Front matter

RED SPIDER

BY SABINE BARING-GOULD

THE AUTHOR OF 'JOHN HERRING' 'MEHALAH' &c.

IN TWO VOLUMES VOL. II.

London CHATTO & WINDUS, PICCADILLY 1887

[The right of translation is reserved]

CONTENTS

OF

THE SECOND VOLUME.

CHAPTER

A DEAD DOG

A FIVE-POUND NOTE

REFUSED

THE HAYSEL

A BRAWL

THE HAND OF GLORY

THE HARE HUNT

BITTER MEDICINE

AFTER SWEETNESS

A FIRST STEP

A BLOW

YES!

THE NEW MISTRESS

THE CHINA DOG

AMONG THE GORSE

THE VISITATION

A WARNING

A SETTLEMENT

A BOWL OF BROTH

THE LOOK-OUT STONE

RED SPIDER.

CHAPTER XIX.

A DEAD DOG.

The second night of watch proved unavailing, for the best of good reasons, that the watch was not kept. Oliver Luxmore sat up, but, finding the night chilly outside the house, attempted to keep watch with a pipe of tobacco and a jug and glass of cider posset within. The consequence was that he went to sleep over the fire. During that same night another of the lambs was worried. Mischief had also been done at Swaddledown, as the family heard during the day. There a ewe had been killed, overrun, thrown into a grip (dyke by hedge) whence it could not rise, and where it had been torn, and had died.

'We must not ask your father to watch again,' said Hillary, with the corners of his mouth twitching. 'We believe what he says now when he tells us he is very shortsighted. I will come to-night and the night after, if need be, till I earn my guinea. The rascal has been here twice and has escaped. He shall not succeed the third time. I will take a nap by day and be lively as an owl at night.'

The maids at Chimsworthy joked the lad about his visits to the cottage; he did not go there after the dog, but after Kate. A guinea! What was a guinea to the heir of Chimsworthy? A young man cares more for girls' hearts than for money. He did not contradict them, he turned aside their banter with banter. But the lively conversation of Kate had lost its charm for him. He exchanged jests with her, but took less pleasure than heretofore in doing so. That night and the next he spent at his post watching for the lamb-killer. Honor gave him her company. He was surprised at himself for becoming serious, still more that the conversation and society of the grave Honor should afford him so much pleasure. In her company everything assumed a new aspect, was seen through coloured glass.

Honor herself was changed during these still night watches. A softness, inbred in her, but to which she was unable to yield during the day, manifested itself in her manner, her speech, her appearance, a bloom as that on the plum. Her inner heart unfolded like a night-flower, and poured forth fragrance. Thoughts that had long dwelt and worked in her mind, but to which she had never given words, found expression at last. Her real mind, her great, pure, deep soul, had been as a fountain sealed to her father and sister Kate; they could not have understood her thoughts; she knew this without acknowledging it other than by instinctive silence. But now she had beside her a companion, sympathetic, intelligent; and the night that veiled their faces and the working of their emotions allowed them to speak with frankness. Banter died away on Hillary's lips, he respected her and her thoughts too highly to treat either lightly. Though he could not fully understand her he could not withhold his reverence. He saw the nobility of her character, her self-devotion made beautiful by its unconsciousness, her directness of purpose, her thoroughness, and her clear simplicity running through her life like a sparkling river. Her nature was the reverse of his own. He treated life as a holiday, and its duties as annoyances; she looked to the duties as constituting life, and to pleasures as accidents. He became dissatisfied with himself without feeling resentment towards Honor for inspiring the feeling. With all his frivolity and self-conceit there was good stuff in Hillary. It was evidence of this that he now appreciated Honor. At night, under the dark heavens strewn with stars, or with the moon rising as a globe of gold over Dartmoor, these two young people sat on the bench, with potato-sacks over their shoulders sheltering them from the dew, or at the hearth suffused by the glow of the peat embers, and talked with muffled voices as if in church.

The second, the third night, during which Hillary watched, passed uneventfully. Each night, or morning rather, as Hillary left, the pressure of his hand clasping that of Honor became warmer. After he was gone, the girl sat musing for some minutes, listening to his dying steps as he passed along the lane homewards. Then she sighed, shook her head, as though to shake off some dream that tole over her, and went to bed.

Hillary's determined watching was not, however, destined to remain fruitless. Early on the fourth night, after he had been at his post an hour, the bleating and scampering of the sheep showed that their enemy was at hand.

In another moment both saw a dark animal dash across the field in pursuit. Hillary fired, and the creature fell over.

'Bring a lantern, Honor,' he shouted. 'Let us see whose dog it is.'

She ran indoors. Her father and Kate had been roused by the report.

When she returned with the lantern to the field, 'You were right, Honor,' said Hillary, 'this is Uncle Taverner's Rover. Poor fellow, we were friends once, when I was allowed at Langford. Now he and his master have fallen to bad ways. I have put the seal on my misdoings, and Uncle Taverner will never forgive me for having shot his dog.'

'Well, perhaps you will recover your wits now,' said Kate.

'Wits! why?'

'Wits—you have been dull enough lately. Perhaps as the dog went sheep-killing, your wits went wool-gathering. They have been dead, or not at home.'

'Go home, Larry,' said Honor; 'and take our best thanks to warm you.'

Hillary, however, seemed ill-disposed to go. He hung about the kitchen pretending that his fingers wanted warming, or considering what was to be done with the carcass of the dog. What he really desired was a further chat with Honor. But Kate would not allow him to be alone with her sister, though unsuspicious of the state of his feelings, and indifferent to them herself. She was like a mosquito that buzzes about a sleep-drunk man, threatening him, rousing him, settling, and stabbing, and escaping before his hand can chastise. The more she plied him with her jokes, the more dispirited he became, and incapable of repartee.

'Well,' said he at length, 'I suppose it is time for all to go to bed. You have all seen enough of the dead dog.'

'And we of the live lion,' said Kate.

He went hesitatingly to the door, then came back, tied the dog's hind feet together, and slung the body over his back on his gun. Then he went back to the door.

Kate said something to Honor, gave Larry a nod, and went away to bed.

Honor accompanied him to the door, to fasten it after him.

'I wish Rover had not come for a couple of hours,' he said, as he held out his hand.

'You have won your guinea, and must be content,' she answered with a smile.

'Do you suppose I care for the guinea, except that I may share it with you?' he asked. 'I'll tell you what we will do with it, break it in half, and each keep a half.'

'Then it will be of no good to either,' answered Honor. 'You told me yourself that the money was a consideration to you, as you were empty-pocketed.'

'I forgot all about the guinea after the first night in the pleasure of being with you. I would give the guinea to be allowed to come here again to-morrow night. Confound old Rover for being in such a hurry for his dose of lead.'

'What is that about lead?' called Kate from the steps of the stairs. 'I think, Larry, the lead has got into your brains, and into your feet.'

Honor shook her head, and tried to withdraw her hand from that of the young man; but he would not release it. 'No, Larry, no, that cannot be.'

'May I not come again?'

'No, Larry, on no account,' she said gravely.

'But, Honor, if I come down the lane, and you hear the owls call very loud under the bank, you will open the door and slip out. You will bring the potato-sacks, and let us have a talk again on the bench with them over our shoulders?'

'No, I will not—indeed I will not. I pray you, if you have any thought for me, do not try this. Good-night, Larry—you are a brother to me.'

She wrenched her hand from his, and shut the door. He heard her bolt it. Then he went down the steps and walked away, ill pleased. But after he had gone some distance, he turned, and saw the cottage door open, and Honor standing in it, her dark figure against the fire glow. Had she relented and changed her mind? He came back. Then the door was shut and barred again. He was offended, and, to disguise his confusion, whistled a merry air, and whistled it so loud as that Honor might hear it and understand that her refusal gave him no concern.

Hillary had not reached the end of the lane before he stumbled against Charles.

'Hallo!' exclaimed the latter. 'What are you doing here at this time o' night? Got your gun, eh? And game too, eh? Poaching on Langford. A common poacher. I'll report you. Not hare-hunting yet? Take care how you do that. I'll break your neck if you come near Langford after that game.'

'What you have been doing is clear enough,' said Hillary, stepping aside. 'You have been at the "Ring of Bells," drinking.'

'What if I have? No harm in that, if I have money to pay my score. Nothing against that, have you?'

'Nothing at all; but I doubt your having the money. A week ago you were reduced to a brass token.'

'You think yourself cock of the walk, do you?' said Charles, insolently, 'because you are heir to Chimsworthy? What is Chimsworthy to Coombe Park? Come! I bet now you've naught but coppers in your pocket. Hands in and see which can make the most show.'

As he spoke, he thrust forth his palm, and Hillary heard the chink of money, and the sound of coins falling on the stones.

'If you had money at the fair-time,' said Hillary, coldly, 'all I can say is that you behaved infamously.'

'I had no money then.'

'How you have got it since, I do not know,' said Hillary.

'That is no concern of yours, Master Larry,' answered Charles, roughly. 'You will live to see me Squire at Coombe Park; and when I'm there, curse me if I don't offer you the place of game-keeper to keep off rogues. An old poacher is the best keeper.'

'You cur!' exclaimed Hillary, blazing up. 'This is my game.' He swung the dead dog about, and struck Charles on the cheek with the carcass so violently as to knock him into the hedge. 'This is my game. Your master's dog, which has been worrying and killing your father's lambs whilst you have been boozing in a tavern.'

'By George!' swore Charles, with difficulty picking himself up. 'I'll break your cursed neck, I will.'

But Larry had gone on his way by the time Charles had regained equilibrium.

'This is the second time he's struck me down,' said Charles, and next moment a great stone passed Larry, then another struck the dead dog on his back with sufficient force to have stunned him had it struck his head.

He turned and shouted angrily, 'You tipsy blackguard, heave another, and I'll shoot. The gun is loaded.'

'And, by George! I'll break your neck!' yelled Charles after him.

CHAPTER XX.

A FIVE-POUND NOTE.

No sooner had Hillary got the guinea for shooting the sheep-killer than he went to the cottage and offered half to Honor Luxmore. She refused it, and would by no persuasion be induced to accept it.

'No, Larry, no—a thousand times no. You redeemed my cloak, and will not let me pay you for that. I will not touch a farthing of this well-earned prize.'

Then Larry went to Tavistock and expended part of the money in the purchase of a handsome silk kerchief, white with sprigs of lilac, and slips of moss-rose on it. He returned in the carrier's van instead of waiting for his father, who remained to drink with other farmers. This entailed the walking up of the hills. When he got out for this object, he left his parcel on the seat. On his return he found the women within sniggering.

'Don't y' be offended at us now,' said one. 'But it is just so. Your parcel came open of herself wi' the jolting of the Vivid, and us couldn't help seeing what was inside. Us can't be expected to sit wi' our eyes shut. 'Taint in reason nor in nature. I must say this—'tis a pretty kerchief, and Kate Luxmore will look like a real leddy in it o' Sunday, to be sure.'

Then the rest of the women laughed.

Hillary coloured, and was annoyed. The parcel had not come open of itself. The women's inquisitive fingers had opened it, and their curious eyes had examined the contents. They had rushed to the conclusion that the kerchief was intended for Kate—Larry was much about with the maiden, they were always teasing each other, laughing together, and Hillary had been several evenings to the carrier's cottage guarding the lambs and sheep.

The young man did not disabuse them of their error. He was vexed that they should suppose him caught by the rattle Kate, instead of by the reliable Honor; it showed him that they supposed him less sensible than he was. But he thought with satisfaction of the surprise of the gossips on Sunday, when they saw the kerchief about the neck of the elder sister, instead of that of Kate.

In this expectation, however, he was disappointed. Next day, he went to the cottage at an hour when he was sure to find Honor there alone, and, with radiant face and sparkling eyes, unfolded the paper, and offered his present to the girl.

Honor was more startled than pleased—at least, it seemed so—and at first absolutely declined the kerchief. 'No, Larry, I thank you for your kind thought, but I must not accept it. I am sorry that you have spent your money—the kerchief is very pretty; but I cannot wear it.'

'How wrong-headed and haughty you are, Honor! Why will you not take it?' The blood made his face dark, he was offended and angry. He had never made a girl a present before, and this, his first, was rejected. 'It gave me a vast deal of pleasure buying it. I turned over a score, and couldn't well choose which would look best on your shoulders. You have given me good advice; and here is my return, as an assurance that I will observe it.'

'I am not wrong-headed and haughty, Larry,' answered Honor, gently. 'But see! in spite of what I said, in spite of my better judgment, rather than wound you, I will take the handkerchief. Indeed, indeed, dear Larry, I am not unthankful and ungracious, though I may seem so. And now I will only take it as a pledge that you have laid my words to heart. Let it mean that, and that only. But, Larry, the women in the van saw it. I cannot wear it just now, certainly not on Sunday next. You know yourself what conclusions they would draw, and we must not deceive them into taking us to be what we are not, and never can be, to each other.'

'Why not, Honor?'

Instead of answering, she said with a smile, 'My brother, Larry, this I will undertake. When I see that you have become a man of deeds and not of words, then I will throw the kerchief round my neck and wear it at church. It shall be a token to you of my approval. Will that content you?'

He tried his utmost to obtain a further concession. She was resolute. She did not wish to be ungracious, but she was determined to give him no encouragement. She had thought out her position, and resolved on her course. She knew that her way was chalked for her. She must be mother to all her little sisters and brothers, till they were grown up and had dispersed. There was no saying what her father might do were she away. He might marry again, and a stepmother would ill-treat or neglect the little ones. If she were to marry, it could be on one understanding only, that she brought the family with her to the husband's house—and to that no man would consent. It would be unfair to burden a young man thus. Her father, moreover, was not a man to be left. What Charles had become, without a firm hand over him, that might Oliver Luxmore also become, even if he did not marry. His dispositions were not bad, but his character was infirm. No! it was impossible for her to contemplate marriage. Kate might, but not she. The line of duty lay clear before her as a white road in summer heat, and she had not even the wish to desert it. It was right for her to nip Larry's growing liking for herself, at once and in the bud.

After Larry had gone, she folded and put away his present among her few valuables. She valued it, as the first warm breath of spring is valued. She said nothing to Kate or the others about it. Her heart was lighter, and she sang over her work. The little offering was a token that through the troubled sky the sun was about to shine.

A day or two after, Charles lounged in, and seated himself by the fire. She was pleased to see him. He was at honest work with Mr. Langford, earning an honest wage. She said as much. Charles laughed contemptuously. 'Ninepence,' he said, 'ninepence a day. What is ninepence?'

'It is more than you had as a soldier.'

'But as a soldier I had the uniform and the position. Now I am a day-labourer—I, a Luxmore, the young squire with ninepence and lodging and meat.'

'Well, Charles, it is a beginning.'

'Beginning at ninepence. As Mrs. Veale says, "One can't stand upon coppers and keep out of the dirt." What is the meat and drink? The cider cuts one's throat as it goes down, and the food is insufficient and indigestible. If I had not a friend to forage for me, I should be badly off.'

'If you keep this place a twelvemonth, you will get a better situation next year.'

'Keep at Langford a twelvemonth!' exclaimed Charles. 'Not if I know it. It won't do. Never mind why. I say it won't do.'

Then he began working his heel in a hole of the floor where the slate was broken.

'You know Mrs. Veale?' he asked, without looking at his sister.

'Yes, Charles. That is, I have seen her, and have even spoken to her, but—know her—that is more than I profess. She is not a person I am like to know.'

'You had better not,' said Charles. 'She don't love you. When I mention your name her face turns green. She'd ill-wish you if she could.'

'I have never done her an injury,' said Honor.

'That may be. Hate is like love, it pitches at random, as Mrs. Veale says. You may laugh, Honor, but that same woman is in love with me.'

'Nonsense!' Honor did not laugh, she was too shocked to laugh.

'What is there nonsensical in that? I tell you she is. She cooks me better food than for the rest of the men, and she favours me in many ways.'

'She cannot be such a fool.'

'There is no folly in fancying me,' said Charles, sharply. 'I have good looks, have seen the world, and compare with the louts here as wheat with rye. Many a woman has lost her heart to a younger man than herself.'

'Charles, you must be plain and rough with her if this be so—though I can scarce believe it.'

'No one forces you to believe it. But don't you think I'm going to make Mrs. Veale your sister-in-law. I'm too wide-awake for that. She is ugly, and—she's a bad un. Yes,' musingly, 'she is a bad un.'

Then he worked his heel more vigorously in the hole. 'Take care what you are about, Charles, you are breaking the slate, and making what was bad, worse.'

'I wish I had Mrs. Veale's heart under that there stone,' said Charles, viciously. 'I'd grind my heel into it till I'd worked through it. You don't know how uncomfortable she makes me.'

'Well, keep her at arm's length.'

'I can't do it. She won't let me. She runs after me as a cat after a milk-maid.'

'Surely, Charles, you can just put a stop to that.'

'I suppose I must.'

He continued, in spite of remonstrance, grinding through the broken slate into the earth. His face was hot and red. He put his elbow up, and wiped his brow on his sleeve.

'It is cursed warm here,' he said at last.

'Then keep away from the fire. I'm glad you have come to see me, Charles; I always wish you well.'

'Oh, for the matter of that I only came here to be out of the way of Mrs. Veale.'

Then Honor laughed. 'Really, Charles, this is childish.'

'It is not kind of you to laugh,' said he, sulkily; 'you do not know what it is to have your head turned, and to feel yourself pulled about and drawn along against your will. It is like "oranges and lemons," as we played at school, when you are on the weakest side.'

'Whither can Mrs. Veale draw you? Not to the altar rails, surely.'

'Oh no! not to the altar-rails. Mrs. Veale is a bad un.'

His manner puzzled Honor. She was convinced he was not telling her everything.

'What is it, Charles?' she said; 'you may give me your confidence. Tell me all that troubles you. What is behind? I know you are keeping back something from me. If I can advise and help you, I will do so. I am your nearest sister.' Then she put her arms round his neck and kissed him.

'Don't do that' said he, roughly. 'I hate scenes, sisterly affection and motherly counsel, and all that sort of batter-pudding without egg and sugar. I reckon I am outgrown that long ago. I have been a soldier and know the world. If you think to pin me to your apron, as you have pinned father, you are mightily mistaken. No; I will tell you no more, only this—don't be surprised if I leave Langford. Ninepence a day is not enough to hold me.'

'Oh, Charles, I entreat you to stay. You have regular work there and regular pay. As for Mrs. Veale——'

'Curse Mrs. Veale!' interrupted Charles, and with a stamp of his iron-shod heel he broke the corners of the slate slab. Then he stood up.

'Look here, Honor. I mustn't forget a message. Old Langford wants to see my father mighty particular, and he is to come up to the house to have a talk with him. He told me so himself, and indeed sent me here. Father is to come up this evening, as he is not at home now. You will remember to send him, Honor?'

'Yes,' she answered, bending her face over her work, 'yes, I shall not forget, Charles.'

Her brother had not the faintest suspicion that his master was a suitor for Honor's hand. Mrs. Veale knew it, but she did not tell him. She had reasons for not doing so.

'Ninepence per diem!' muttered the young man, standing in the doorway. 'That makes fourpence for ale, and fourpence for baccy, and a penny for clothing. T'aint reasonable. I won't stand it. I reckon I'll be off.'

Then, after a moment of irresolution, he came back into the middle of the room, and, taking Honor's head between his hands, said in an altered tone, as he kissed her, 'After all, you are a good girl. Don't be angry if I spoke sharp. I'm that ruffled I don't know what I say, or what I do. You mayn't be a proper Luxmore in spirit—that is, not like father and me—but you are hard-working, and so I forgive you in a Christian spirit. As Mrs. Veale says, even the Chosen People must have Gibeonites to hew wood and draw water for them. After I am gone, look under the china dog on the mantel-shelf.'

Then he went hastily away.

Honor shuddered. His breath smelt of brandy.

Half an hour later, Oliver Luxmore came in. Then Honor told him that Charles had been to the house with a message for him from Mr. Langford. Oliver rubbed his head and looked forlorn. He knew as well as his daughter what this meant.

'I suppose,' said he, in a timid, questioning tone. 'I suppose, Honor, you have not thought better of what we was discussing together? No doubt Mr. Langford is impatient for his answer.'

'No doubt,' answered the girl.

'You haven't reconsidered your difficulty in the matter? It seems to me—but then I am nobody, though your father—it seems to me that if there be no prior attachment, as folks call it—and you assure me there is none—there can't be great hardship in taking him. Riches and lands are not bad things; and, Honor, it is worth considering that in this world we never can have everything we desire. Providence always mixes the portions we are given to sup.'

'Yes, father, that is true. I am content with that put to my lips. It is sweet, for I have your love, and the love of all my brothers and sisters. Charles has been here, and he kissed me as he never kissed me before. That makes nine lumps of sugar in my cup. If there be a little bitterness, what then?'

'Well, Honor, you must decide. We cannot drive you, and you count our wishes as nought.'

He was seated, rubbing his hands, then his hair, and turning his head from side to side in a feeble, forlorn, irresolute manner. Honor was sorry for his disappointment, but not inclined to yield.

'Father dear, consider. If I did take Mr. Langford, he would not receive you and all the darlings into Lansford house as well—and I will not be parted from you. Who takes me takes all the hive. I am the queen-bee.'

'I will ask,' said the carrier, breathing freer. 'I can but ask. He can but refuse; besides, it will look better, putting the refusal on his hands. It may be that he will not object. There be a lot o' rooms, for sure, at Langford he makes no use of; and I dare say he might accommodate us. There be one, I know, full o' apples, and another of onions, and I dare say he keeps wool in a third.'

Honor, who was standing by the fire, started, and said hastily, with shaking voice, 'You misunderstand me, father. On no account will I take him. No—on no conditions whatever.' Her hand was on the mantelshelf, and as it shook with her emotion she touched and knocked over a china dog spotted red, a rude chimney ornament. A piece of folded paper fell at her feet. She stooped and picked it up. It was a five-pound note.

She looked at it at first without perceiving what it was, as her mind was occupied. But presently she saw what it was that she held, and then she looked at it with perplexity, and after a moment with uneasiness, and changed colour.

'Father!' she said, 'here is a five-pound note of the Exeter and Plymouth Bank, left by Charles. What does it mean? How can he have got it? Before he parted from me, he said something about looking under the china dog, but I gave no heed to his words; his breath smelt of spirits, and I thought he spoke away from his meaning. His manner was odd. Father! wherever can Charles have got the money? Oh, father! I hope all is right.'

She put her hand to her heart; a qualm of fear came over her.

'Right! Of course it is right,' said the carrier. 'Five pounds! Why that will come in handy. It will go towards the cost of the horse if you persist. As for these lambs, he ought to pay me for them, but I don't like to press it, as I hear he won't allow it was his dog killed them, and he swears Hillary shot Rover out of spite, and lays the lamb-killing on the dog unjustly. Well, Honor, I suppose you must have your own way; but it is hard on Charles and me, who work as slaves—we who by rights should be squires.'

CHAPTER XXI.

REFUSED!

The carrier walked slowly and reluctantly to Langford. He was uncomfortable with the answer he had to take to Taverner Langford. Oliver was a kindly man, ready to oblige any one, shrinking from nothing so sensitively as from a rough word and an angry mood. 'It would have saved a lot of trouble,' said he to himself, 'if Honor had given way. I shouldn't have been so out of countenance now—and it does seem an ungrateful thing after the loan of the horse.'

He found Langford in his parlour at his desk. The old man spun round on his seat.

'Ah, ha!' said he, 'come at my call, father-in-law. Well—when is the wedding to be?'

The carrier stood stupidly looking at him, rubbing his hands together and shifting from foot to foot. 'The wedding!'

'Yes, man, the wedding; when is it to be?'

'The wedding!' repeated Oliver, looking through the window for help. 'I'm sure I don't know.'

'You must find that out. I'm impatient to be married. Ha, ha! what faces the Nanspians will pull, father and son, when they see me lead from church a blooming, blushing bride.'

'Well, now,' said the carrier, wiping the perspiration from his brow, 'I'm sorry to have to say it, but Honor don't see it in the proper light.'

'What—refuses me?'

'Not exactly refuses, but begs off.'

'Begs off!' repeated Taverner, incredulously. He could hardly have been more disconcerted if he had heard that all his cattle were dying and his stacks blazing. 'Begs off!' he again exclaimed; 'then how about my horse?'

The carrier scratched his head and sighed.

'Do you suppose that I gave you the horse?' said Taverner. 'You can hardly have been such a fool as that. I am not one to give a cow here, and a sheep there, and a horse to a third, just because there are so many needy persons wanting them. You must return me the horse and pay me ten shillings a week for the hire during the time you have had him, unless Honor becomes my wife.'

'I will pay you for the horse,' said Luxmore, faintly.

'Whence will you get the money? Do you think I am a fool?' asked Langford, angrily. His pride was hurt. His eyes flashed and his skin became of a livid complexion. He, the wealthiest man in Bratton Clovelly; he, the representative of the most respectable family there—one as old as the parish itself; he, the parson's churchwarden, and the elder of the Methodist chapel—he had been refused by a poverty-stricken carrier's daughter. The insult was unendurable. He stood up to leave the room, but when he had his hand on the latch he turned and came back. In the first access of wrath he had resolved to crush the carrier. He could do it. He had but to take back his horse, and the Vivid was reduced to a stationary condition. Luxmore might offer to buy the horse, but he could not do it. He knew how poor he was. Moreover, he could cut his business away from him at any moment by setting up the cripple as carrier.

But he thought better of it. Of what avail to him if Luxmore were ruined? He desired to revenge himself on the Nanspians. The carrier was too small game to be hunted down, he was set on the humiliation of much bigger men than he. His envy and hatred of the Nanspians had by no means abated, and the killing of his dog Rover by young Hillary had excited it to frenzy. That his dog was a sheep-killer would not excuse Larry's act. He did not allow that Rover was the culprit. His nephew had shot the dog out of malice, and had feigned as an excuse that he had caught the dog pursuing lambs.

The wealthy yeoman might certainly, without difficulty, have found another girl less hard to please than Honor. All girls would not have thought with her. His money would have weighed with them. He could not understand his refusal. 'What is the matter with the girl?' he said surlily. 'I thought her too wise to be in love. She has not set her heart on any boyish jackanapes, has she?'

'Honor? Oh no! Honor has no sweetheart,' said the father. 'It certainly is not that, Mr. Langford.'

'Then what is it? What possible objection can she make? I'm not a beardless boy and a rosy-faced beauty, that is true.'

'No, Mr. Langford, I am sure she has not a word against your age and personal appearance. Indeed, a young girl generally prefers as a husband one to whom she can look up, who is her superior in every way.'

'I am that. What is it, then?'

'Well, Mr. Langford,' said the carrier, drawing the back of his hand across his lips, 'I think it is about this. She don't like to desert me and the children. She promised her mother to stand by us, and Honor is so conscientious that what she has promised she will stick to.'

'Oh,' said Taverner, somewhat mollified to find that neither his age nor lack of beauty was objected to, 'that is it, is it?'

'Yes, sir,' answered the carrier, sheepishly; 'you see there are six little uns; then comes Kate, and then Charles, and then I. That makes nine of us Honor has to care for. And,' he said more eagerly, heaving a sigh of relief, 'you see, she didn't think it quite a fair thing to saddle you with us all, with Pattie and Joe, Willie, Martha, Charity, Temperance, Kate, Charles, and myself. It does make a lot when you come to consider.'

It did certainly, as Taverner admitted. He had no intention whatever of incumbering himself with Honor's relations, if he did marry her. He took a turn up and down the room, with his heavy dark brows knit and his thin lips screwed together. Oliver watched his face, and thought that it was a very ugly and ill-tempered face.

'It does Honor some credit having such delicacy of feeling,' suggested he. 'I very much doubt how you could accommodate us all in this house.'

'I do not see how I could possibly do it,' said Taverner, sharply.

'And Honor couldn't think to tear herself away from us. I suppose you wouldn't consider the possibility of coming to us?'

'No, I would not.'

Taverner Langford was perplexed. He entirely accepted Oliver's explanation. It was quite reasonable that Honor should refuse him out of a high sense of duty; it was not conceivable that she should decline alliance with him on any other grounds. Now, although Taverner had not hitherto found time or courage to marry, he was by no means insensible to female beauty. He had long observed the stately, upright daughter of the carrier, with her beautiful abundant auburn hair and clear brown eyes. He had observed her more than she supposed, and he had seen how hard-working, self-devoted she was, how economical, how clean in her own person and in her house. Such a woman as that would be more agreeable in the house than Mrs. Veale. He would have to pay her no wage for one thing, her pleasant face and voice would be a relief after the sour visage and grating tones of the housekeeper. He knew perfectly that Mrs. Veale had had designs on him from the moment she had entered his house. She had flattered, slaved; she had assumed an amount of authority in the house hardly consistent with her position. Langford had not resisted her encroachments; he allowed her to cherish hopes of securing him in the end, as a means of ensuring her fidelity to his interests. He chuckled to himself at the thought of the rage and disappointment that would consume her when he announced that he was about to be married.

He was a suspicious man, and he mistrusted every woman, but he mistrusted Honor less than any woman or man he knew. He had observed no other with half the attention he had devoted to her, and he had never seen in her the smallest tokens of frivolity and indifference to duty. If she was so scrupulous in the discharge of her obligations to father and sisters, how dependable she would be in her own house, when working and saving for husband and children of her own.

She was no idler, she was no talker, and Taverner hated idleness and gossip. Of what other girl in Bratton Clovelly could as much be said? No, he would trust his house and happiness to no other than Honor Luxmore.

Taverner dearly loved money, but he loved mastery better. A wife with a fortune of her own would have felt some independence, but a wife who brought him nothing would not be disposed to assert herself. She would look up to him as the exclusive author of her happiness, and never venture to contradict him, never have a will of her own.

'If that be her only objection, it may be circumvented,' said Langford, 'if not got over. I thought, perhaps, she declined my hand from some other cause.'

'What other cause could there be?' asked Oliver.

'To be sure there is no other that should govern a rational creature; but few women are rational. I have done something for you already, for you have my horse. I have done a good deal for Charles also; I pay him ninepence a day and give him his food. It is quite possible that I may do a vast deal for the rest of you. But of course that depends. I'm not likely to take you up and make much of you unless you are connected with me by marriage. You can judge for yourself. Should I be likely to leave you all unprovided for if Honor were Mrs. Langford? Of course I would not allow it to be said that my wife's relations were in need.'

These words of Taverner Langford made Oliver's pulse beat fast.

'And then,' continued the yeoman, 'who can say but that I might give you a hand to help you into Coombe Park.'

Luxmore's eye kindled, and his cheeks became dappled with fiery spots. Here was a prospect! but it was like the prospect of the Promised Land to Moses on Pisgah if Honor proved unyielding.

'You are the girl's father,' said Langford. 'Hoity-toity! I have no patience with a man who allows his daughter to give herself airs. He knows what is best for her, and must decide. Make her give way.'

Oliver would have laughed aloud at the idea of his forcing his daughter's will into compliance with his own, had not the case been so serious.

'Look here, Mr. Langford,' he said. 'I'll do what I can. I'll tell Honor the liberal offer you have made; and I trust she'll see it aright and be thankful.' He stood up. 'Before I go,' he said, producing the five-pound note, 'I'd just like to reduce my debt to you for the horse, if you please.'

'How much?' asked Taverner.

'Five pounds,' answered the carrier. 'If I kept it by me I should spend it, so I thought best to bring it straight to you. You'll give me a slip o' paper as a receipt.'

Langford took out his pocket-book, folded the note, and put it in the pocket of the book; then made a pencil entry. I always,' said he, 'enter every note I receive with its number. Comes useful at times for reference. To be sure, you shall have a receipt.'

CHAPTER XXII.

THE HAYSEL.

Hillary became impatient. He made no way with Honor; if any change in his position had taken place, he had gone back. In spite of her entreaty, he went to the cottage down the lane hooting like an owl, but she did not answer the call. Then he plucked up courage and went in on the chance of getting a word with her alone, but he went in vain. Oliver Luxmore was glad to see him, chatted with him, and offered him a place at their supper-board, or a drink of cider. He defended himself against the sallies of Kate. He spoke now and then to Honor, and was answered in friendly tone; but that was all. If by chance he met her during the day in the lane or on the down, and she could not escape him, she would not stay to talk, she pleaded work. Hillary was disappointed, and, what was more, offended. His vanity was hurt, and vanity in a young man is his most sensitive fibre. No other girl in the parish would treat his advances as did Honor. The other girls laid themselves out to catch him, Honor shrank from him. He knew that she liked him, he was angry because she did not love him.

Hillary's nature, though sound, was marred by his bringing up. He had been spoiled by flattery and indulgence. His father's boasting, the great expectations held out to him, the consciousness of vigour, health, and good looks, combined to make Larry consider himself the very finest young fellow, not in Bratton only, but in all England. Self-conceit is like mercury, when it touches gold it renders it dull, and a strong fire is needed to expel the alloy and restore the gold to its proper brilliancy.

Mortified in his self-consequence, stung by Honor's indifference, after a few attempts and failures Hillary changed his tactics. He resolved to show Honor, if she did not meet him, he could turn elsewhere. Unfortunately, Kate was at hand to serve his purpose. Kate did not particularly care for Larry. She had a fancy for Samuel Voaden, the farmer's son at Swaddledown; but of this Honor neither knew nor suspected anything. Kate was pleased to see Hillary whenever he came, as she was glad to have a butt for her jokes, and with feminine ingenuity used him to throw dust in the eyes of her father, sister, and companions to obscure their perception of her attachment for Sam Voaden.

At first Hillary was in a bad temper, disinclined for conversation, and unable to retaliate upon Kate; but by degrees his old cheerfulness returned, and he received and replied to her banter with what readiness he possessed.

One day he came into the cottage with a hay-fork over his shoulder. 'You maidens,' he said, 'come along to the hay-field. We want help badly. Bring the little ones and let them romp and eat cake. Whilst the sun shines we must make hay.'

Honor, without a word, rose and folded her work.

'If you can toss hay as you can toss chaff,' said the young man addressing Kate, 'you will be useful indeed.'

'Larry, it is reported that your uncle Langford will not save hay till it has been rained on well. "If it be too good," he argues, "the cows will eat too much of it." Your wit is ricked like Langford's hay; it is weak and washed out. A little goes a long way with those who taste it.'

A happy and merry party in the hay field, women and girls tossing the hay into cocks, and the men with the waggon collecting it and carrying it home. The air was fragrant with the scent. In a corner under a hedge were a barrel of cider, and blue and white musts, and a basketful of saffron-cake. Whoever was thirsty went to the cider cask, whoever was hungry helped himself to the plum loaf. The field rang with laughter, and occasional screams, as a man twisted a cord of hay, cast the loop round a girl's neck, drew her head towards him and kissed her face. That is called 'the making of sweet hay.'

Honor worked steadily. No one ventured to make 'sweet hay' with her, and Kate was too much on the alert, though one or two young men slyly crept towards her with twisted bands. The little ones were building themselves nests of hay, and burying one another, and jumping over haycocks, and chasing each other with bands, to catch and kiss, in imitation of their elders. Hillary turned in his work and looked at Honor and Kate, hoping that the former would commend his diligence, and that the latter would give him occasion for a joke. But Honor was too much engrossed in her raking, and had too little idea of necessary work being lauded as a virtue; and the latter was looking at Samuel Voaden, who had come over from Swaddledown to help his neighbour—the haysel at home being over.

When the half-laden waggon drew up near where Honor was raking, Hillary said to her in a low tone, 'I have been working ever since the dew was off the grass.'

'I suppose so, Larry,'

'I have been working very hard.'

'Of course you have, Larry.'

'And I am very hot.'

'I do not doubt it.'

'How cool you are, Honor!'

'I—cool!' she looked at him with surprise. 'On the contrary, I am very warm.' She had no perception that he pleaded for praise.

'Larry,' said Kate, 'you were right to press us into service. It will rain to-morrow.'

'How do you know that?'

'Because you are working to-day.'

Quick as thought, he threw some hay strands round her head, and kissed both her rosy cheeks.

Kate drew herself away, angry at his impudence, especially angry at his kissing her before Samuel Voaden. She threw down her pitchfork ('heable' in the local dialect), and folding her arms, said with a frown and a pout, 'Do the rest yourself. I will work for you no more.'

'Oh, Kate, do not take offence. I went naturally where was the sweetest hay.'

In her anger she looked prettier than when in good humour. She glanced round out of the corners of her eyes, and saw to her satisfaction that Samuel was on the further side of the waggon, unconscious of what had taken place. Hillary was humble, he made ample apology, and offered lavish flattery. Kate maintained, or affected to maintain, her anger for some time, and forced Larry to redouble his efforts to regain her favour. Her fair hair, fine as silk just wound from a cocoon, was ruffled over her brow, and her brow was pearled with heat-drops. She was a slender girl, with a long neck and the prettiest shoulders in the world. She wore a light gown, frilled about the throat and bosom and sleeves, tucked up at the side, showing a blue petticoat and white stockings. She picked up the 'heable' with a sigh, and then stood leaning on it, with the sleeves fallen back, exposing her delicate arms as far as the rosy elbows.

It was not possible for Kate to remain long angry with Larry, he was so good-natured, so full of fuss, so coaxing; he paid such pretty compliments, his eyes were so roguish, his face so handsome—besides, Samuel was on the other side of the waggon, seeing, hearing nothing.

The dimples formed in her cheeks, the contraction of lips and brows gave way, the angry sparkle disappeared from her blue eyes, and then her clear laugh announced that she was pacified. Hillary, knowing he had conquered, audacious in his pride of conquest, put his arm round her waist, stooped, and kissed the bare arm nearest him that rested on the pitchfork, then he sprang aside as she attempted to box his ears.

Honor was hard by and had seen both kisses, and had heard every word that had passed. She continued her work as though unconscious. For a moment, a pang of jealousy contracted her bosom, but she hastily mastered it. She knew that she could not, must not regard Hillary in any other light than as a brother, and yet she was unable to see her sister supplanting her in his affections without some natural qualms. But Honor was unselfish, and she hid her suffering. Kate as little suspected the state of her sister's heart as Honor suspected Kate's liking for Sam Voaden. And now, all at once, an idea shot through Honor's mind which crimsoned her face. How she had misread Hillary's manner when they were together watching for the lamb-killer! She had fancied then that his heart was drawing towards her, and the thought had filled her with unutterable happiness. Now she saw his demeanour in another aspect. He really loved Kate, and his affection for her was only a reflection of his love for the younger sister. He had sought to gain her esteem, to forward his suit with Kate. When this thought occurred to Honor, she hid her face, humbled and distressed at having been deluded by self-conceit. She made it clear to herself now that Hillary had thought only of Kate. Her sister had said nothing to her about Hillary—but was that wonderful, as he had not declared himself? A transient gleam had lightened her soul. It was over. Work was Honor's lot in life, perhaps sorrow, not love.

'The last load is carried, and in good order. Where is the dance to be?' asked Samuel Voaden, coming into sight as the waggon moved on.

'In the barn,' answered Hillary.

'Kate,' said Hillary, 'give me the first dance.'

'And me the second,' pleaded Samuel.

When Combe wrote and Rowlandson illustrated the 'Tour of Doctor Syntax,' a dance was the necessary complement of a harvest whether of corn or hay—especially of the latter, as then the barn was empty. The Reverend Doctor Syntax thought it not derogatory to his office to play the fiddle on such occasions. Moreover, half a century ago, the village fiddler was invited into any cottage, when, at the sound of his instrument, lads and maidens would assemble, dance for a couple of hours and disperse before darkness settled in. The denunciation of dancing as a deadly sin by the Methodists has caused it to fall into desuetude. Morality has not been bettered thereby. The young people who formerly met by daylight on the cottage floor, now meet, after chapel, in the dark, in hedge corners.

Hillary and Samuel had engaged Kate. Neither had thought of Honor, though she stood by, raking the fragrant hay.

'Up, up!' shouted both young men. 'Kate, you must ride on the last load.'

The waggon moved away, with Kate mounted on the sweet contents, and with the young men running at the side. Honor remained alone, looking after them, resting on her rake, and, in spite of her efforts, the tears filled her eyes.

But she did not give way to her emotion.

Honor called the children, when the last load left the field, and led them home. She was hot and tired, and her heart ached, but she was content with herself. She had conquered the rising movement of jealousy, and was ready to accept Hillary as her sister's acknowledged lover.

Kate followed her. An hour later the dance in the barn would begin. The lads and maidens went home to smarten up, and wash off the dust and stain of labour, and the barn had to be decorated with green branches, and the candles lit.

Kate went upstairs at once to dress. Honor remained below to hear the children's prayers, and get the youngest ready for bed. Then she went up to the room she shared with Kate, carrying little Temperance in her arms.

'Oh, Honor, bundle them all in. What a time you have been! We shall be late; and I have promised to open the dance with Larry.'

'I am not going, Kate.'

'Not going! Of course you are going.'

'No, I am not. Father is not home, and will want his supper. Besides, I cannot leave the house with all the little ones in it unprotected.'

'There are no ogres hereabouts that eat children,' said Kate, hastily. 'We can manage. This is nonsense; you must come.'

'I do not care to, Kate. Sit down in that chair, and I will dress your hair. It is tossed like a haycock.'

Kate seated herself, and Honor combed and brushed her sister's hair, then put a blue riband through it; and took the kerchief from her box, and drew it over Kate's shoulders, and pinned it in place.

'Oh, Honor! What a lovely silk kerchief! Where did you get this? How long have you had it? Why have you not shown it me before?'

'It is for you, dearest Kate; I am glad you like it.'

Kate stood up, looked at herself in the glass, and then threw her arms round her sister and kissed her.

'You are a darling,' exclaimed Kate. 'Always thinking of others, never giving yourself anything. Let me remain at home—do you go instead of me.'

Honor shook her head. She was pleased to see Kate's delight, but there was an undercurrent of sadness in her soul. She was adorning her sister for Hillary.

Kate did not press Honor to go instead of her, though she was sufficiently good-hearted to have taken her sister's place without becoming ill-tempered, had Honor accepted the offer.

'Do I look very nice?' asked Kate, with the irresistible dimples coming into her cheeks. 'I wonder what Larry will say when he sees me with this blue ribbon, and this pretty kerchief.'

'And I—' said Honor slowly, not without effort, 'I also wonder.'

CHAPTER XXIII.

A BRAWL.

When Kate came to the barn, she found it decorated with green boughs. There were no windows, only the great barn door, consequently the sides were dark; but here four lanterns had been hung, diffusing a dull yellow light. The threshing-floor was in the middle, planked; on either side the barn was slated, so that the dancing was to be in the middle. Forms were placed on the slate flooring for those who rested or looked on. On a table sat the fiddler with a jug of cider near him.

The season of the year was that of Barnaby bright, when, as the old saw says, there is all day and no night. The sun did not set till past eight, and then left the north-west full of silver light. The hedgerows, as Kate passed between them, streamed forth the fragrance from the honeysuckle which was wreathed about them in masses of flower, apricot-yellow, and pink. Where the incense of the eglantine ceased to fill the air it was burdened with the sweetness of white clover that flowered thickly over the broad green patches of grass by the road-side.

Hillary was awaiting Kate to open the dance with her. He had gone to the gate to meet her; he recognised his kerchief at once; he was surprised and hurt. Why was Honor not there? Kate came with her little brother Joe holding her hand, Joe had begged permission to attend the dance. Why had Honor made over Larry's present to her sister? It was a slight, an intentional slight. Larry bit his lips and frowned; his heart beat fast with angry emotion. He approached Kate with an ungracious air, and led her to the dance without a pleasant word.

Kate was unquestionably the prettiest girl present. She held her fair head erect, in consciousness of superiority. Her hair was abundant, full of natural wave and curl, and the sky-blue ribbon in it seemed to hold it together, and to be the only restraining power that prevented it breaking loose and enveloping her from head to foot in the most beautiful gloss silk. Her complexion was that of the wild rose, heightened by her rapid walk and by excitement; her eyes were blue as the forget-me-not.

The evening sun shone in at the barn door, as yellow, but purer and brighter than the lantern light. Had there been a painter present he would have seized the occasion to paint the pretty scene—the old barn with oaken timbers, its great double doors open, from under a penthouse roof leaning forward to cover the laden wains as they were being unpacked of their corn-sheaves; the depths of the barn dark as night, illumined feebly by the pendent lanterns; and the midst, the threshing floor, crowded with dancers, who flickered in the saffron glow of the setting sun.

Kate noticed that Hillary, whilst he danced with her, observed the kerchief intently.

'Is it not pretty?' she asked innocently. 'Honor gave it me. She had kept it for me in her box ever since the Revel, and not told me that she had it; nor did I see her buy it then. Honor is so good, so kind.'

Hillary said nothing in reply, but his humour was not improved. His mind wandered from his partner.

'When is Honor coming?' he asked abruptly.

'She is not coming at all.'

'Why not?'

'Father is not home, and will want his supper when he does return.'

'Honor must do all the drudging whilst others dance,' he said peevishly.

'I offered to stay and let her come, but she would not hear of it.'

Hillary danced badly; he lost step. He excused himself; but Kate was dissatisfied with her partner, he was dull, and she was displeased to see that Sam Voaden was dancing and laughing and enjoying himself with some one else.

'You are a clumsy partner,' she said, 'and dance like old Diamond when backing against a load going down hill.'

'Honor gave you that kerchief? What did she say when she gave it you?'

'Nothing.'

He said no more, and led her to a bench in the side of the barn.

'What! tired already, Larry? I am not.'

'I am,' he answered sulkily.

Directly, Sam Voaden came to her, and was received with smiles.

'Larry Nanspian came left leg foremost out of bed this morning,' she said. 'He is as out of tune as Piper's fiddle.'

Kate was in great request that evening. The lads pressed about her, proud to circle round the floor with the graceful pretty girl; but she gave the preference to Samuel Voaden. Hillary asked her to dance with him in 'The Triumph,' but she told him sharply she would reserve her hand for him in the Dumps, and he did not ask her again.

The girls present looked at Kate with envy. They were unable to dispute her beauty; but her charm of manner and lively wit made her even more acceptable to the lads than her good looks. She was perfectly conscious of the envy and admiration she excited, and as much gratified with one as with the other.

Samuel Voaden was infatuated. He pressed his attentions, and Kate received them with pleasure. As she danced past Larry she cast him glances of contemptuous pity.

Hillary was angry with Honor, angry with Kate, angry with himself. The spoiled prince was cast aside by two girls—a common carrier's daughters. He was as irritated against Kate now as he was previously against Honor. When he heard Kate laugh, he winced, suspecting that she was joking about him. His eyes followed the kerchief, and his heart grew bitter within him. He made no attempt to be amusing. He had nothing to say to any one. He let the dances go on without seeking partners. He stood lounging against the barn door, with a sprig of honeysuckle in his mouth, and his hands behind his back.

The sun was set, a cool grey light suffused the meadow, the stackyard, the barn, the groups who stood about, and the dancers within.

A dog ventured in at the door, and he kicked it out.

The dog snarled and barked, and he nearly quarrelled with young Voaden because the latter objected to his dog being kicked.

Then, all at once, his mood changed. It occurred to him that very probably Honor stayed away just for the purpose of showing him she did not care for him. If that were so, he would let her know that he was not to be put out of heart by her slights. He would not afford her the gratification of hearing through her sister that he was dispirited and unhappy. Then he dashed into the midst of the girls, snatched a partner, and thenceforth danced and laughed and was uproariously merry.

At ten o'clock the dancing was over. Country folk kept early hours then; the cider barrel was run out, the basket of cakes emptied, and the tallow lights in the lanterns burnt down to a flicker in a flood of melted grease.

The young men prepared to escort their partners home.

Hillary saw that Samuel was going with Kate. He was exasperated to the last degree. He did not care particularly for Kate, but he did care that it should not be talked of in the village that Sam Voaden had plucked her away from under his very nose. Gossip gave her to him as a sweetheart, and gossip would make merry over his discomfiture. Besides, he wanted an excuse for going to the cottage and having an explanation with Honor about the kerchief.

As Voaden's dog passed in front of him at a call from his master, Larry kicked it.

'Leave my dog alone, will you!' shouted Samuel. 'That is the second time you have kicked Punch. The dog don't hurt you, why should you hurt him?'

'I shall kick the brute if I choose,' said Hillary. 'It has no right here in the barn.'

'What harm has Punch done? And now, what is against his leaving?'

'You had no right to bring the dog here. It has been in the plantation after young game.'

'Punch is wrong whether in the barn or out of it. The guinea you got for shooting Rover has given you a set against dogs seemingly,' said young Voaden.

'The dog took your lambs at Swaddledown, and you were too much a lie-a-bed to stop it,' sneered Hillary.

'Some folk,' answered Samuel, 'have everything in such first-rate order at home they can spare time to help their neighbours.'

'No more!' exclaimed Kate; 'you shall not quarrel.'

Hillary looked round. Near him were two women who had been in the van when he returned from Tavistock with the kerchief. They, no doubt, recognised it over Kate's shoulders. They made sure it was his love-token to her, and, wearing it, she was about to affront him in their eyes. His wounded vanity made him blind to what he said or did.

'Here, Kate,' he said, thrusting himself forward, 'I am going to take you home. You cannot go with Samuel. His cursed Punch is an ill-conditioned brute, and will kill your chickens.'

'Nonsense,' laughed Kate, 'our chickens are all under cover.'

'I'll fight you,' said Hillary, turning to Samuel. 'Kate was engaged to me for the Tank,[1] and you carried her off without asking leave. I will not be insulted by you on my father's land, and under my own roof. If you are a man you will fight me.'

[1] An old country dance.

'Nonsense, Larry,' answered Samuel, good-humouredly, 'I'll not quarrel with you. It takes two to make a quarrel, as it takes two to kiss.'

'You are afraid, that is why.'

'I am not afraid of you, Larry,' said Samuel. 'You are as touchy this evening as if whipped with nettles.'

'Come with me, Kate,' exclaimed Hillary. 'You have known me longer than Voaden. If he chooses to take you, he must fight me first.'

'I will not fight you, Larry,' answered the young Swaddledown farmer; 'but I don't object to a fling with you, if you will wrestle.'

'Very well; throw off your coat.'

The young men removed their jackets, waistcoats, and the handkerchiefs from their throats. They were both fine fellows—well-built and strong. Those who had been dancing surrounded them in a ring, men and maids.

'Cornish fashion, not Devon,' said Samuel.

'Ay, ay!' shouted the bystanders, 'Cornish wrestle now.'

'Right—Cornish,' answered Hillary.

The difference between Devon and Cornish wrestling consists in this, that in a Devon wrestle kicking is admissible; but then, as a protection to their shins, the antagonists have their legs wreathed with haybands (vulgo skillibegs). As the legs were on this occasion unprotected, Devon wrestling was inadmissible. Both fashions were in vogue near the Tamar, and every young man would wrestle one way or the other as decided beforehand.

The opponents fixed each other with their eyes, and stood breathless, and every voice was hushed. Instantaneously, as moved by one impulse, they sprang at each other, and were writhing, tossing, coiling in each other's embrace. Neither could make the other budge from his ground, or throw him, exerting his utmost strength and skill. The haymakers stood silent, looking on appreciatively—the girls a little frightened, the men relishingly, relishing it more than the dance. Not one of the lads at that moment had a thought to cast at his partner. Their hands twitched, their feet moved, they bent, threw themselves back, swung aside, responsive to the movements of the wrestlers.

The antagonists gasped, snorted, as with set teeth and closed lips they drew long inspirations through their nostrils. Their sweat poured in streams from their brows.

Simultaneously, moved by one impulse, they let go their hold, and stood quivering and wiping their brows, with labouring breasts; then, with a shout, closed again.

'Ho!' a general exclamation. In the first grapple Hillary had slipped, and gone down on one knee. Immediately Samuel let go.

'There!' said he, holding out his hand. 'We have had enough. Strike palms, old boy.'

'No,' gasped Hillary, blazing with anger and shame. 'I was not flung. I slipped on the dockleaf there. I will not allow myself beaten. Come on again.'

'I will not do so,' answered Samuel. 'If you have not had enough, I have.'

'You shall go on. You are a coward to sneak out now when an accident gave you advantage.'

'Very well, then,' said Samuel; 'but you have lost your temper, and I'll have no more than this round with you.'

The young men were very equally matched. They grappled once more, twisted, doubled, gasped; the ground was torn up under their feet. As the feet twirled and flew, it was hard to say how many were on the ground at once, and whose they were.

Samuel suddenly caught his antagonist over the arms, and pushed them to his side.

'He'll have Larry down! he will, by George!' shouted several. 'Well done, Samuel! Go it, Samuel Voaden!'

'Ha!' shouted Sam, starting back. 'Who goes against rules? You kicked.'

'You lie! I did not,'

'You did! you did, Larry,' shouted three or four of the spectators. It was true; in his excitement Larry had forgotten that he and his opponent were without skillibegs and wrestling in Cornish fashion, and he had kicked; but in good faith he had denied doing it, for he was unconscious of his actions, so blinded and bemuzzed was he with anger, disappointment, and shame.

'I'll not wrestle any more,' said Samuel, 'if you don't wrestle fair. No—I won't at all. You are in a white fury. So—if it's unfair in you to kick, it is unfair in me to take advantage of your temper.'

'It is not done. One or other must go down.'

Then Kate pushed forward. 'Neither of you shall attend me home,' she said; 'I am going with little Joe only.'

Whether this would have ended the affray is doubtful. Another interruption was more successful. Suddenly a loud blast of a horn, then a yelping as of dogs, then another blast—and through the yard before the barn, breaking the ring, sweeping between the combatants, passed a strange figure—a man wearing a black bull's hide, with long brown paper ears on his head; the hide was fastened about his waist, and the tail trailed behind. He was followed by a dozen boys barking, baying, yelping, and after them hobbled Tom Crout blowing aorn.

'It's no good,' said the lame fellow, halting in the broken ring; 'I can't follow the hare, Mr. Larry Nanspian; the hunt is waiting for you. On wi' a green coat, and mount your piebald, and take my horn. I wish I could follow; but it's un-possible. Whew! you hare! Heigh! Piper, stay, will you, and start fair.'

'I'll have nothing to do with it,' said Hillary, still panting.

'That is right, Larry,' said Kate in his ear, 'You oughtn't. Honor said as much, and that she hoped you would keep out of it.'

'Did she!' said Hillary, angrily; 'then I'll go in for it.'

'Larry, old chap,' exclaimed Voaden, patting him on the shoulder, 'I wasn't the better man, nor was you. You slipped on the dockleaf, and that don't reckon as a fall. We'll have another bout some other day, if you wish it. Now let us have the lark of the Hare Hunt.'

Hillary considered a moment, and wiped his face. He had fallen in the general estimation. He had been sulky, he had provoked Sam, and the wrestle had not turned to his credit. Here was a chance offered of taking the lead once more. If he did not act the huntsman, Sam would.

'All right, Crout,' said he, 'give me the horn; I'll have my horse round directly, and the green coat on.'

'Do not, do not, Larry,' entreated Kate.

'Tell Honor I'm not pinned to her apron,' answered the young man, and ran into the house.

CHAPTER XXIV.

THE HAND OF GLORY.

The reader may have been puzzled by the hints made by Larry to Honor, and by Charles to Mrs. Veale, of a threatened hare hunt, and he may have wondered why such a threat should have disturbed Honor and angered the housekeeper. There are plenty of hares on Broadbury Moor; there have been hare hunts there as long as men could remember; frequently, all through the winter. An ordinary hare hunt would not have stirred much feeling in women's bosoms. The menaced hare hunt was something very different. A stag and a hare hunt are the rude means employed by a village community for maintaining either its standard of morals or expressing its disapprobation of petticoat rule. The stag hunt is by no means an institution of the past, it flourishes to the present day; and where the magistrates have interfered, this interference has stimulated it to larger proportions. The hare hunt, now extinct, was intended to ridicule the man who submitted to a rough woman's tongue.

The stag hunt takes place either on the wedding-night of a man who has married a girl of light character, or when a wife is suspected of having played her husband false. The hare hunt more properly satirised the relations between Taverner Langford and Mrs. Veale. In not a few cases, especially with a stag hunt, there is gross injustice done. It cannot be otherwise: the Vehm-Gericht is self-constituted, sits in the tavern, and passes its sentence without summons and hearing of the accused. There is no defence and no appeal from the court. The infliction of the sentence confers an indelible stain, and generally drives those who have been thus branded out of the neighbourhood. Petty spite and private grudges are sometimes so revenged; and a marriage in a well-conducted family, which has held itself above the rest in a parish, is made an occasion for one of these outrages, whereby the envy of the unsuccessful and disreputable finds a vent.

There probably would have been no hare hunt near Langford had not the quarrel between Langford and Nanspian agitated the whole parish, and given occasion for a frolic which would not have been adventured had the brothers-in-law been combined.

'Well, Mr. Charles,' said Mrs. Veale, 'what have you done with the five-pound note I let you have? Is it all spent?'

'I gave it to my father and sister,' answered Charles. 'I've occasioned them some expense, and I thought I'd make it up to them whilst I could.'

'That was mighty liberal of you,' sneered Mrs. Veale.

'I am liberal, pretty free-handed with my money. It comes of my blood.'

'Ah!' said the housekeeper, 'and I reckon now you'll be wanting more.'

'I could do with more,' replied young Luxmore, 'but I will not trouble you.'

'Oh! it's no trouble,' said Mrs. Veale, 'I know very well that lending to you is safe as putting into the Bank of England. You must have your own some day, and when you're squire you won't see me want.'

'Rely on me, I will deal most generously with you. I shall not forget your kindness, Mrs. Veale.'

'But,' said the woman slyly, eyeing him, 'I can't find you as much as you require. You can't spin more out of me than my own weight, as the silkworm said. I've put aside my little savings. But as you see, the master don't pay freely. He gives you only ninepence, and me——' she shrugged her shoulders.

'If I were in your place,' she went on, after a pause, 'I should be tempted to borrow a hundred or so, and go to Physick the lawyer with it, and say, help me to Coombe Park, and when I've that, I'll give you a hundred more.'

'Who'd lend me the money? You have not so much.'

'No, I have not so much.'

'What other person would trust me?'

'The money might be had.'

'Others don't see my prospects as you do.'

'I'd be inclined to borrow wi'out asking,' said the housekeeper cautiously. She was as one feeling her way; she kept her eyes on Charles as she talked. Charles started. He knew her meaning.

'How dare you suggest such a thing!' he said in a low tone, looking at her uneasily. 'Curse you! Don't wink at me with your white lashes that way, you make me uneasy.'

'I only suggested it,' said Mrs. Veale, turning her head aside. 'I reckon no harm would be done. The master don't know how much he has in his box. We had it out t'other day between us, and counted. There be over a thousand pounds there. Do y' think he counts it every week? Not he. Who'd know? The money would be put back, and wi' interest, six, seven, ten per cent., if you liked, when you'd got Coombe Park.'

'Have done,' said Luxmore with nervous irritation; 'I'm no thief, and never could become one.'

'Who asked you to be one? Not I. I said as how you might become his banker for a hundred pounds. The bank gives but three per cent., and you would give nine. Who'd be the loser? Not master. He'd gain nine pounds without knowing it—and wouldn't he crow!'

Charles Luxmore caught his hat and stood up.

'Where be you going to?' asked Mrs. Veale.

'I cannot stand this,' he said in an agitated voice. 'You torment me. You put notions into me that won't let me sleep, that make me miserable. I shall go.'

'Whither? To the Ring o' Bells. There be no one there to-night, all be away to Chimsworthy at the Haysel. You sit down again, and I will give you some cherry cordial.'

He obeyed sulkily.

'You can't go to dance at Chimsworthy, because you be here at Langford, and there's no dancing and merry-making here. But wait till you're at Coombe Park, and then you'll have junketings and harvest-homes and dances when you will. That'll be a rare life.'

He said nothing, but thrust his hands into his pockets, and looked moodily before him.

'Shall I tell you now who'll find you the money?'

He did not speak.

'Wellon will.'

'What?' he looked up in surprise.

'Ay! old Wellon as was gibbeted, he will.'

Charles laughed contemptuously. 'You are talking folly. I always thought you mad.'

'Did you ever hear of the Hand of Glory?'

'No, never.'

'I wonder what became of Wellon's hand—the hand that throttled Mary Rundle, and stuck the knife into the heart of Jane, and brought down their aunt wi' a blow of the fist. That hand was a mighty hand.'

'Wellon was hung in chains, and fell to dust.'

'But not the hand. Such a hand as that was too precious. Did you never hear it was cut off, and the body swung for years without it?'

'No, I did not.'

'It was so.'

'What good was it to anyone?'

'It was worth pounds and pounds.'

'As a curiosity?'

'No, as a Hand of Glory. It were washed in mother's milk to a child base-born, and smoked in the reek of gallows-wood, and then laid with tamarisk from the sea, and vervain, and rue, and bog-bean.'

'Well, what then?'

'Why, then, sure it's a Hand of Glory.' She paused, then struck her hand across her forehead, 'and grass off the graves of them as it killed—I forgot to say that was added.'

'What can such a hand do?'

'Everything. If I had it here and set it up on the mantelshelf, and set a light to the fingers, all would flame blue, and then every soul in the house would sleep except us two, and we might ransack the whole place and none would stir or hinder or see. And if we let the hand flame on, they would lie asleep till we were far away beyond their reach.'

'If you had this Hand of Glory, I wouldn't help you to use it,' said Charles, writhing on his seat.

'That is not all,' Mrs. Veale went on, standing by a little tea-table with her hand on it, the other against her side. 'That hand has wonderful powers of itself. It is as a thing alive, though dead and dry as leather. If you say certain words it begins to run about on its fingers like a rat. Maybe you're sitting over the fire of nights, and hear something stirring, and see a brown thing scuttling over the floor and you think it is a rat. It is not. It is the dead man's hand. Perhaps you hear a scratching on the wall, and look round, and see a great black spider—a monstrous spider going about, running over and over the wainscot, and touching and twitching at the bell wires. It is not a spider, it is the murderer's hand. It hasn't eyes, it goes by the feel, till it comes to gold, and then, at the touch the dark skin becomes light and shines as the tail of a glowworm, and it picks and gathers by its own light. I reckon, if that hand o' Wellon's were in the oven behind the parlour-grate, it would make such a light that you'd see what was on every guinea, whether the man and horse or the spade, and you could read every note as well as if you had the daylight. Then the ring-finger and the little finger close over what money the hand has been bidden fetch, and it runs away on the thumb and other two—and then, if you will, it's spiderlike with a bag behind.'

'I don't believe a word of it,' said Charles, but his words were more confident than his tone.

'You see,' Mrs. Veale went on, 'there is this about it, you tell the hand to go and fetch the money, but you don't say whither it is to go, and you do not know. You get the money and can swear you have robbed no one. I reckon, mostly the money is found by the hand in old cairns and ruins. I've been told there's a table of gold in Broadbury Castle that only comes to the top on Midsummer night for an hour, and then sinks again. Folks far away see a great light on Broadbury, and say we be swaling (burning gorse) up here; but it is no such thing; it is the gold table coming up, and shining like fire, and the clouds above reflecting its light.'

'Pity the hand don't break off bits of the gold table,' said Charles sarcastically; but his face was mottled with fear; Mrs. Veale's stories frightened him.

'Yes, 'tis a pity,' she said. 'Maybe it will some day.'

'Pray what do you say to the hand to make it run your errands?'

'Ah!' she continued, without answering his question. 'There be other things the Hand of Glory can do. It will go if you send it to some person—bolts and locks will not keep it out, and it will catch the end of the bedclothes, and scramble up, and pass itself over the eyes of the sleeper, and make him sleep like a dead man, and it will dive under the clothes and lay its fingers on the heart; then there will come aches and spasms there, or it will creep down the thighs and pinch and pat, and that brings rheumatic pains. I've heard of one hand thus sent as went down under the bedclothes to the bottom of the sleeper's foot, and there it closed up all the fingers but one, and with that it bored and bored, working itself about like a gimblet, and then gangrene set in, and the man touched thus was dead in three days.'

'It is a mighty fortunate thing you've not the hand of old Wellon,' growled Charles.

'I have got it,' answered Mrs. Veale.

Charles looked at her with staring eyes.

'You shall see it,' she said.

'I do not want to. I will not!' he exclaimed, shuddering.

'Wellon's hand will fetch you a hundred pounds, and we will not ask whence it comes,' said Mrs. Veale.

'I will not have it, I will not touch it!' He spoke in a hoarse, horrified whisper.

'You shall come with me, and I will show you where I keep it, and perhaps you will find the hand closed; and when I say, Hand of Glory! open! Hand of Glory! give up! then you will see the fingers unclose, and the glittering gold coins will be in the brown palm.'

'I will not touch them.'

'No harm in your looking at them. Come with me.'

She stood before him with her firm mouth set, and her blinking eyes on him. He tried to resist. He settled himself more comfortably into his seat. But his efforts to oppose her will were in vain. He uttered a curse, drew his hands out of his pocket, put his hat on his head.

'Go on,' he said surlily; 'but I tell y' I won't go without the lantern. Where is it?'

'In Wellon's Cairn.'

'I will not go,' said Charles, drawing back, and all colour leaving his cheek.

'Then I'll send the hand after you. Come.'

'I'll take the lantern.'

'As you like, but hide the light till we get to the hill. There it don't matter if folks see a flame dancing about the mound. They will keep their distance—Come on, after me.'

CHAPTER XXV.

THE HARE HUNT.

Directly Mrs. Veale, followed by Charles, came outside the house the former turned and said, with a chuckle, 'You want a lantern, do y', a summer night such as this?'

The sky was full of twilight, every thorn tree and holly bush was visible on the hedges, every pebble in the yard.

'I'm not going to Wellon's Cairn without,' said Luxmore, sulkily. 'I don't want to go at all; and I won't go there without light.'

'Very well. I will wait at the gate for you.'

He went into the stable, where was a horn-sided tin lantern, and took it down from its crook, then went back into the kitchen and lighted the candle at the fire.

'I've a mind not to go,' he muttered. 'What does the woman want with me, pulling me, driving me, this way and that? If I'd been told I was to be subjected to this sort of persecution, I wouldn't have come here. It's not to be endured for ninepence. Ninepence! It would be bad at eighteen pence. I wish I was in Afghanistan. Cawbul, Ghuznee, Candahar don't astonish her. She ain't open-mouthed at them, but sets my hair on end with her Hand of Glory, and talks of how money is to be got. I know what she is after; she wants me to run away with her and the cash box. I won't do it—not with her, for certain; not with the cash box if I can help it. I don't believe a word about a Hand of Glory. I'm curious to know how she'll get out of it, now she's promised to show it me.'

He started, and swore.

'Gorr!' he said; 'it's only a rat behind the wainscot; I thought it was the hand creeping after me. I suppose I must go. For certain, Mrs. Veale is a bad un. But; what is that? The shadow of my own hand on the wall, naught else.'

He threw over him a cloak he wore in wet weather, and hid the lantern under it.

'For sure,' he said, 'folks would think it queer if they saw me going out such a summer night as this with a lantern; but I won't go to Wellon's Cairn without, that is certain.'

'Well,' said Mrs. Veale; 'so you have come at last!'

'Yes, I have come. Where is the master? I've not seen him about.'

'He never said nothing to no one, and went off to Holsworthy to-day.'

'When will he be back?'

'Not to-morrow; there's a fair there; the day after, perhaps.'

A heavy black cloud hung in the sky, stretching apparently above Broadbury. Below it the silvery light flowed from behind the horizon. To the east, although it was night, the range of Dartmoor was visible, bathed in the soft reflection from the north-western sky. The tumulus upon which Wellon had been executed was not far out on the heath. Mrs. Veale led the way with firm tread; Charles followed with growing reluctance. A great white owl whisked by. The glowworms were shining mysteriously under tufts of grass. As they pushed through the heather they disturbed large moths. A rabbit dashed past.

'Hush!' whispered Charles. 'I'm sure I heard a horn.'

'Ah!' answered Mrs. Veale, 'Squire Arscott rides the downs at night, they say, and has this hundred years.'

'I don't care to go any further,' said the young man.

'You shall come on. I am going to show you the Hand of Glory.'

He was powerless to resist. As his father had fallen under the authority of Honor, so the strong over-mastering will of this woman domineered Charles, and made him do what she would. He felt his subjection, his powerlessness. He saw the precipice to which she was leading him, and knew that he could not escape.

'I wish I had never come to Langford,' he muttered to himself. 'It's Honor's doing. If I go wrong, she is to blame. She sent me here, and all for ninepence.' Then, stepping forward beside the housekeeper, 'I say, Mrs. Veale, how do you manage to stow anything away in a mound?'

'Easy, if the mound be not solid,' she replied. 'There is a sort of stone coffin in the middle, made of pieces of granite set on end, and others laid on top. When the treasure-seekers dug into the hill, they came as far as one of the stones, and they stove it in, but found nothing, or, if they found aught, they carried it away. Then, I reckon, they put the stone back, or the earth fell down and covered all up, and the heather bushes grew over it all. But I looked one day about there for a place where I could hide things. I thought as the master had his secret place, I'd have mine too; and I knew no place could be safer than where old Wellon hung, as folk don't like to come too near it—leastways in the dark. Well, then, I found a little hole, as might have been made by a rabbit, and I cleared it out; and there I found the gap and the stone coffin. I crept in, it were not over big, but wi' a light I could see about. I thought at first I'd come on Wellon's bones, but no bones were there, nothing at all but a rabbit nest, and some white snail shells. After that I made up the entrance again, just as it was, and no one would know it was there. But I can find it; there is a bunch of heath by it, and some rushes, and how rushes came to grow there beats me.'

'So you keep Wellon's hand in there, do you?'

'Yes, I do.'

'How did you manage to get it?'

'I will not tell you.'

'I do not believe you have it; I don't believe but what you told me a parcel of lies about the Hand of Glory. I've been to Afghanistan, and Cabul, and the Bombay Presidency, and never heard of such a thing. It is not in reason. If a dead hand can move, why has not my finger that was cut off in battle come back to me?'

'Shall I send the Hand after it?'

The suggestion made Charles uneasy. He looked about him, as afraid to see the black hand running on the grass, leaping the tufts of furze, carrying his dead finger, to drop it at his feet.

'What are you muttering?' asked he, sharply.

'I'm only repeating, Hand of Glory! Hand of Light! Fetch, fetch! Run and bring——'

'I'll strike you down if you go on with your devilry, you hag,' said Charles, angrily.

'We are at the place.'

They entered the cutting made by the treasure-seekers, the gap in which Honor had often sat in the sun, unconscious of the stone kistvaen hidden behind her, indifferent to the terrors of the haunted hill, whilst the sun blazed on it.

'The night is much darker than it was,' said Charles uneasily, as he looked about him.

It was as he said. The black mass of cloud had spread and covered the sky, cutting off the light except from the horizon.

'I don't like the looks of the cloud,' said Charles. 'There will be rain before long, and there's thunder aloft for certain.'

'What is that to you? Are you afraid of a shower? You have your cloak. Bring out the lantern. It matters not who sees the light now. If anyone does see it, he'll say it's a corpse-candle on its travels.'

'What is a corpse-candle?'

'Don't you know?' She gave a short, dry laugh. 'It's a light that travels by night along a road, and comes to the door of the house out of which a corpse will be brought in a day or two.'

'Does no one carry the candle?'

'It travels by itself.' Then she said, 'Give me the light.'

'I will not let it out of my hand,' answered Charles, looking about him timorously. 'I don't think anyone will see the light, down in this hole.'

'Hold the lantern where I show you—there.'

He did as required. It gave a poor, sickly light, but sufficient to show where the woman wanted to work. She began to scratch away the earth with her hands, and Charles, watching her, thought she worked as a rabbit or hare might with its front paws. Presently she said:

'There is the hole, look in.'

He saw a dark opening, but had no desire to peer into it. Indeed, he drew back.

'How can I see, if you take away the lantern?' asked Mrs. Veale. 'Put your arm in and you will find the hand.'

He drew still further away. 'I will not. I have seen enough. I know of this hiding-place. That suffices. I will go home.'

The horror came over him lest she should force him to put his hand into the stone coffin, and that there, in the blackness and mystery of the Interior, the dead hand of the murderer would make a leap and clasp his.

'I have had enough of this,' he said, and a shiver ran through him, 'I will go home. Curse me! I'm not going to be mixed up with all this devilry and witchery if I can help it.'

'Perhaps the hand is gone,' said Mrs. Veale.

'Oh! I hope so.'

'I sent it after your finger.'

'Indeed, may it be long on its travels.' He was reassured. It was not pleasant to think of so close proximity to the murderer's embalmed, still active hand. He suspected that Mrs. Veale was attempting to wriggle out of her undertaking. 'Indeed—I thought I was to see the hand, and now the hand is not here.'

'I cannot say. Anyhow, the money is here.'

'What money?'

'That for which you asked.'

'I asked for none.'

'You desired a hundred pounds for the purpose of getting back Coombe Park. Put in your hand and take it.'

'I will not.'

His courage was returning, as he thought he saw evasion of her promise in the woman.

'For the matter of that, if this Hand of Glory can fetch money, it might as well fetch more than that.'

'How much?'

'A hundred is not over much. Two hundred—a thousand.'

'Say a thousand.'

'So I do.'

'Put in your hand. It is there.'

'Hark!'

'Put in your hand.'

'I will not.'

'Then you fool! you coward! I must take it for you!' she hissed in her husky voice. She stooped, and thrust both her hands and arms deep into the kistvaen.

'Hush!' whispered Charles, as he laid his hand on her shoulder, and covered the light with a flap of his mantle. She remained still for a minute with her arms buried in the crave. There was certainly a sound, a tramp of many feet, and the fall of horses' hoofs, heard, then not heard, as they went over road or turf.

'There,' whispered Mrs. Veale, and drew a box from the hole and placed it on Charles's lap. As she did so, the mantleflap fell from the lantern, and the light shone over the box. Charles at once recognised Taverner Langford's cash box, with the letter padlock.