would dream of looking there for it. Who knows? Perhaps Mrs. Veale keeps her money in the same place. Charles may have seen that, and when he came here, and wanted to give us five pounds and escape thanks, he put it under the dog. That is reasonable, is it not, Honor?' Honor did not answer.

'I declare!' exclaimed Kate impatiently. 'You have not been attending to what I said.'

'Yes, I have, Kate.'

'What was I saying? Tell me if you can.'

'You said that Mrs. Veale kept her money in a china dog on the chimneypiece.'

'No, I did not. I said she kept rat-poison there in a yellow paper.'

'Yes, Kate, so you did. She hides the poison there lest careless hands should get hold of it.'

'I am glad you have had the civility to listen. You seemed to me to be in a dream. I don't think, after all, Honor, but for Sam, that I should mind being in your place. It must be an experience as charming as new to have money at command. After all, an old man in love is led by the nose, and you, Honor, he must love, so you can take him about, and make him do exactly what you want. I almost envy you. Where is father?'

'Gone to see Frize, the shoemaker. I had a pair of shoes ordered from him two months ago, and father has gone to see if they are done. I shall want them on Thursday.'

'Father is quite pleased at the idea of your marriage. I know he is. He makes sure of getting Coombe Park. He says that Mr. Langford will lend the money; and he expects grand days when we get our own again. Father don't believe any more in Charles being guilty, after I told him Sam's reasons.'

'What reasons?'

'Well, I mean assertions. Does father know the day on which you are to be married?'

'No, Kate. Mr. Langford wished him not to be told. Father is so obliging, so good-natured, that if anyone were to press him to tell, he could not keep the secret, so we thought it best not to let him know till just at the last.'

'Won't father be proud when you are at Langford! Why, the van will not contain all his self-importance. To have his eldest daughter married into one of the best and oldest families of the neighbourhood, to be planted in the best house—after Squire Impey's—in the parish! My dear Honor! an idea strikes me. Shall I throw myself at Squire Impey's head? Father would go stark mad with pride if that were so—that is, if I succeeded. And if he got Coombe back, we three would rule the parish. We might all three become feoffees of Coryndon's Charity, and pass the land round among us. That would be grand! Honor! what is to be done with Mrs. Veale? I cannot abide the woman. It was a queer idea, was it not, putting the rat-poison in the china dog?'

All at once Kate looked up. 'My dear Honor, talk of somebody that shall be nameless, and he is sure to appear.' She spoke in a whisper, as Mrs. Veale came from the steps in at the door. She had a dark cloak thrown over her pale cotton dress. She stood in the doorway blinking nervously.

Honor stood up, put her light work aside, and, with her usual courtesy to all, went towards her. 'Do you want me, Mrs. Veale? Will you take a chair??

'No, I will not sit down. So'—she looked about—'you will go from a hovel to a mansion! At least, so you expect. Take care! Take care, lest, in trying to jump into the saddle, you jump over the horse.'

Honor moved a chair towards the woman, Kate looked curiously at her. The pale, faded creature stood looking about her in an inquisitive manner. 'I've come with a message,' she said. 'You are very set on getting into Langford, eh? Oh, Langford is a palace to this cottage.'

Honor did not answer. She drew up her head, and made no further offer of a seat. 'What is your message?' she asked coldly. But Kate fired up in her sister's defence, and, tossing her head, said, 'Don't you suppose, Mrs. Veale, that Honor, or my father, or I, or Joe, or any of us think that a prize has been drawn in your master. Quite the other way—he is in luck. He don't deserve what he has got, for Honor is a treasure.'

'What message have you brought?' asked Honor again.

The vindictiveness against the girl seemed to have disappeared from the woman—at least, she did not look at Honor with the same malevolent glance as formerly; and, indeed, she was not now so full of hate against her as anger against Langford—the deadlier passion had obscured the weaker.

'What is the message?' she repeated.

'Oh, this: You and your father are to come up to Langford as soon as you can. Lawyer Physick be there and waiting.' Then, with quivering voice and eyelids, and trembling hands thrust through her black cloak, 'I—I be sent wi' this message. He had the face to send me! Him that I've served true, and followed as a hound these fifteen years, turns against me now, and drives me from his door! Look here, Miss Honor Luxmore!' She held up her long white finger before her face. 'I've knowed a man as had a dog, and that dog wi' ill-treatment went mad, and when the dog were mad she bit her master, and he died.' She blinked and quivered, and as she quivered the water-drops flew off her cloak over the slate floor, almost as if a poodle had shaken himself. 'Take care!' she said again, 'take care! The man that kicks at me won't spare you. Take care, I say again. Be warned against him. I've given you his message, but don't take it. Don't go to Langford. Let Lawyer Physick go away. The licence has come. Let it go to light a fire. Make no use of it. Stay where you are, and let the master find he's been made a fool of. Best so! In the hitting of nails you may hammer your knuckles. I've served him fifteen years as if I were his slave, and now he bids me pack. "I should have thought of my thatch before I fired my chimney," said the man who was burnt out of house and home.'

'Go back to Langford, and say that my father and I will be there shortly.'

'Then take the consequences.' Mrs. Veale's eyes for a moment glittered like steel, then disappeared under her winking white lashes. She turned and left the cottage, muttering, 'When the owl hoots look out for sorrow. When the dog bays he smells death, and I am his dog—and, they say, his blinking owl.'

CHAPTER XXXVI.

A SETTLEMENT.

Oliver Luxmore entered shortly after Mrs. Veale had left. 'Frize promises the shoes by Monday,' he said.

Then Honor told him that he and she were awaited at Langford, and she went upstairs to get herself ready. In the corner of her room was an old oak box, in which she kept her clothes and few treasures. She opened it, and took out the red cloak, her best and brightest pair of red stockings. Then she touched the paper that contained the kerchief Larry had given her. Should she wear it? No; that she could not wear, and yet she felt as if to have it crossed over her bosom would give it warmth and strength. She opened the paper and looked at the white silk, with its pretty moss-rose buds and sprigs of forget-me-not. A tear fell from her eye on it. She folded it up again, and put it away.

Presently she came downstairs, dressed to go with her father. On Sundays she wore a straw bonnet with cherry-coloured ribbons in it, but now that the air was full of moisture she could not risk her pretty bows in the wet. She would draw the hood of her scarlet cloak over her head.

Neither she nor her father spoke much on the way to Langford. He was, as Kate had said, not ill-pleased at the alliance—indeed, but for the trouble about Charles, he would have been exultant.

Honor had been brought to accept what was best for her and for all the family at last. Oliver had easily accepted Kate's assertion that Charles was innocent, but he would not maintain the innocence of Charles before Honor, lest it should cause her to draw back from her engagement.

Even on a fine day, with the sun streaming in at the two windows, Langford's parlour was not cheerful. It was panelled with deal, painted slate-grey; the mouldings were coarse and heavy. There were no curtains to the windows, only blinds, no carpet on the floor, and the furniture was stiff, the chairs and sofa covered with black horsehair. What was in the room was in sound condition and substantial, but tasteless. Even the table was bare of cover. Till Honor entered in her scarlet cloak there was not a speck of pure colour in the room. She removed her cloak, and stood in a dark gown, somewhat short, showing below it a strip of red petticoat and her red stockings. Round her neck was a white handkerchief, of cotton, not of silk.

Mr. Physick and Langford were at the table; they were waiting, and had been expecting them. Both rose to receive her and her father, the first with effusion, the latter with some embarrassment.

'What is the matter with you, sir?' asked the carrier of Taverner Langford. 'You don't look yourself to-day.'

'I've been unwell,' answered the yeoman. 'I had to be down at the church t'other day to meet the rural dean, as I'm churchwarden, and Nanspian is too lazy to act; I heated myself with walking, and I had an encounter with the young Merry Andrew on the way.' He glanced at Honor, but she neither stirred nor raised her eyes from the table. 'Some words passed. He was impudent, and I nigh on thrashed him. I would have chastised him, but that he had a broken arm. My blood was up, and I had to stand in the damp church, and I reckon I got a chill there. I was taken bad in the night, and thought I must die—burning pains and cramps, but it passed off. I'm better now. It was an inflammation, but I'm getting right again. I have to be careful what I eat, that is all. Slops—slops. I wouldn't dare touch that,' said he, pointing to a brandy bottle beside the lawyer. 'It would feed the fire and kill me.'

'My opinion is that the affection is of the heart, not of the stomach,' laughed Physick, 'and when I look at Miss Honor I'm not surprised at the burning. Enough to set us all in flames, eh, Langford? Heartburn, man, heartburn!—nothing worse than that, and now you're going to take the best medicine to cure that disorder.'

'Not that at all,' said Taverner surlily. 'I caught a chill across me standing waiting in the church at the visitation; I felt the cold and damp come up out of the vault to me. I was taken ill the same night.'

'You've a nice house here,' said the lively Physick, 'a little cold such a day as this, with the drizzle against the windows, but—love will keep it warm. What do you think, Miss Honor, of the nest, eh? Lined with wool, eh? well, money is better than wool.'

Honor measured him with a haughty glance, and Physick, somewhat disconcerted, turned to the carrier and Mr. Langford to discuss business.

Honor remained standing, cold, composed, and resolute, but with a heart weaker than her outward appearance betokened. 'Come,' said Physick, 'next to the parson I'm the most necessary workman to hammer the chain. The parson can do something for the present, I for the future. If you will listen to the settlement, you won't grumble at my part. Little as you may think of me, I've had your interests in eye. I've taken care of you.'

'You have done nothing but what I have bid you,' said Taverner roughly. 'Oliver Luxmore and I talked it over before you, and you have written what we decided.'

'Oh, of course, of course!' exclaimed Physick, 'but there are two ways of doing a thing. A slip of the pen, a turn of expression, and all is spoiled. I've been careful, and I do consider it hard that the parson who blesses the knot should be allowed to claim a kiss, and the lawyer who plaits it should not be allowed even to ask for one.' He glanced at Taverner and Oliver and winked.

'Certainly, certainly,' said the carrier.

'Come,' said Langford, 'to business. I want her'—he pointed with his elbow at Honor—'to see what I have done. I'm a fair man, and I want her to see that I have dealt generously by her, and to know if she be content.'

'I have asked you for one thing, Mr. Langford, and that you have refused. I must needs be content with whatever you have decided for me, but I care for nothing else.'

'Listen, listen, Honor, before you speak,' said Oliver Luxmore. 'I have considered your interests as your father, and I think you will say that I also have dealt handsomely by you.'

'You, dear father!' She wondered what he could have done, he who had nothing, who was in debt.

'Read,' said Luxmore, and coughed a self-complacent, important cough.

The settlement was simple. It provided that in the event of Honor becoming a widow, in accordance with a settlement made in the marriage of Moses Langford and Blandina Hill, the father and mother of Taverner Langford, the property should be charged to the amount of seventy-five pounds to be levied annually, and that, in the event of issue arising from the contemplated marriage, in accordance with the afore-mentioned settlement the property was to go to the eldest son, charged with the seventy-five pounds for his mother, and that every other child was, on its coming of age, to receive one hundred pounds, to be levied out of the estate. And it was further agreed between Taverner Langford and Oliver Luxmore that, in the event of the latter receiving the estates of the Luxmore family, named Coombe Park, in the parish of Bratton Clovelly and other, he, the said Oliver Luxmore, should pay to Taverner Langford, the husband of his daughter, the sum of five hundred pounds to be invested in the three per cents. for the benefit of the said Honor Langford, alias Luxmore, during her lifetime, and to her sole use, and with power of disposal by will. This was the stipulation Oliver had made; he insisted on this generous offer being accepted and inserted in the marriage contract. Honor listened attentively to every word. She was indifferent what provision was made for herself, but she hoped against conviction that Langford would bind himself to do something for her father. Instead of that her father had bound himself to pay five hundred pounds in the improbable event of his getting Coombe Park. Poor father! poor father!

'You have done nothing of what I asked,' said Honor.

'I have no wish to act ungenerously,' answered Taverner. 'Your request was reasonable; however, I have acted fairly, I have promised to advance your father a hundred pounds to assist him in the prosecuting of his claims.'

'There,' said Oliver Luxmore, 'you see, Honor, that your marriage is about to help the whole family. We shall come by our lights at last. We shall recover Coombe Park.'

Then Taverner went to the door and called down the passage, 'Mrs. Veale! Come here! You are wanted to witness some signatures.'

The housekeeper came, paler, more trembling than usual, with her eyes fluttering, but with sharp malignant gleams flashing out of them from under the white throbbing lashes.

'I be that nervous,' she said, 'and my hand shakes so I can hardly write.'

She stooped, and indeed her hand did tremble. 'I'm cooking the supper,' she said, 'you must excuse the apron.' As she wrote she turned her head and looked at her master. He was not observing her, and the lawyer was indicating the place where she was to write and was holding down the sheet, but Honor saw the look full of deadly hate, a look that made her heart stand still, and the thought to spring into her brain, 'That woman ought not to remain in the house another hour, she is dangerous.'

When Mrs. Veale had done, she rose, put her hands under her apron, curtsied, and said, 'May I make so bold as to ask if that be the master's will?'

'No, it is not,' said Langford.

'Thank you, sir,' said Mrs. Veale, curtseying again. 'You'll excuse the liberty, but if it had been, I'd have said, remember I've served your honour these fifteen years faithful as a dog, and now in my old age I'm kicked out, though not past work.'

She curtsied again, and went backward out of the room into the passage.

Langford shut, slammed the door in her face.

'Is the woman a little touched here?' asked the lawyer, pointing to his forehead.

'Oh no, not a bit, only disappointed. She has spent fifteen years in laying traps for me, and I have been wise enough to avoid them all.' Then he opened the door suddenly and saw her there, in the dark passage, her face distorted with passion and her fist raised.

'Mrs. Veale,' said the yeoman, 'lay the supper and have done with this nonsense.'

'I beg your pardon,' she said, changing her look and making another curtsey, 'was it the marriage settlement now? I suppose it was. I wish you every happiness, and health to enjoy your new condition. Health and happiness! I'm to leave, and that young chick to take my place. May she enjoy herself. And, Mr. Langford, may you please, as long as you live, to remember me.'

'Go along! Lay the table, and bring in supper.'

'What will you please to take, master?' asked the woman in an altered tone.

'Bring me some broth. I'll take no solids. I'm not right yet. For the rest, the best you have in the house.'

Mrs. Veale laid the table. The lawyer, Langford, the carrier, and Honor were seated round the room, very stiffly, silent, watching the preparations for the meal.

Presently Honor started up. She was unaccustomed to be waited upon, incapable of remaining idle.

'I will go help to prepare the supper,' she said, and went into the passage.

This passage led directly from the front door through the house to the kitchen. It was dark; all the light it got was from the front door, or through the kitchen when one or other door was left open. Originally the front door had opened into a hall or reception room with window and fireplace; but Taverner had battened off the passage, and converted the old hall into a room where he kept saddles and bridles and other things connected with the stables. By shutting off the window by the partition he had darkened the passage, and consequently the kitchen door had invariably to be left open to light it. In this dark passage stood Honor, looking down it to the kitchen which was full of light, whilst she pinned up the skirt of her best gown, so as not to soil it whilst engaged in serving up the supper. As she stood thus she saw Mrs. Veale at the fire stirring the broth for her master in an iron saucepan. She put her hand to the mantelshelf, took down the china dog, and Honor saw her remove from its inside a packet of yellow paper, empty the contents into the pan, then burn the paper and pour the broth into a bowl. In a moment Kate's story of the rat poison in the body of the dog recurred to Honor, and she stood paralysed, unable to resolve what to do. Then she recalled the look cast at Taverner by Mrs. Veale as she was signing the settlement as witness. Honor reopened the parlour door, went into the room again she had just left, and seated herself, that she might collect her thoughts and determine what to do. Kate was not a reliable authority, and it was not judicious to act on information given by her sister without having proved it. Honor had seen Mrs. Veale thrust the yellow paper into the flames under the pot. She could not therefore be sure by examination that it was the rat-poison packet. She remained half in a dream whilst the supper was laid, and woke with a start when Taverner said, 'Come to table all, and we will ask a blessing.'

Honor slowly drew towards the table; she looked round. Mrs. Veale was not there; before Taverner stood the steaming bowl of soup.

Langford murmured grace, then said, 'Fall to. Oliver Luxmore, you do the honours. I can't eat, I'm forced to take slops. But I'm better, only I must be careful.' He put his spoon into the basin, and would have helped himself, had not Honor snatched the bowl away and removed it to the mantelshelf.

'You must not touch it,' she said. 'I am not sure—I am afraid—I would not accuse wrongfully—it is poisoned.'

CHAPTER XXXVII.

A BOWL OF BROTH.

The words were hardly out of Honor's mouth before the party were surprised by a noise of voices and feet in the kitchen, and a cry as of dismay or fear. A moment after the tramp was in the passage the parlour door was flung open, and Sam Voaden, Hillary Nanspian and his father, Piper, Charles Luxmore, and Mrs. Veale came in, the latter gripped firmly by Piper and Charles.

'Here I am,' said young Luxmore, with his usual swagger, and with some elation in his tone, 'here I am, come to know what the deuce you mean, Mr. Langford, charging me—a gentleman—not to the face but behind the back, with stealing your money? Look here, Sam, produce the box. There is your cash—whether right or not I cannot say. I have taken none of it. I did not remove the case. Tell 'em where you found it, Sam.'

'I found it in Wellon's Mound,' said the young man appealed to. 'I've been to Plymouth after Charles. I didn't believe he was a thief, but I'd hard matter to find him. Howsomedever, I did in the end, and here he be. He came along ready enough. He was out of money—wanted to go to America, but had not the means of paying his passage, and not inclined to work it.'

'I've lost a finger,' exclaimed Charles. 'How could I work, maimed as I am?—a wounded soldier without a pension! That is shameful of an ungrateful country.'

'He took on badly,' continued Sam, 'when I told him that Mr. Langford said he had stolen his cashbox with a thousand pounds.'

'I'm a Luxmore of Coombe Park,' said Charles, drawing himself up. 'I'm not one of your vulgar thieves, not I. Mrs. Veale did her best to tempt me to take it, but I resisted it manfully. At last I ran away, afraid lest she should over-persuade me and get me into trouble, when I saw she had actually got the box. I ran away from Mrs. Veale, and because ninepence a day wasn't sufficient to detain me. I wasn't over-sure neither that I hadn't, against my intention, broke the neck of Larry Nanspian. Now you know my reasons, and they're good in their way. Mrs. Veale, there, is a reg'lar bad un.'

'As soon as Sam returned with Charles,' said Larry, 'they came on direct to Chimsworthy, and then Charles told us the whole tale, how Mrs. Veale had shown him where Mr. Langford kept his money, then how she'd enticed him out on the moor to Wellon's Cairn, and had let him see that she had carried off the box and had concealed it there. Charles told us that it was then that he ran away, and frightened my horse so that I was thrown and injured.'

'There was nothing ungentlemanly or unsoldierlike in my cutting away,' exclaimed Charles. 'Adam was beguiled by Eve, and I didn't set myself up to be a better man than my great forefather. I'd like to know which of the company would like to be fondled by Mrs. Veale, and made much of, and coaxed to run away with her? She's a bad un. It wasn't like I should reciprocate.'

'When we had heard the story,' continued Larry, 'I persuaded my father and Mr. Piper, who was at our house, to come along with us and see the whole matter cleared up. We went immediately to Wellon's Cairn, and found, as Charles Luxmore said we should, a stone box or coffin, hidden in the hill, with bushes of heather and peat over the hole. That we cleared away, and were able to put our hands in, and extracted from the inside this iron case. It is yours, is it not, Mr. Langford?'

He put the cashbox on the table, taking it into his left hand from his father.

Taverner went to it and examined it. 'Yes,' he said slowly, 'this is the stolen box.'

'The lock is uninjured, it is fast,' said Charles; 'but I can tell you how to open it. "Ebal" is the word this year, and "Onam" was last year's word. Try the letters of the lock and the box will fly open. I know; Mrs. Veale told me. A reg'lar bad un she be, and how she has worreted me the time I've been here!—at ninepence, and Mrs. Veale not even good-looking.'

'How about the five-pound note?' asked Langford, looking hard at Charles from under his contracted heavy brows. 'You can't deny you had that.'

'What five-pound note?—what five-pound note have I had from you?'

'The note you gave us, Charles,' explained his father.

'Oh, that. Did it come from your box? I did not know it; Mrs. Veale gave it me. Now, don't you glow'r at me that way!' This was to the housekeeper, who had turned her white, quivering face towards him. 'Now don't you try to wriggle or shiver yourself out of my hold, for go you don't; as you couldn't catch me, I've caught you, and to justice I'll bring you; a designing, harassing, sweethearting old female, you be!' He gripped her so hard that she exclaimed with pain. 'And to lay it on me when I was gone! To make out I—that am innocent as the angels in heaven—was a thief! And I, a Luxmore of Coombe Park, and a hero of the Afghan War!—I, that carried off the sandal-wood gates of Somnath! I, a thief! I, indeed! Mrs. Veale gave me, off and on, money when I was short—I wasn't very flush on ninepence a day. A man of my position and bringing up and military tastes can't put up well with ninepence. I only accepted her money as a loan; and when she let me have a five-pound note, I gave her a promise to pay for it when I came into my property. How was I to know that five pound was not hers? I suppose, by the way you ask, it was not?'

'No,' said Langford, 'it was not; it was taken from my box.'

'That is like her—a bad un down to the soles of her feet. Wanted to mix me up with it and have evidence against me. I reckon I've turned the tables on the old woman—considerably.'

'What do you say to this?' asked Taverner, directing his keen eyes on her face. She was flickering so that it was impossible to catch her eyes. Her face was as though seen through the hot air over a kiln.

'I've been in your service fifteen years,' she said, in a voice as vibrating as the muscles of her countenance. 'I've been treated by you no better than a dog, and I've followed you, and been true to you as a dog. Whenever did I take anything from you before? I've watched for you against the mice that eat the corn, watched like an owl!'

'You acknowledge this?'

'What is the good of denying it? Let me go, for my fifteen years' faithful duty.'

'No, no,' said Taverner with a hard voice. 'Not yet; I've something more to ask. Honor Luxmore, what did you say when you took my bowl of broth from me?' Honor drew back.

'I spoke too hastily,' she said. 'I spoke without knowing.'

'You said that the bowl contained poison. Why did you say that?'

'It was fancy. Let me throw the broth away. I am sure of nothing.' Unlike her usual decision, Honor was now doubtful what to say and do.

'I insist on knowing. I made a charge against your brother, and it has proved false, because it has been gone into. You have made a charge——'

'I have charged no one.'

'You have said that this bowl'—he took it from the shelf—'is poisoned. Why did you say that? No one touched it, no one mixed it, but Mrs. Veale. Therefore, when you said it was poisoned, you charged her with a dreadful crime; you charged her, that is, with an attempted crime.'

'I heard my sister say that she saw a yellow packet of rat-poison in the china dog on the shelf in the kitchen,' said Honor nervously, 'which—I do not mean the dog—I mean the poison, which Mrs. Veale had bought at the Revel, and when I was in the passage just now I saw Mrs. Veale put the contents of this packet into the broth she was stirring on the fire, before pouring it out into the basin, in which it now is. But,' continued Honor, drawing a long breath, 'but Kate is not very accurate; she sometimes thinks she sees a thing when she has only imagined it, and she talks at random at times, just because she likes to talk.'

'It was mace,' said Mrs. Veale.

'Follow me,' ordered Taverner Langford, taking the basin between his hands, and going to the door. 'Let her go. She will follow me.'

'I've followed at your heel as a dog these fifteen years,' muttered Mrs. Veale, 'and now you know I must follow till you kick me away.'

Charles, however, would not relinquish his hold.

'Don't let her escape,' entreated Charles; 'she's a bad un, and ought to be brought to justice for falsely charging me.'

'Open the door, will you?' said Taverner roughly. 'Mrs. Veale, follow me into the harness-room'—this was the room on the other side of the passage, the room made out of the entrance hall.

Charles drew the woman through the door, and did not relax his hold till he had thrust her into the apartment where Langford wished to speak to her alone.

Taverner and she were now face to face without witnesses. The soft warm mist had changed to rain, that now pattered against the window. The room was wholly unfurnished. There was not a chair in it nor a table. Taverner had originally intended it as an office, but as he received few visitors he had come to use the parlour as reception room and office, and had made this apartment, cut from the hall, into a receptacle for lumber. A range of pegs on the wall supported old saddles and the gear of cart-horses, and branches of beanstalks, that had been hung there to dry for the preservation of seed. An unpleasant, stale odour hung about the room. The grate had not been used for many years, and was rusty; rain had brought the soot down the chimney, and, as there was no fender, had spluttered it over the floor. The window panes were dirty, and cobwebs hung in the corners of the room from the ceiling—old cobwebs thick with dust. Moths had eaten into the stuffing of the saddles, and, disturbed by the current of air from the door, fluttered about. In the corner was a heap of sacks, with nothing in them, smelling of earth and tar.

'I've served you faithful as a dog,' said Mrs. Veale. 'Faithful as a dog,' she repeated; 'watched for you, wakeful as an owl.'

'And like a dog snarl and snap at me with poisoned fangs,' retorted Mr. Langford. 'Stand there!' He pointed to a place opposite him, so that the light from the window fell on her, and his own face was in darkness. 'Tell me the truth; what have you done to this broth?'

'If you think there's harm in it, throw it away,' said Mrs. Veale.

'No, I will not. I will send it to Okehampton and have it analysed. Do you know what that means? Examined whether there be anything in it but good juice of meat and water and toast.'

'There's mace,' said the woman; 'I put in mace to spice it, and pepper and salt.'

'Anything else? What do you keep in yellow paper, and in the china dog?'

'Mace—every cook puts mace in soup. If you don't like it throw it away, and I will make you some without.'

'Mrs. Veale, so there's nothing further in the soup?'

'Nothing.'

'You warned me that a corpse-candle was coming to the door—nay, you said you had seen it travel up the road and dance on the step, and that same night I was taken ill.'

'Well, did I bring the corpse-light? It came of itself.'

'Mrs. Veale, I am not generally accounted a generous man, but I pride myself on being a just man. You have told me over and over again that you have served me faithfully for fifteen years. Well, you have had your way. You served me in your own fashion, with your head full of your own plans. You wanted to catch me, but the wary bird don't hop on the limed twig, to use your own expressions. I don't see that I'm much in your debt; if you are disappointed in the failure of your plans, that's your look-out; you should have seen earlier that nothing was to be made out of me. Now I am ready to stretch a point with you. You have robbed me. Fortunately for me, I've got my money and box back before you have been able to make off with it. What were you waiting for? For my death? For my marriage? Were you going to finish me because I had not been snared by your blandishments? I believe you intended to poison me.'

'It's a lie!' said Mrs. Veale hoarsely, trembling in every limb, and with flickering lips and eyes and nostrils and fluttering hair.

'Very well. I am content to believe so. I can, if I choose, proceed against you at once—have you locked up this very night for your theft. But I am willing to deal even generously with you. It may be I have overlooked your many services; I may have repaid them scantily. You may be bitterly disappointed because I have not made you mistress of this house, and I will allow that I didn't keep you at arm's length as I should, finding you useful. Very well. The door is open. You shall go away and none shall follow, on one condition.'

He looked fixedly at her, and her quivering became more violent. She did not ask what his condition was. She knew.

'Finish this bowl, and convince me you were not bent on my murder.'

She put out her hands to cover her face, but they trembled so that she could not hold them over her eyes.

'If you refuse, I shall know the whole depth of your wickedness, and you shall only leave this room under arrest. If you accept, the moor is before you; go over it where you will.'

He held the bowl to her. Then her trembling ceased—ceased as by a sudden spasm. She was still, set in face as if frozen; and her eyes, that glared on her master, were like pieces of ice. She said nothing, but took the bowl and put it to her lips, and, with her eyes on him, she drained it to the dregs.

Then the shivering, like a palsy, came over her again. 'Let me go,' she said huskily. 'Let none follow. Leave me in peace.' Langford opened the door and went back into the parlour. Mrs. Veale stole out after him, and those in the sitting-room heard her going down the passage like a bird, flapping against the walls on each side.

'Where is she going?' asked Charles. 'She is not to escape us. She's such a bad un, trying to involve me.'

'I've forgiven her.' answered Langford in a surly tone. 'I mayn't be over generous, but I'm just.'

'And now, Taverner, one word wi' you,' said old Nanspian. 'I reckon you thought to sloke away this Red Spider, as you did the first; but there you are mistaken. As I've heard, you have tried to force her to accept you—who are old enough to be her father—shame be to you! But this is your own house, and I'll say no more on what I think. Now, Taverner, I venture to declare you have no more hold on the girl. Her brother never took your money; you were robbed by your own housekeeper. You say you've forgiven her because you are just. What the justice is, in that, I don't see, but I do see one thing clear as daylight, and that is, you've no right any more to insist on Honor coming here as your wife, not unless by her free will and consent, and that, I reckon, you won't have, as Larry, my boy, has secured her heart.'

Langford looked at Nanspian, then at Honor and Larry; at the latter he looked long.

'I suppose it is so,' he said. 'Give me the settlement.' He tore it to pieces. 'I'll have nothing more to do with women, old or young. They're all vexatious.'

'Hark!' They heard a wailing cry.

'Go and see what is the matter,' said Langford to Piper; then, turning to Oliver, he said, 'I tear up the settlement, but I'll not lend the hundred pounds.'

'Larry!' said old Nanspian, 'she shan't be sloked away any more. Take the maid's hand, and may the Lord bless and unite you.' Then to Langford, 'Now look y' here, Taverner. Us have been quarrelling long enough, I reckon. You've tried your worst against us, and you've failed. I've made the first advance on my side, and uninvited come over your doorstep, a thing I swore I never would do. Give me your hand, brother-in-law, and let us forget the past, or rather let us go back to a past before we squabbled over a little Red Spider. You can't help it now; Langford and Chimsworthy will be united, but not whilst we old folk are alive, and Honor will be a queen o' managers. She'll rake the maidens out of their beds at five o'clock in the morning to make the butter, and——'

Piper burst into the room. 'Mrs. Veale!' he exclaimed.

'Well, what of Mrs. Veale?' asked Langford sharply.

'She has run out, crying like an owl and flapping her arms, over the moor, till she came to Wellon's Hill.'

'Let her go,' said Langford.

'She went right into the mound,' continued Piper breathlessly, 'and when I came up she had crawled into the stone coffin inside, and had only her arm out, and she was tearing and scraping at the earth and drawing it down over the hole by which she'd gone in—burying herself alive, and wailing like an owl.'

'Is there any money still hid there?' asked Langford.

'She screamed at me when I came up, "Will you not leave me alone? I be poisoned! I be dying! Let me die in peace!" Whatever shall us do?'

CHAPTER XXXVIII.

THE LOOK-OUT STONE.

One Sunday evening, a year after the events just related, Taverner Langford and Hillary Nanspian, senior, were seated in the sun on the Look-out stone, in friendly conversation. Nanspian was looking happier, more hale, and prosperous than he had appeared since his stroke. He wore the badger-skin waistcoat, and his shirtsleeves. The waistcoat had been relined with brilliant crimson stuff; bright was the hue of the lining displayed by the lappets. Taverner Langford had not a cheerful expression; his hair was more grizzled than it was twelve months ago, and his face more livid. There was, however, a gentler light in his eyes.

'It is a great change in Larry,' said Nanspian. 'Though I say it, there never was a steadier and better son. He is at work from morning to night, and is getting the farm into first-rate order—you'll allow that?'

'Yes,' answered Langford, 'I'll allow he begins well; I hope it will last. As for first-rate order, that I will not admit. "One year's seeds, three years' weeds," as Mrs. Veale——'

He checked himself.

'That were a queer creature,' observed Nanspian, taking the pipe from his mouth, and blowing a long puff. 'That was the queerest thing of all, her burying herself, when she felt she was dying, in old Wellon's grave.'

'It was not his grave. It was a grave of the old ancient Britons.'

'Well, it don't matter exactly whose the grave was. Mrs. Veale seemed mighty set on making it her own.' He continued puffing, looking before him. 'I'm not sure you acted right about her,' he said after a while. 'I suppose you didn't really suppose there was any poison in the broth.'

'I'm a just man,' said Langford, 'To do as you were to be done by is my maxim. And—it's Gospel.'

'But you didn't think it would kill her?'

'I don't know what I thought. I wasn't sure.'

Another pause.

'Swaddledown ain't coming to the hammer after all,' said Nanspian.

'No, I'm glad the Voadens remain on.'

'Ah! and Sam is a good lad. I reckon before Michaelmas he and Kate will make a pair. They'd have done that afore if it had been settled whether Swaddledown would be sold, and they have to leave.'

'Kate is too giddy to be any use in a farm.'

'Oh, wait till she has responsibilities. See how well she has managed since Honor has been here—how she has kept the children, and made her father comfortable.'

'The children are half their time at Chimsworthy.'

'Well, well, I like to hear their voices.'

'And you see more than you like of Luxmore.'

'Oh, no, I like to see a neighbour. I allow I'm a bit weary of Coombe Park; but bless you, now you and I let him have a trifle, he spends most of his time when not in the van rambling about from one parish to another looking at the registers, and trying to find whether his grandfather were James, or John, or Joseph, or Jonah. It amuses him, and it don't cost much.'

'He'll never establish his claim.'

'I reckon he won't. But it's an occupation, and the carrying don't bring him much money—just enough to keep the children alive on.'

'Have you heard of Charles lately?'

'Oh, he is on the road. That was a fine idea, making a carrier of him between Exeter and Launceston. There are so many stations on the way—there's Tap House, and Crockernwell, and Sticklepath, and Okehampton, and Sourton Down Inn, and Bridestowe, and Lew Down, and Lifton; and he can talk to his heart's content at each about what he did in Afghanistan, and what he might be if his father could prove his claim to Coombe Park. Then he's so occupied with his horses on Sundays at Launceston that he can't possibly get over here to see his relations, which is a mercy.'

'I've been thinking,' said Langford, 'as we've got Larry in for third feoffee in Coryndon's Charity, couldn't we get the baby in for the fourth now there's a vacancy?'

'But the baby ain't come yet, and I don't know whether it'll be a boy or a maid.'

'It would be a satisfaction, and a further bond of union,' argued Langford. 'The Coryndon trust land comes in very fitting with Langford and Chimsworthy, and I thought that when you and I are gone, Larry might absorb our feoffeeships into himself, as a snail draws in his horns, and then there'd be only he and his son, and when he himself goes, his son would be sole feoffee and responsible to no one. Coryndon's land comes in very fitly.'

'I don't think it can be done,' said Nanspian, shaking his head. 'There's such a lot of ramping and roaring radicalism about. I thought we'd better put in Sam Voaden. Thus it will be in the family.'

'In the Luxmore, not in ours.'

'We can't have everything,' argued Nanspian. Then both were silent again. Langford sighed. Presently he said, 'I'm a just man, and do like to see the property rounded shapely on all sides. That is why I proposed it.'

Then another pause.

Presently Hillary Nanspian drew a long pull at his pipe, and sent two little shoots of smoke through his nostrils. 'Taverner,' said he, when all the smoke was expended, 'going back to that woman, Mrs. Veale, I don't think you ought to have taken me up so mighty sharp about her. After all this is sifted and said, you must allow you stood afraid of her, and I allow that you had a right to be so. A woman as would steal your cashbox, and make attempts on your heart, and poison your gruel, no man need blush and hang his head to admit that he was a bit afraid of.'

'And, Nanspian,' said Langford with solemnity, 'you will excuse my remarking that I think you took me up far too testily when I said you was a long-tailed ourang-outang, for it so happens that the ourang-outang is a tailless ape. Consequently, no offence could have been meant, and should not ha' been taken.'

'You don't mean to say so?'

'It is true. I have it in print in a Nature History, and, what is more, I've got a picture of an ourang-outang, holding a torn-off bough in his hand, and showing just enough of his back to let folks understand he's very like a man. Well, I've a mind, as the expression I used about you was repeated in the long room of the "Ring of Bells," to have that picture framed and hung up there. Besides, under it stands in print, "The ourang-outang, or tailless ape."'

'You will? Well, I always said you were a just man; now I will add you're generous.' The brothers-in-law shook hands. After a moment's consideration Nanspian said, 'I don't like to be outdone in generosity by you, much as I respect you. If it would be any satisfaction to the parish of Bratton Clovelly, the weather being warm, and for the quieting of minds and setting at rest all disputes, I don't object to bathing once in the river Thrustle before the feoffees of Coryndon's Charity, excepting Larry, whom from motives of delicacy I exclude.'

'Well,' said Langford, 'I won't deny you're a liberal-minded man.'

Taverner sprang to his feet, and Nanspian also rose. Over the stile from the lane came Honor, in her red stockings and scarlet cloak, the latter drawn closely round her.

'Why didn't you call us?' said Nanspian. 'We'd have come and helped you over.'

'You shouldn't be climbing about now,' said Taverner.

'Come and sit between us on the Look-out stone,' said Nanspian.

So the two old men reseated themselves on the granite slab, with Honor between them.

'You tried hard to sloke her away,' remarked Nanspian, shaking his head.

'Let bygones be bygones,' said Langford. 'She may be here at Chimsworthy now, but she'll be at Langford some day. I'm proud and happy to think.'

'Ah!' said Nanspian, 'she's made a mighty change in Larry, and, faith, in me also. I'm a happier man than I was.' He put his arm round behind Honor.

'I may say that of myself,' said Langford. 'I can know that Langford will be made the most of after I'm gone.' He put his arm round her, and clasped that of Nanspian.

'Ah!' said Nanspian, in his old soft, furry, pleasant voice, 'if I'd a many score of faces in front of me, and I were addressing a political meeting, I'd say the same as I says now. Never you argue that what we was taught as children is gammon and superstition, it's no such thing. It has always been said that he who lays hold of a red spider secures good luck, and we've proved it, Taverner and I, we've proved it. Us have got hold of the very best and biggest and reddest of money-spinners between us—us don't try to sloke her away to this side or to that. Her belongs ekally to Chimsworthy and to Langford, to myself and to Taverner, and blessed if there be a chance for any man all over England of getting such another treasure as this Red Spider which Taverner and I be holding atween us—ekally belonging to each.'