Front matter (continued 5)

"Shall 'e lift your hand to un, maister?" inquired Mr. Collins. "They tell me I was lathered proper by my faither afore I'd grawed two year auld. Do seem a gentle age to wallop a bwoy; yet here I be."

"'Tis a very needful thing indeed," declared Cramphorn—"male an' female for that matter. A bwoy's built to larn through his hide fust, his head arterwards. Hammer 'em! I sez. Better the cheel should holler than the man groan; better the li'l things should kick agin theer faither's shins than kick agin his heart, come they graw."

"If we could only be as wise as our words," said Myles. "I'm sure I gather good advice enough of nights for a king's son to begin life with. So many sensible men I never saw together before. You're likely to kill him with kindness, I think."

The boy Tommy Bates returned home from a walk to Chagford at this moment, with his mouth so full of news that he could not get it out with coherence.

"A poacher to Godleigh last night! Ess fay! An' keeper runned miles an' miles arter un, if he's tellin' truth; an' 'twas Sam Bonus—that anointed rascal from Chaggyford by all accounts. Not that keeper can swear to un, though he's very near positive. Catched un so near as damn it—slippery varmint! An' his pockets all plummed out wi' gert game birds! But theer 'tis—the law ban't strong enough to do nought till the chap's catched red-handed an' brought for trial."

Thus the advent of a precious new life at Endicott's was discussed most gravely and seriously. Mark Endicott indeed not seldom burst a shell of laughter upon so much wisdom, but Stapledon saw nothing to be amused at. To him the subject was more important and fascinating than any upon which thought could be employed, and he permitted no utterance or canon of old custom to escape unweighed. At first he repeated to his wife a little of all that eloquence set flowing when she retired; but Honor always met the subject with a silver-tongued torrent of irreverent laughter, and treated the ripest principles of Mr. Ash and his friends with such contemptuous criticisms that her husband soon held his peace.

Yet he erred in forgetting the blind man's warning under this added provocation of a little one in the bud; he spent all his leisure with his wife; he tried hard to catch her flitting humours, and even succeeded sometimes; but oftener he won a smile and a look of love for the frank failure of his transparent endeavours.

"Don't be entertaining, sweetheart," she said to him. "I cannot tell how it is, but if you are serious, I am happy; if you jest and try to make me laugh, my spirits cloud and come to zero in a moment. That's a confession of weakness, you see; for women so seldom have humour. Everybody says that. So be grave, if you want me to be gay. I love you so; and gravity is proper to you. It makes me feel how big and strong you are—how fortunate I am to have you to fight the battle of life for me."

"I wish I could," he said. "But you're right. I'm not much of a joker. It's not that you have a weak sense of humour that makes me miss fire; it's because you have a strong one."

Sometimes the veil between them seemed to thicken from his standpoint. Even a little formality crept into his love; and this Honor felt and honestly blamed herself for. Mark Endicott also perceived this in the voice of the man; and once he spoke concerning it, when the two walked together during a January noon.

It was a grey and amber day of moisture, gentle southern wind and watery sunlight—a day of heightened temperature, yet of no real promise that the earth was waking. Ephemera were hatched, and flew and warped in little companies, seen against dark backgrounds. Hazardous bud and bird put forth petal and music, and man's heart longed for spring; but his reason told him that the desire was vain.

"No lily's purple spike breaking ground as yet, I doubt?" said Mark Endicott, as he paced his favourite walk in the garden.

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

"What good things this coming springtime has hidden under her girdle for you, Myles! Leastways, one's a right to hope so. That reminds me. Is Honor happy with you alone? Not my business, and you'll say I'm an old cotquean; but I'm blind, and, having no affairs of my own, pry into other people's. Yet Honor—why, she's part of my life, and the best part. She seems more silent than formerly—more and more as the days pass. Natural, of course. I hear her thread, and the click of her needle, and her lips as she bites the cotton; but her work I can't follow with my ears now, for it's all soft wool, I suppose. She said yesterday that she much wished I could see her new garb—'morning gown' she called it. She's pleased with it, so I suppose you've praised it."

"Yes, uncle, and was sorry that I had. I don't know how it is, but I contradict myself in small things, and she never forgets, and reminds me, and makes me look foolish and feel so. This gown—a brown, soft, shiny thing, all lined with silky stuff the colour of peach-blossom, warm and comfortable—I admired it heartily, and said it was a fine thing, and suited her well."

"You could do no more."

"But somehow I was clumsy—I am clumsy, worse luck. And she said, 'Don't praise my clothes, sweetheart; that's the last straw.' 'Last straw' she certainly said, yet probably didn't guess how grave that made the sentence sound. Then she went on, 'You know my gowns don't match earth and sky one bit; and you love better the drabs and duns of the folk. You've told me so, and I quite understand. You'd rather have Sally's apron and sun-bonnet, and see her milking, with her apple cheeks pressed against a red cow, than all my most precious frippery. And, of course, you're right, and that makes it so much the more trying.' Now that was uncalled for. Don't you think so? I say this from no sorrow at it, God bless her! but because you may help read the puzzle. I don't understand her absolutely, yet. Very nearly, but not absolutely."

"No, you don't, that's certain. The mistake is to try to. You're wise in what you let alone, as a rule. But her nature you can't suffer to grow without fuss. There's a sound in your voice to her—afore the hands, too—like a servant to his mistress."

"I am her servant."

"Yes, I know; so am I also; but—well, no call to tramp the old ground. You might guess she'd look for gentleness and petting, yet——"

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

"Well, you'll learn a bit some day; but you've not got the build of mind to know much about women."

Myles sighed, and drummed his leg with a whip.

"It's all so small and petty and paltry—these shades and moods and niceties and subtleties."

"Women will have 'em."

"Well, I try."

"Go on trying. The world's full of these small things, speaking generally. You're built for big, heavy game. Yet it's your lot to catch gnats just now—for her. And she knows how hard you try. It'll come right when she's herself again. Life brims with such homespun, everyday fidgets. They meet a man at every turn."

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

"Well, don't addle your brains about it. Your large kindness with dogs and beasts, and love of them, and discipline would please her best. If you could only treat her as you treat them."

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

"I know; and lucky for her. But remember she can't change any more than you can. The only difference is that she doesn't try to, and you do. All this brooding and morbidness and chewing over her light words is not worthy of a man. Be satisfied. You'll wear—you can take that to your comfort. You'll wear all through, and the pattern of you is like to be brighter in her eyes ten years hence than now. No call to go in such a fog of your own breeding. Wood and iron are different enough in their fashion as any two creatures in the world; but that doesn't prevent 'em from cleaving exceeding tight together. She knows all this well enough; she's a woman with rather more sense of justice than is common to them; and your future's sure, if you'll only be patient and content; for she loves you better far than she's ever told you, or is ever likely to."

CHAPTER V.

IN SPRING MOONLIGHT

Another springtime gladdened the heart of man and set the sap of trees, the blood of beasts, the ichor of the wild wood gods a-flowing. A green veil spread again, a harmony of new-born music, colour, scent, all won of sunshine, rose from feathered throats, from primroses, from censers of the fragrant furze; and there was whisper of vernal rains, ceaseless hurtle of wings, and murmur of bees; while upon new harps of golden green, soft west winds sang to the blue-eyed, busy young Earth-Mother, their immemorial song.

Honor Endicott moved amid the translucent verdure; and her eyes shadowed mystery, and her heart longed for her baby's coming, as a sick man longs for light of day. She found an awakening interest in her own sex—a thing strange to her, for few women had ever peeped within the portals of her life; but now she talked much with Mrs. Loveys and the matrons of Little Silver. She listened to their lore and observed how, when a woman's eyes do dwell upon her child, there comes a look into them that shall never be seen at any other time. She noticed the little children, and discovered with some surprise how many small, bright lives even one hamlet held. Black and brown-eyed, blue-eyed and grey; with white skins and red; with soft voices and shrill; rough and gentle; brave and fearful—she watched them all, and thought she loved them all, for the sake of one precious baby that would come with the first June roses. The little life quickened to the love-songs of the thrushes; it answered the throbbing music of river and wood; its sudden messages filled her eyes with tears; her heart with ineffable, solemn thrills of mother-joy. Great calm had spread its wings about Honor. She approached her ordeal in a high spirit, as of old-time mothers of heroes. She abstracted herself from all daily routine, but walked abroad with her husband in the long green twilights, or sat beside Mark Endicott and watched his wooden needles tapping as he talked. A recent pettiness of whim and fancy had almost vanished, though now and again she did express a desire and rested not until the fulfilment. Fear she had none, for the season of fear was passed, if it had ever clouded her thoughts. To Myles her attitude insensibly grew softer, and she found his wealth of affection not unpleasant as her time approached. She accepted his worship, received his gifts, even pretended to occasional fancies that he might have the pleasure of gratifying them.

There came an evening of most lustrous beauty. Mild rain had fallen during the day, but the sky cleared at nightfall, when the clouds gleamed and parted in flakes of pearl for the pageant of a full May moon. Silently she swam out from the rack of the rain; spread light into the heart of the spring leaves; woke light along the glimmering grass blades; meshed and sprinkled and kissed with light each raindrop of them all, until the whole soaking world was bediamonded and robed in silver-grey.

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

"I must go out," she said. "The night is alive and beckoning with its lovely fingers. The peace of it! Think of this night in the woods! I must go out, and you must take me, Myles."

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

"I can wrap up. I feel something that tells me this is the very last time I shall go out till—afterwards. Just an hour—a little hour; and you can drive me. I've got to go whether you will or not."

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

"No, no—to-night. I want to go and feel the peace of the valley. I want to hear the Teign sisters kissing and cuddling each other under the moon. I'll put on those tremendous furs you got me at Christmas, and do anything you like if you'll only take me."

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

"He need know nothing about it. Don't frown. Please, please! It would hearten me and cheer me; and I promise to drink a full dose of the red wine when I come in. You shall pour it out. There—who could do more?"

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

"She cannot take hurt in this weather if she's wrapped up in the furs. The air feels like milk after the rain."

Stapledon therefore made no ado about it, but marched meekly forth, and himself harnessed a pony to the little low carriage purchased specially for his wife's pleasure.

Soon they set off through the new-born and moon-lit green, under shadows that lacked that opacity proper to high summer, under trees which still showed their frameworks through the foliage. Inflorescence of great oaks hung in tassels of chastened gold, and a million translucent leaves diffused rather than shut off the ambient light. Unutterable peace marked their progress; no shard-borne things made organ music; no night-bird cried; only the rivers called under the moon, the mist wound upon the water-meadows, and the silver of remote streamlets twinkled here and there from the hazes of the low-lying grass land or the shadows of the woods—twinkled and vanished, twinkled and vanished again beyond the confines of the night-hidden valley.

"A fairy hour," said Honor; "and all things awake and alive with a strange, strange moon-life that they hide by day."

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

"Don't call them rabbits. I'm pretending that their little white scuts are the pixy people. And there's Godleigh under the fir trees—peeping out with huge yellow eyes—like the dragon of an old legend."

"Yes, that's Godleigh."

"Drive me now to Lee Bridge. It was very good of you to come. I appreciate your love and self-denial so much—so much more than I can find words to tell you, Myles."

"God be good to you, my heart! I wish I deserved half your love. You make me young again to hear you speak so kindly—young and happy too—happy as I can be until afterwards."

"It won't be many more weeks. The days that seemed so long in winter time are quite short now, though it is May. That is how a woman's heart defies the seasons and reverses the order of Nature on no greater pretext than a paltry personal one."

"Not paltry!"

"Why, everything that's personal is paltry, I suppose, even to the bearing of your first baby."

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

"Of course, I don't really. Hush now; let me watch all these dear, soft, moony things and be happy, and suffer them to work their will on my mind. I'm very near my reformation, remember. I'm going to be so different afterwards. Just a staid, self-possessed, sensible matron—and as conservative as a cow. Won't there be a peace about the home?"

"Honor!"

"Honour bright. Look at Forde's new thatch! I hate new thatch under the sun, but in the moonlight it is different. His cot looks like some golden-haired, goblin thing that's seen a ghost. How pale the whitewash glares; and the windows throw up the whites of their eyes!"

"Don't talk so much. I'm sure you'll catch cold or something. Now we're going down to valley-level. Lean against me—that's it. This hill grows steeper every time I drive down it, I think."

They crossed Chagford Bridge, where a giant ash fretted the moonlight with tardy foliage still unexpanded; then Myles drove beyond a ruined wool factory, turned to the right, passed Holy Street and the cross in the wall, and finally reached the neighbourhood of Lee Bridge. Here the air above them was dark with many trees and the silence broken by fitful patter of raindrops still falling from young foliage. The green dingles and open spaces glittered with moisture, where the light fell and wove upon them a fabric of frosted radiance touched with jewels, to the crest of the uncurling fern-fronds, and the wide shimmer of the bluebell folk—moon-kissed, as Endymion of old. Pale and wan their purple stretched and floated away and faded dimly, rippling into the darkness; but their scent hung upon the air, like the very breath of sleeping spring.

"Stop here, my love," said Honor. "What a bed for the great light to lie upon! What a silence for the tiny patter of the raindrops to make music in! And thoughts that hide by day—sad-eyed thoughts—peep out now upon all this perfection—hurry from their hiding-places in one's heart and look through one's eyes into these aisles of silver and ebony; and so go back again a little comforted. The glory of it! And if you gaze and listen closer, surely you will see Diana's own white self stealing over the mist of the bluebells, and hear perhaps her unearthly music. Nay, I must talk, Myles, or I shall cry."

"I'm only thinking of all this ice-cold damp dropping upon you out of the trees," he said.

They proceeded, then stopped once again at Honor's urgent desire. The great beech of the proposal stood before her, and she remembered the resting-place between its roots, the words carved upon its trunk. Its arms were fledged with trembling and shining foliage; its upper peaks and crown were full of diaphanous light; its huge bole gleamed like a silver pillar; and spread under the sweep of the lower branches there glimmered a pale sheen of amber where myriads of little leaf-sheafs had fallen and covered the earth as with spun silk.

Great longing to be for one moment alone with the old tree seized upon Honor. Suddenly she yearned to gaze at the throne of her promise to Christopher, to see again those letters his hand had graven upon the bark above. The desire descended in a storm upon her, and shook her so strongly that her voice came, tremulously as bells upon a wind, to utter the quick plan of her imagination.

"I wish you'd go to the bridge yonder and get me some water to drink. Your tobacco pouch will do if you rinse it well, as you often have upon the Moor. I'm frantically thirsty."

"My dear child—wait until we get home. Then you've promised me to drink some wine."

"No, I can't wait; I'm parched and I want the river water. To please me, Myles. It won't take you a moment—straight between the trees there, to that old bridge of ash poles. That's the nearest way. I must drink—really I must. It's unkind to refuse."

He grumbled a little and declared what with the dropping trees, she might have enough water; but then he saw her face in the moonlight, and she kissed him, and he departed to do her bidding.

The rustic bridge, crossed by Honor at the outset of this record, was a structure but seldom used save by gamekeepers. It spanned Teign some seventy yards away from the great tree; but Myles, who did not know the spot well, found that he must now cross a tangled underwood to reach the river. The place was difficult by night, and he proceeded with caution, emptying the tobacco out of his pouch into his pocket as he did so. One fall, got from a treacherous briar, he had; then he arrived beside the bridge and noted where faint indication of a woodland path led from it. By following this his return journey promised to be the easier. Myles knelt and scrambled to the brink, sweetened the rubber pouch and filled it as well as he could with water. He had, however, scarcely regained his feet when a shrill scream of fear twice repeated frightened the dreaming forests from their sleep, rang and reverberated to the depths of the woods, and revealed a sudden echo close at hand that threw back upon its starting-point the deep horror of the cry. For a second Stapledon made no movement, then he charged into the woods and tore his way back to the road. There he arrived a minute later, torn and bleeding. The pony stood unmoved, but Honor had disappeared. As Myles looked wildly about him, it seemed that in her fearful expression of sudden terror his wife had vanished away. Then, amid the dark spaces of shadow and the silver interspaces of light he found her, lying with the moon upon her white face and one small hand still clutching a few bluebells. She had fallen midway between the carriage and the great beech; she had been stricken senseless by some physical catastrophe or mental shock.

The man groaned aloud before what he saw, dropped down on his knees beside her, gathered her up gently, and uttered a thousand endearing words; but her head fell forward without life towards him, and setting her down, he gathered the wet, shining moss and pressed it about her forehead and neck and unfastened the buttons at her throat. Great terror came upon him as she still remained unconscious, and he picked her up to carry her back to the carriage. Then she moved and opened her eyes and stretched her hands to him; whereupon, in his turn, he cried aloud and thanked God.

As she began to apprehend, to order the broken tangles of thought and take up again the threads so suddenly let fall, he feared that she would faint once more, for with return of memory there came a great wave of terror over her eyes; but she only clung to him and breathed with long, deep gasps of fear, yet said no word. Then it seemed that a physical pang distracted her mind from the immediate past; a strange, bewildered look crossed her upturned face, and she bowed herself and pressed her hand into her side and moaned.

"Oh, I was a mad fool to do this!" he cried. "I am to blame for it all. Let me drive—back through Godleigh. That's nearest. We've the right, though we never use it. Say you're better now."

But she could not answer yet, and he made the pony gallop forward until it crossed the bridge over Teign, then turned into the private park-lands beyond.

Presently Honor spoke.

"I'm so sorry I screamed out. I frightened you and made you hurry from the river and tear your face. It's bleeding very badly still. Take my handkerchief—poor Myles!"

"What happened? What were you doing?"

"I had a sudden longing to gather some of the bluebells with the moonlight and dew on them. Nothing happened—at least——"

"Something must have nearly frightened you to death from your terrible shriek."

"I don't know. I can't remember. A tree moved, I think—moved and seemed alive—it was some dream or trick of the light."

"All my fault. Why am I thus weak with you?"

"Oh, it was so grey, Myles. You saw nothing?"

"Nothing but you. I had eyes for nothing else."

She shivered and nestled close to him.

"But I'm so sorry I cried out like that."

"Don't think more about it. Half the terror was in your mind, and half in the pranks of the moonlight among the trees. They look enough like ghosts. I only hope to heaven no harm will come of this. The fall has not hurt you, has it?"

"No, no, no; I shall be all right. I was only——"

Then suffering overtook her again, and she shrank into herself and said no more. But as they left the gates of Godleigh and prepared to mount the hill homewards, Honor spoke in a small, faint voice.

"While we are here in Little Silver, dearest, perhaps—Doctor Mathers—I don't know whether it's anything, but I'm not very well, dear Myles. I'm—indeed I think baby's going to be born to-night. Perhaps we had better call and tell him before going home."

Her husband was overcome with concern. He ran to the physician's little dwelling, distant two hundred yards off in the village, delivered his message, and then, returning, put the astounded pony at the hill in a manner that caused it to snort viciously and utter a sort of surprised vocal remonstrance almost human. The sound made Honor laugh even at her present crisis; but the laugh proved short, and in three minutes Myles was carrying her to her room and bawling loudly for women.

Soon the household knew what had happened; Doctor Mathers arrived; and Tommy Bates, hurled out of sleep, was despatched at high pressure for Mrs. Brimblecombe, the sexton's wife—a woman of significance at such times.

Very faintly through the silence a noise of voices came to the ear of Collins where he slept in a spacious attic chamber with Churdles Ash. Thereupon Henry left his bed and wakened the elder man.

"Theer's the douce of a upstore down house 'bout somethin'. Please God we ban't afire!"

Mr. Ash grunted, but the last word reached his understanding; so he awoke, and bid the other see what was amiss. Collins thereupon tumbled into his trousers and proceeded to make inquiries. In three minutes he returned.

"'Tis missus took bad," he said. "A proper tantara, I can tell 'e, an' doctor in the house tu. Ought us to rise up? Might be more respectful in such a rare event."

"Rise up be damned!" said Mr. Ash bluntly. "Not that I wouldn't rise up to the moon if I could take the leastest twinge off of her; but 'tis woman's work to-night. The sacred dooty of child-bearin' be now gwaine on, an' at such times even the faither hisself awnly looks a fule. Go to sleep."

"The dear lady be afore her date seemin'ly," remarked Collins, returning to his bed.

"'Tis allus so wi' the fustborn. The twoads be mostly tu forrard or tu back'ard. An' they do say as them born late be late ever after, an' do take a humble back plaace all theer days; while them born airly gets ahead of or'nary folks, an' may even graw up to be gert men. I've seed the thing fall out so for that matter."

"An' how might it have been wi' you, I wonder, if theer's no offence? How was you with regards to the reckoning?"

"'Tis a gude bit back-along when I was rather a small bwoy," answered Churdles, laughing sleepily at his own humour; "but, so far as I knaw, I comed 'pon the appointed day to a hour."

"Just what us might have counted upon in such a orderly man as you," mused Collins.

"'Tis my boast, if I've got wan, that I never made my faither swear, nor my mother shed a tear, from the day that I was tucked-up.[#] No fegs! Never. Now you best go to sleep, or you might hear what would hurt your tender 'eart."

[#] Short-coated.

CHAPTER VI.

SORROW'S FACE

Throughout that short summer night the young successor of Doctor Courteney Clack was torn in two between a birth-bed and a death-bed. For the old mother of Gregory Libby was now to depart, and it chanced that the hour of her final journey fell upon a moment of great peace before the dawn. Then, when she had passed, while her son yet stared in fear from the foot of the bed, Doctor Mathers dragged his weary limbs up the hill again to Bear Down. Now he rendered the household happy by his announcement that he had come to stop until all was concluded.

He sat and smoked cigarettes and soothed Myles, who tramped the parlour like a caged animal. He spoke cheerily, noted the other's mangled face, and congratulated him upon a narrow escape, for his left cheek was torn by a briar to the lid of the eye. Presently he yawned behind his hand, gladly partook of a cup of tea, and prayed that the expected summons from the dame above might not be long delayed. And when the sun was flaming over the hills and the air one chant of birds, there came a woman with a kind face, full of history, and spoke to Doctor Mathers.

"Now, sir, us would like to see you."

Myles turned at the voice, but his companion was already gone. Then the terrific significance of these next few moments surged into the husband's mind, and he asked himself where he should go, what he should do. To go anywhere or do anything was impossible; so he hardened his heart and tramped the carpet steadily. There was a vague joy in him that his child should be born at the dawn hour.

A moment later Mark Endicott entered. He, too, had not slept but he had spent the night in his own chamber and none knew of his vigil. Now he came forward and put out his hand.

"Be of good heart, lad! She's going on very well with great store of strength and spirit, Mrs. Loveys tells me."

"If I could only—"

"Yes, every man talks that nonsense. You can't; so just walk out upon the hill along with me an' look at the first sun ever your child's eyes will blink at. A fitting time for his advent. A son of the morning you are; and so will he or she be."

"Last night it is that makes me so fearful for Honor."

"A shock—but time enough to fret if there's any harm done. Wait for the news quiet and sensible."

They walked a little way from the house, Myles scarcely daring to look upward towards a window where the cherry-blossom reigned again; but when they stood two hundred yards distant, a cry reached them and Tommy Bates approached hurriedly.

"Maister! Maister Stapledon, sir! You'm wanted to wance!"

"Go!" said Mark, "and tell Tom to come and lead me back."

So, for the second time in twenty-four hours, Myles Stapledon ran with heavy and laborious stride. In a few moments he reached the house, and finding nobody visible, entered the kitchen and made the china ring again with his loud summons. Then Mrs. Loveys entered, and her apron was held up to her eyes. Behind her moved Cramphorn and his daughter Margery, with faces of deep-set gloom.

"What's this? In God's name speak, somebody. Why are you crying, woman?"

"She's doin' cleverly—missis. Be easy, sir. No call to fret for her. All went butivul—-but—but—the dear li'l tiny bwoy—he'm dead—born dead—axin' pardon for such black news."

"Honor knows?"

"Ess—'pears she knawed it 'fore us did. The dark whisper o' God—as broke it to her in a way no human could. 'Twas last night's fright an' fall as killed un, doctor reckons."

The man stared, and sorrow set his face in a semblance more than common stonelike.

"Bear up, dear sir," ventured Jonah. "She'm doin' braave herself, an' that's more'n a barrel-load o' baabies to 'e, if you think of it aright. An' gude comes out o' evil even in such a case sometimes, for he might have been born a poor moonstruck gaby, as would have been a knife in his mother's heart for all time."

But Stapledon did not answer. He walked past them, returned to the parlour and resumed his slow tramp up and down. What of the great event waited for, hoped for, dreamed about through near nine months—each a century long? He felt that all the past was true, but this last half-hour a dream. He saw the chair that Doctor Mathers had occupied, observed his empty cup, his litter of cigarette-ends about the hearth. It seemed hard to believe that the climax was come and passed; and for one brief and bitter moment the man's own suffering dominated his heart. But then he swept all personal tribulation out of mind, and went upon his knees and thanked the Unknown for His blessings, in that it had pleased Him to bring Honor safely through her ordeal. He prayed for her sorrow to be softened, her pain forgotten, and that her husband might be inspired in this trial to lighten his wife's supreme grief. He begged also for wisdom and understanding to support her and lift her burden and bear it himself as far as that was possible.

He still knelt when Doctor Mathers suddenly entered, coughed, and plunged a hand into his pocket fiercely for more cigarettes. Then Myles rose, without visible emotion, to find the young physician red and angry. Indeed he now relieved his mingled feelings by swearing a little.

"Your wife's all right, and of course I'm infernally sorry about this. You know it's not my fault. The shock quite settled the matter, humanly speaking. A most unlucky chance. What in the name of God were you doing in the middle of the night in the woods? It's enough to make any doctor get savage. I'm heartily sorry for you both—heartily; but I'm mighty sorry for myself too. As a man with his way to make—but, of course, you don't know what all the fools on the countryside will say, though I well do. It's always the doctor's fault when this happens. However, I can't expect you to be sorry for me, I know."

"I am, Mathers. The blame of this sad thing is mine—all. I should have been firm, and not yielded to an unwise idea. And if you've no objection, I should like to see my wife and tell her how entirely I blame myself."

"It's no good talking like that, my dear sir; but, fault or no fault, let it be a lesson to you next time. Be firm. Mrs. Stapledon was frightened by the ghost of the devil apparently. Anyway, I can't learn what the nature of the shock was. 'Something grey—suddenly close to me,' is all she will say. That might be a wandering donkey. It's all very cruel and hard for you both—a jolly fine little boy he would have been. Better luck next time. I'll be back again in a few hours."

"I may see Honor?"

"Yes, certainly; but cut it short, and don't talk about fault or blame on anybody. Let her think you're glad—eh?"

"She wouldn't believe it."

"Well, well, don't make a fuss. Just say the right thing and then clear out. I want her to sleep before I come back. You know how sorry I am; but we must look ahead. Good morning."

A little later Stapledon, his heart beating hard and a sort of fear upon him, knocked at the door of his wife's room and was allowed to enter. In the half light he saw Mark sitting by Honor, and heard the old man speak in a voice so soft and womanly that Myles could scarce believe it was his uncle.

"Why, your good, brave heart will tide you over for all our sakes. 'Twas part of the great web of woman's sorrow spun in the beginning, dearie. It had to be. You thought how life was going to change for you; but it hasn't changed—not yet—that's all the matter. Take your life up again where you set it down; and just go on with it, like a brave girl. Here's Myles come. I hear his breathing. He'll say the same, in better words than mine. We must all live through the cloud, my Honor, and see it sink before the good sunshine that will follow. 'Twasn't Nature's will this should happen so, but God's own. There's comfort in that for you. And we'll have God and Nature both to fight on our side come next time."

He departed, and husband and wife were left alone. For a moment he could only hold her hand and press it and marvel to see how young she appeared again. Her eyes were very bright—like stars in the dim room. She looked at him and pressed back on his hand. Then a flicker of a whimsical smile woke at the corner of her lips and she spoke in a little voice.

"I'm so—so sorry, dear heart. I did my very best—I——"

"Don't," he said; and the old nurse in the next room frowned at his loud, hoarse tones.

"You'll say that I've been wasting my time again—I know you will."

"Please, please, Honor. For God's sake not at a minute like this—I——"

Then he stopped. Where was the answer to his prayer? Here he stood ranting and raving like a lunatic, while she, who had endured all, appeared calm and wholly self-possessed.

"The fault was all mine—every bit of it," he began again quietly. "If I had not let my headstrong little love go into the woods, the child——"

"Don't blame yourself. The past is past, and I'll never return to it in word or in thought, if I can help doing so. Only there are things we don't guess at, Myles—terrible things hidden and not believed in. Our little son had to die. It is cruel—cruel. I cannot explain—not now. Perhaps some day I will if I am ever brave enough."

"Don't talk wildly like this, my darling Honor. You are overwrought; you will be better very soon. Uncle Mark was right. Life has not changed for us."

"It never will. Things hidden—active things say 'No'! Oh, the grey horror of it there!"

She shivered and put her arms round Myles, but Mrs. Brimblecombe had heard her patient's voice lifted in terror, and this was more than any professional nurse could be expected to stand. As the medical man before her, she considered her own great reputation, and, entering now, bade Myles take his leave at once.

"Please to go, sir," she said aside to him. "You really mustn't bide no longer; an' 'tis very ill-convenient this loud talking; an' your voice, axin' your pardon, be lifted a deal tu high for a sick chamber."

"I'll go," he answered; "but don't leave her. The cursed accident of light or shade, or whatever it was that frightened her overnight, is in her mind still. She's wandering about it now. Soothe her all you can—all you can. And if she wants me, let me know."

In the passage red-eyed women of the farm met him, and Mrs. Loveys spoke.

"We'm all broken-hearted for 'e, I'm sure; an'—an' would 'e like just to see the dear, li'l perfect bwoy? Her wouldn't—missis. But p'raps you would, seein' 'tis your awn. An' the mother of un may be glad to knaw what he 'peared like later on, when she can bear to think on it."

Myles hesitated, then nodded without words and followed Mrs. Loveys into an empty room. There he looked down, among primroses and lilac that Sally had picked, upon what might have been his son; and he marvelled in dull pain at the dainty beauty of the work; and he stared with a sort of special blank wonder at the exquisite little hands and tiny nails. Presently he bent and kissed this marred mite, then departed, somehow the happier, to plan that it should lie within the churchyard for Honor's sake.

He broke his fast soon after midday, and, upon learning that his wife slept peacefully, sought for his own comfort the granite counsellors of the high hills. There was an emptiness in life before this stroke; it left him helpless, not knowing what to turn to. His great edifice of many plans and hopes was all a ruin.

Much to their own regret, Cramphorn and Churdles Ash met Stapledon as he climbed alone to the Moor. They were very sorry for him in their way, and they felt that to touch their hats and pass him by without words at such a moment would not be fitting.

"Sure, we'm grievous grieved, all the lot of us," said Jonah grimly—"more for her than you, because, bein' an Endicott, she'm more to me an' Ash than ever you can be. But 'tis a sad evil. Us had thought 'twould be osiers as you li'l wan would rock in—soft an' gentle by his mother's side; but 'tis elm instead—so all's ended, an' nought left but to bend afore the stroke."

Mr. Ash was also philosophical.

"'Tweern't death ezacally as comed 'pon the house, neither; nor yet life, you see. 'Cause you can't say as a babe be dead what never drawed breath, can 'e?"

"An' theer's another cheerful thought for 'e," added Cramphorn, "for though 'tis as painful for a woman to bear a wise man as a fool, no doubt, yet so it might have failed out, an' the pain ends in wan case and turns to joy; an' in t'other case it never ends. An' as 'twas odds he'd have been a poor antic, 'tis better as her should mourn a month for un dead than for all the days of his life, as Scripture sez somewheers."

"Well spoke," commented Churdles. "Never heard nothin' wiser from 'e, Jonah. An', beggin' your pardon, theer's a gert lesson to such a trouble, if a body ban't tu stiff-necked to see it. It do teach us worms o' the airth as even God A'mighty have got a pinch of somethin' human in the nature of Un—as I've allus said for that matter. This here shows how even He can alter His purpose arter a thing be well begun, an' ban't shamed to change His Everlasting Mind now an' again, more'n the wisest of us. Theer's gert comfort in that, if you please."

Stapledon thanked both old men for their consolation, and set his face to the Moor.

CHAPTER VII.

PLOTS AGAINST AN ORPHAN

The departure of Mrs. Libby and its probable effect upon her son became a matter of local interest, because she had toiled with her old bones for him to the end, and he had taken all her service as a matter of course, but would now feel the loss of his home comforts exceedingly.

"He'll have to get a wife," said the man Pinsent at Sunday supper. All were assembled save Honor, who had now been in her room for three weeks, and still kept it.

"If 'tis awnly for somebody to cook his victuals, the man must marry," declared Collins. Then with some craft he added, "And the question in Little Silver is who's to be the gal."

"He'm a comical tempered chap, to my thinking; an' they do say a man wi' a tie in his speech——" began Pinsent. But he found himself sharply taken to task from the quarter he had secretly aimed at.

"You'd best to mind your awn business, Samuel!" flamed out Sally, then blushed rose-red to the roots of her hair at the laughter her confession won. Her relations alone did not laugh. Margery bent over her plate and grew white rather than red; and Mr. Cramphorn roundly rated the speaker for such a lapse of manners.

"'Fore the whole world, would 'e? I blush for 'e—though you can for yourself still, it seems. An' him never so much as opened his lips on it! 'Tis a most unmaidenly thing, an' never to have been looked for in no darter o' mine."

"Sorry I drawed it from her, notwithstanding," said Pinsent. "I'm sure I'd rather have bit my tongue out than bring red to any gal's cheeks."

"Nobody would hurt her for gold," added Collins.

But Sally was now in tears. She left her supper, and withdrew weeping; her sister gave vent to a little hard laugh; while a moment later Cramphorn, in some discomfort, followed his elder daughter. Then, familiar with Jonah's estimate of Libby, and having no desire to breed further storm, Mark Endicott spoke to Ash.

"What's your opinion of the man, Churdles?"

"A poor creation, your honour," answered the patriarch promptly. "Not a penn'orth o' nature in un, else he'd have had some gal squeezed to his heart so soon as ever he comed by enough money to marry. He'm cold clay, an' awnly waitin' to see which of Jonah's maids be in highest favour—which is most like to have the cottage left to her. His faither was another most calculating chap. The woman what's just gone had awnly half a score short of a hunderd pound saved when he offered hisself. Married for money, in fact; an' that's a 'mazin' thing to happen except among respectable people."

"What d'you say to that, Margery?" asked Myles Stapledon bluntly. He did not like Margery, and her attitude at her sister's discomfiture had not escaped him.

"Ban't for me to speak against my elders," she answered slowly, with a malignant look at the placid veteran. "Mr. Ash—auld as he is—do find it so hard to mind his awn business as other people seemin'ly. He ban't paid for pokin' his ancient nose into Gregory Libby's consarns, I s'pose. But he'm past larnin' manners now, no doubt."

The boyish features of Mr. Ash flushed suddenly and his head shook a little.

"Theer's a sour speech—an' her so young! Worse'n any vinegar you'll be in the marriage cruet, woman, whoever 'tis that's daft enough to take 'e! Fegs! I pity un; an' I pity the Dowl when it's his turn—as it will be some day. To talk to a auld man so!"

Unwonted wrinkles appeared in Mr. Ash's apple-face, and he showed a great disinclination to let the matter drop, though Stapledon bid him be silent. He chattered and growled and demanded an apology, which Margery declined to offer. Then she instantly left the kitchen, so that no argument should rise upon her refusal. She glowered sullenly about her, restrained a strong desire to scream, and then withdrew.

Yet Churdles, though he knew it not, and must have much deplored the fact if it had come to his understanding, was responsible for a practical and valuable lesson to Margery. His words, though they angered her, had not fallen upon deaf ears. She sulked away now in the corner of an empty room and set her wits to work. Mr. Libby was in one respect like heaven; he had to be taken by storm, and Churdles Ash unwittingly indicated the direction of attack.

Margery indeed loved this shifty youth; she adored his cane-coloured hair cut straight across his low forehead, like a child's fringe, his uncertain eyes, his moustache—with a most "gentleman-like droop to it," as she had discovered. She loved him—not for his money but for himself, and her sister's infatuation was of a similar genuine quality. They were primitive maidens both and had seen little of the other sex, owing to their father's suspicions that every man on the eastern side of Dartmoor would run away with them, given the opportunity. Now passion worthy of a better cause burnt in their young hearts, and each raged against the other—inwardly for the most part. Their weapons were different, and whereas Margery's sarcasms proved wholly wasted on her sister, Sally's anger, when roused, generally took the shape of a swinging box on the ear—a retort contemptible enough, no doubt, yet not easy to be ignored. Margery's waspish tongue was no match for her sister's right arm, therefore open quarrels seldom happened; yet each daily strained every nerve, and since Gregory had come to be a mere womanless, desolate orphan, the efforts of both girls were redoubled. It had, however, been left to the sensation of that evening to quicken their wits; and now each, by ways remote, set about a new and more pressing investment of Mr. Libby's lonely heart.

Margery took the word of Mr. Ash to herself, and realised that if her loved one was really waiting to get a hint of Jonah Cramphorn's intentions, her own course must be modified. She knew that her father, despite his surly and overbearing disposition, might be influenced without difficulty; and she possessed the tact and discretion proper to such a task. She had never desired any influence over him until the present, and had indeed thought but little of the future, excepting with reference to herself and Gregory. Now, however, the danger of allowing Sally even an indirect ascendency was made manifest, and Margery determined that her sister must be put out of court at home, by fair means if possible, by foul if necessary.

In a most cold-blooded and calculating spirit she approached the problem of making herself so indispensable to her father that he should come to regard her as his better and more deserving child. That situation once established, no doubt Gregory Libby would be the first to perceive it. If he was backward in doing so, then might she delicately aid his perception; indeed she doubted not that this course would be necessary, for the control she now set herself to maintain over her parent must be more real than apparent at first. She hoped that within a month at the latest it would be safe to hint to Gregory that such supremacy existed.

And meanwhile, hanging over a gate out of doors, so that her tear-stained cheeks might cool, Sally also meditated some definite action whereby the halting regard of the desired object should grow established and affirmed. To a determination she also came, but it fell far short of her sister's in subtlety. She merely fell back upon the trite conceit of a tertium quid, and hoped how, once reminded of the fact that other men also found her pleasant in their eyes, Mr. Libby would awaken into jealousy and so take action. Her father she did not consider, because his opinions had long since ceased to weigh with her, when it was possible to disregard them. Sally approached the future in a sanguine spirit, for within the secret places of her heart there lurked an honest belief that Gregory loved her to desperation. Why he delayed to mention the fact, under these distracting circumstances, was not easy to explain; but now, upon his mother's death, there had come a climax in the young man's life; and Sally felt that in the present forlorn circumstances she ought to be, and probably was, his paramount object of reflection.

So she determined to precipitate the imminent declaration by parading another possible husband; and that point established it remained only to decide upon whom this thankless part should fall. Henry Collins naturally offered himself to her mind. His emotions were perfectly familiar to her, though in that he had scrupulously obeyed Jonah and never dared to offer marriage, Sally regarded him with some natural derision. But he loved her very well, and would come when she whistled, and frisk at her side with great content and joy. Whereupon, driven frantic before the spectacle of Collins lifted to this giddy fortune, she doubted not but that Gregory would declare himself and make a definite offer. His words once spoken, she felt no fear for the future. She held herself in some esteem, and was satisfied of her powers to keep Libby, or any other man, to a bargain.

Thus both maids, within the space of an hour, had braced their minds to a course of vital action; and it remained for time to show which, if either, was to succeed in the result.

CHAPTER VIII.

A NECKLACE OF BIRDS' EGGS

There came a Sunday, yet not so soon as Doctor Mathers hoped, when Honor declared herself able and desirous to take the air again. She chose the Moor as the scene of this return to life; and, as Stapledon had departed for the day to see an acquaintance at Okehampton before his wife decided to go forth, her uncle, and not her husband, accompanied her—to the deep chagrin of the latter when he returned home.

Through the long hours of a weary and empty convalescence, Honor said little concerning the incident responsible for wreck of hope; but her loss had grown into an abiding grief nevertheless; and while the man was stricken most sorely at first, but had now become resigned, devoting only leisure thought to his private sorrow, the woman took this trial to her heart with increasing bitterness through those lonely hours that followed upon it. There was, moreover, an added element of terror and a superstitious despair bred of her alarm in the woods. This died but slowly, for she would not share the experience with any other; yet, as physical health increased, all lesser emotion dwindled before the ever-present sense of loss. From Myles she hid the heavy misery of it, that his own sorrow might not be increased; but she liked to speak with her uncle of the little flower lost in the bud, and he was patient and never weary of comforting her to the best of his power.

It is to be noted, however, that Myles somewhat misunderstood Honor's extreme reticence, and her assumed air of brightness and good hope misled him perhaps more completely than Honor designed. He was secretly surprised that this matter had not left a deeper mark; he did not guess at a scar out of his sight; but he marvelled that his wife could still laugh and even jest upon occasion. Under her tranquillity and humour he failed to probe, but he bade the inner wonder in his mind be dumb. Not until long afterwards did he learn the truth and realise the depth of the sorrow she had masked for love of him.

The little open carriage crept up over Scor Hill, then proceeded by a steep way to Charity Grepe's cottage. There Honor left half-a-crown in person, for since certain rumours that poor Cherry must go to the work-house, the mistress of Bear Down had become her active champion. Then the pony was turned, climbed the hill again, and presently stood above Teign valley, at a point on the hillside where a little lakelet reflected the blue sky above it, and shone framed in rushes and verdant sphagnum, in rosy sundews all frosted and agleam, in small scattered flames of the bog asphodel, and in many lesser things that love a marsh.

Away on the wide front of Watern, great gloomy tracts, still dark from fire, spread forth over many an acre. There a "swaling" had freed the land of heath and furze, and provided light and air for grass; but the spot seen from this distance was naked as yet.

"There's a great scar over against us on the hill—black—black against the green and the grey and the blue overhead—all charred and desolate. That's how my heart feels, Uncle Mark—so dreary and forlorn—like an empty nest."

"Look again," he said; "look at what seems so black upon the hill, and think as you look, and you'll remember the ash and ruin are all full of young, sweet blades, sprouting strong, brimming with sap to hide the rack of dead char. 'Twill be so with you, my dear; for there's the bend and spring of youth in your heart still. Wait till the heather's out again, and the foxgloves are nodding along the low ridges over the Teign, and the whortle bells be turned to purple berries once more."

"How you remember!" she said, "despite all the long years of darkness."

"Yes; I remember, thank God. I smell the damp near where you've pulled up; and I see the marsh, down to the little bluebell flower that creeps in the grass, and the spotted leaves of orchis, and the white wisps of the cotton grass in summer, and all the rest, that I never thought upon when I had my eyes. But there's a quiet, unknown mercy that works through the morning hours of a man's life if he lives in the lap of Nature and is true to her. Keen sight stores the memory unbeknown to us; and none can tell how deep that unconscious, unguessed gathering-up may be but those who fall upon blindness. No credit to me at all; yet the pictures come as the seasons come—at bud-break; at the sound of the west wind and the call of the river; at the music of rain on the leaves; at the whirr of the cutter in the hay; at the touch of snow on my face and in my eyebrows. I know—I know it all, for my eyes reaped and my brain garnered at the merciful will of God. Without those mind picture-books I should be blind indeed."

"You're so brave. I wish that I had more of you in me. I'm not a true Endicott."

"As to that, 'tis only those who won't see are blind. Eyesight's the window of the house, but the ear is the door. A blow-fly on the window-pane is big enough to hide the evening star—if you're content to let it; but shut your eyes and you'll see the star in the blue, with nought between it and your thoughts."

"It's so hard to be wise; and words are not warm, live things you can cuddle. Oh, I want something smaller than myself to love! I had lighted such a great fire of love; and now it's all burnt out, and no green hope springing through the ashes."

"Be patient. Look forward, my Honor."

"There's nothing there—all blank."

"You're morbid; and that's the last foolishness I should ever have thought to tax you with. Myles——"

"No—no; you don't understand. How should you understand?"

"Moonshine!"

"It wasn't moonshine. I wish I could think it was. But you must be patient with me. It's so cold to open your eyes every morning with the dull feeling that something sad is waiting for you to remember it. I'm all winter, while the rest of the world is full of spring."

"And spring will touch you presently."

"I had built such castles in the air—painted such futures. First, my boy was to be a soldier; but I grew frightened of that when I began to fill in details of the picture; and then a farmer, but that did not satisfy me at all. Presently my heart went out to the thought of his being an artist—either in words or pictures, but an artist in deeds at any rate. You don't know what I mean by that. One who thought and felt like an artist—and walked so. He was to magnify the Lord and love the earth, and all green things, and birds especially, and the changeful sky. I did not think of him as loving men and women very much—excepting me. So my silly thoughts sped and I shut my eyes, that nobody should see my hope looking out of them. I was going to be the mother of a great man—and I am only the mother of a great sorrow, after all."

"A shared sorrow; don't forget that, my dear. There's three hearts to take each a part of the load. More than that, for, beyond Myles and me, every man's breast and woman's bosom is heavy for you here. A widespread, real regret, though 'tis not their way to make much ado."

"They are very good to me—better than I deserve. I shall have more thoughts for them now. Sorrow at least teaches sympathy. But my soul has quite lost heart of late days, and I feel so old."

At this moment from the valley there came two persons along the path where Honor's pony carriage stood. One appeared uneasy, the other in a very halcyon halo of delight; for Sally, true to her resolve, had indicated that a little attention from Mr. Collins would not be unwelcome; and now they moved side by side upon a stolen walk. Elsewhere Margery accompanied her parent to see a neighbour, and Sally was supposed to be at the farm.

The pair made awkward acknowledgments and were proceeding, when Honor noted an unusual decoration about her milkmaid's neck. In addition to a string of glass pearls, a little necklace of birds' eggs—alternate thrush and blackbird—adorned Sally's plump throat, and the spectacle, suggestive as it was of robbed nests, woke a wave of passing indignation in Honor's heart.

"What is that round your neck?" she asked with a sudden hardness in her voice; and Sally's hands went up gingerly to the frail adornment, while she looked at Collins, whose gift, snatched from screaming birds, she wore. Seeing explanation was expected from him, Henry stood forward, touched his Sunday hat, and spoke with many stumblings.

"Beggin' pardon, I'm sure, ma'am, I——"

"You robbed the birds, Collins?"

"Ess, I did, but if you call home last cherry-time, ma'am; if I may say so—you see I did as you bid an' shot a braave lot last autumn, as you wanted—them being so bowldacious as to eat your fruit; an' come autumn an' winter, I catched a gude few in traps what I teeled in the garden. Then, come spring, I had a bright thought that if I took the eggs of 'em 'twould mean gert thinning out o' the birds. An' no account neither, if I may say so; 'cause a egg's just life in the raw, waitin' for warmth an' time to quicken it. They never lived like, savin' your presence, so the airth ban't the poorer by a bird's note, 'cause us caan't lose what we never had. 'Tis no more'n a seed spoiled, or a leaf-bud nipped by frost, or a cheel still——"

He clapped his hand over his mouth and heard Sally say "Fule!" under her breath; but his mistress nodded and bid him go on his way.

"You may be right; but take no more eggs from the birds."

So Mr. Collins got himself out of sight to the tune of a reprimand from Sally that made his ears tingle.

"You gert, clumsy-mouthed gawk! To utter such a speech an' tellin' that stuff to her, an' go mumblin' on, like a bumble-bee in a foxglove; an' end up so! Not the sense of a sheep you ain't got!"

She tore off his gift and stamped on the blown shells, while he merely stood and rolled his great eyes wretchedly.

Elsewhere Endicott spoke to his niece.

"Strange how a chance word out of a fool's mouth will often come pat. These things—eggs—buds—babies are so little account in the great sum total. Nature's units don't trouble her. The crushed windflower will bud and blow again next year. What is a year to her? The robbed mother-bird screams for an hour, then goes on with the vital business of preserving her own life; and the robbed mother-woman—her heart aches to-day, but the pain soothes off presently as the months and years roll over first memories. We're built to forget; else the world would be a madhouse, or just one great welter of sorrow. 'Tis God's way, I judge, seldom to put upon us more than we can bear. If grief or pain's past bearing—why then the heart or something cracks and there's an end of us. But sorrow alone never killed a healthy being. I'd rather count it the torch that lights to the greatest deeds we're built to do. I hoped that a little child would draw you together—Myles and you—close, close as soil and seed; but 'tis a shared grief must do it—instead of a shared joy. Such a welding, as by fire, may last longest after all."

She sighed, touched her pony with the whip, in a sort of thoughtful caress, and turned him homewards.

"I don't know what Myles thinks about it. Either he hides all he feels to save me—or he is forgetting, as you say. It is natural that he should. No man that ever lived can know how long those nine months are to a woman. But I—I—there it is in the wind—in the rustle of the leaves. I hear it so often—the sound of a rocking cradle. I must wait until the wind sings a different song before I can be wise. Some day I shall wake up strong again—strong to acknowledge all your goodness and everybody's goodness and sympathy. I cannot yet."

The old man was moved for her. He put his hand on hers and patted it.

"I think I understand as much as an ancient bachelor may. But you must do your share and help the powers to help you. There's an effort called for. Hard to make, but you must make it. Take up your life again—the old life that you laid down; an' do it with a single heart."

"I cannot yet. I left it behind so gladly. I must go back for it. I do not care about any life just now. I cannot cry or laugh with my heart. It's all pretence—think what that means. I look at everything from the outside—like Christo used to. I'm a dead, withered bough still on the tree; and what is it to me that the next bough is busy about new leaves?"

"You do yourself a wrong to say so, and I'd not listen to anybody else who spoke so ill of you. You must come back to yourself—your own good self—and the sooner the better. That's a plain duty at least—not to be escaped from. That's a call, whether your heart's sad or merry. 'Tis the honest, everyday duty of a woman to be good, dear heart—same as it's the duty of a Mary lily to be white. Keep your proper colour, as God meant you, and as God taught you. Live as you have lived: with a sense of duty for the sake of those that love you, if no better reason."

She sighed again, aweary of the subject.

"Now we'll go home. We're wasting my first breath of sweet air in words. Better to draw it in silently and not turn it into talk."

Mark Endicott laughed.

"Why, yes, it does the heart more good that way, no doubt. You're a deal wiser than I am, niece, for all my grey hairs and jackdaw chatter."

Then slowly down the hill, without more speech, they drove together.

CHAPTER IX.

AN OLD-TIME PRESCRIPTION

From the occasion of her drive upon the Moor, Honor, instead of proceeding towards good health, fell away in that desired progress. What chance had conspired to an effect so unfortunate none knew, but the fact was apparent, and as days passed and summer returned, there stole gradually upon her a listless and inert attitude of spirit—a state of the mind that reflected upon her physical condition and appeared in a most despondent outlook upon life. From time to time some transient gleam of returning health and happiness gladdened those who loved her; but weeks passed and still Honor's temper was of a sort that kept Myles anxious and Doctor Mathers exasperated. For she proved not a good patient and none could prevail upon her to consider the foreign travel and sea voyage that her physician stood out for at every visit. She told them that she was well enough at home; that her health improved; and that they need be under no concern for her. Meanwhile, her life grew narrower and narrower, both in its bounds of thought and performance. Her reflections indeed she kept to herself for the most part, and certainly the event responsible in great measure for her sustained ill-health she imparted to no one; but her actions were obvious, and Myles began to grow care-worn as he watched a life so full of energy and various interest now sink into mere mechanical existence. Her walks dwindled to strolls; Nature brought Honor no particular delight; and the old haunts failed to cheer her. Until midday she rarely stirred from her own room, and sometimes she would keep her bed altogether from sheer indifference toward affairs.

This life of ashes, which neither love nor duty seemed capable of rousing into renewed activity and vigour, was beheld in its dreary unfolding by the little population of Bear Down; and that busy hive, both in season and out, discussed this grave crisis in the fortunes of its mistress and offered all manner of suggestions and advice upon it. Some opinions were undoubtedly sensible enough, as when Churdles Ash counselled forcible compliance with the doctor's orders.

"You'm her lawful lard an' master," he said to Stapledon; "so 'tis your dooty to hale your lady away to furrin paarts, whether her will or no. She'll be fust to thank 'e, dear sawl, come her gets whole again."

But Myles knew Honor well enough, or little enough, to believe that such a high-handed course must be futile. Long and anxious were the deliberations he held with his uncle, and there came a time when Mark suggested a visit from some great physician of expert knowledge.

"Have a London chap," he proposed. "Honor doesn't care a fig for Mathers. But maybe a keen pair of eyes, and a big forehead, and a big voice, and the knowledge it's cost perhaps a hundred pounds to fetch it all down to see her, might bring the woman to some sense."

"I proposed it. She wouldn't hear of it."

"Very well; don't let her hear of it—till the man is in the house. Get Mathers to tell you of some great wonder whose strong point is all these nerve twists and tangles that Honor's struggling under. For a woman to take to thinking, is as bad as for a man to take to drinking—sometimes. It breeds a wrong habit and interferes with Nature. There's a mystery under all this—ever since that sad mischance—and as she won't tell those that love her maybe a clever doctor, who understands the springs of healthy mental action, will find a way to bring back her peace."

"There's a secret, as you say; and I've known it on her tongue; I've felt that it was to be revealed at last. Then there has come a sigh, like the shutting of a door of the mind—a door not to be opened from the outside."

"That is so—and it may be a doctor's work to open that door, instead of a husband's. We'll hope I'm right. Fetch such a man along, if it costs the hay harvest. It's all drouthy nothings here with this fever eating the girl alive."

While Mark Endicott and his nephew thus debated the question of the hour and sought for one able to storm the dim domain of Honor's neurotic disorders, Mr. Ash, Mr. Cramphorn, and others of Endicott's took counsel among themselves how best the tribulation might be overcome.

Ash now regarded the illness as a moonstroke, and was of opinion that doses of lunar radiance alone would restore their mistress.

"Moon must undo what moon's done," he announced. But Cramphorn knew of no precedent, and therefore scoffed at the idea.

"Never was I lower in my spirits," the head-man declared; "an' the plague is that gen'lefolks be so exalted in their awn opinions that no word of ours will they heed, though we spoke wi' the tongues of fire. What do they care for organy tea an' such-like herbs of the field? Yet here I stand, a living sawl, as would be dust at this hour, but for that an' other such-like simples. Cherry Grepe's 'pon theer black books, or, if they'd had sense, they'd have thrawed awver that bwoy—that Mathers—an' gived her a chance to shaw her gert gifts. So like as not she've got a cunning remedy for this dark complaint—a mess of some sort as would put our lady right, mind an' body, in a week. Many a time have I seen a wise man or woman by mere force of words, wi'out so much as striking the sickness, charm it that sudden, as wan might a'most say he seed the evil fly from a party's mouth—like a leather-bird,[#] a-screechin' across the dimpsy light."

[#] A leather-bird = a bat.

"Ess; 'tis pity they doan't give Mother Grepe a chance," admitted Churdles Ash; "for wi' all her little ways an' secrets, she do worship the same Saviour in heaven as her betters do—onless she'm a liar."

"A white witch for sartain," declared Collins. "An' her charmed a wart for Tommy Bates but last week, an' done it in the name of Jesus Christ, an' awnly axed a threp'ny-bit."

So the men discussed Honor's evil case during a dinner interval on the land, then returned to work, regretful that those most involved thus persisted in overlooking a possible means of grace in their hour of tribulation.

But while Collins and the rest dismissed this matter before work and those personal interests of life uppermost in all minds, Mr. Cramphorn continued to dwell darkly upon the subject. This cross-grained, surly soul loved his mistress with an affection superior to that commanded by his own flesh and blood. Herein circumstances and even heredity were strong upon him. Sprung from a line that had laboured at Endicott's through many generations, the descendant of men who were born heirs of toil upon this land and looked to the reigning powers as their immediate lords under Providence, a traditionary regard dwelt in the blood of him, and the concerns of those who controlled his destiny became Cramphorn's own concerns. Such a spirit modern education and the spread of knowledge drives quickly forth, for the half-educated class of to-day scorns gratitude as a base survival; but Jonah dated from long before the Board Schools, and their frosty influence was no more in his heart than upon his tongue. Sour, conceited, a very rustic Malvolio, he might be; but the nobler qualities of Malvolio, he also possessed. It was not the least among his vague regrets that the name of Endicott must presently vanish from Bear Down, even as the name of Cramphorn was destined to.

And now Jonah thought upon the word of Churdles Ash concerning the wise woman. His own experience of her powers also inclined him in that direction, and finally he decided to visit her again. That Cherry had destroyed Christopher Yeoland he did not doubt; that she might, if she would, cure his mistress, he was assured. He determined that if the thing could be done for half a sovereign, done it must be. And should Cherry's charm prove powerful enough to work without the patient's connivance, so much the better.

That same evening he visited the cottage of the sorceress, where it lay behind the low wall, and the row of ox vertebræ, and the torch of the great mullein, that now towered aloft with its first blossoms shining in the gloaming above a woolly spire.

Gammer Grepe was at home and in her garden. She stood with her arms folded on the gate, and Cramphorn observed that she smoked a clay pipe with the manner of long experience. He asked civilly for a little conversation and followed the old woman into her cottage.

"Walk in an' welcome, if there's any money to it," she said bluntly. "'Tis 'bout them gals again, I s'pose. Tu gert a handful for 'e, eh? You'm a fule to fret, for they'll go theer ways wi'out axin' your leave. Be your peas a-come to the farm? Might let 'em knaw as I've got half a quart or so, if Mrs. Stapledon fancies 'em."

"Ess, our peas be come, an' it 'idden 'bout my darters I'm here; an' fule or no fule, it takes two to make a weddin'; an' if the proper chap ban't on-coming, us have got to sit down an' wait, like nesseltripe. I be here touching the mistress of Endicott's."

Cherry frowned.

"I've no word against her, as you knaw, but the rest of 'em—that auld blind piece an' her husband—specially him—I doan't set no store by. She'm what a Endicott should be. T'others I'd so soon ill-wish as not—just to larn 'em the things they doan't believe."

Her eyes glimmered with anger, and the candlelight played pranks with her aged but not venerable face.

"Well, 'tis peace rather than war so far as I'm consarned. I know what you can do—who better?"

"Ess; an' for all theer hard words I'd rather starve than hurt Endicott's. 'Tis his loss, not mine—this furriner she've married. Not but what I might to-morrow——"

"'Tis the very thing I be come upon," interrupted Jonah eagerly. "Her—the mistress. What do this green youth by name of Mathers knaw? If he'd got the wit of a louse he'd never have let the cheel slip through his fingers. But her—she'll slip through his fingers next."

"Ban't no doctor's job now," said Cherry. "The things that could cure her trouble doan't come out of shops. For tearings of heart, an' black night vapours, an' such-like deep ills the very herbs o' the fields are vain. You want sterner food."

"'Tis her sawl be sick by all the looks of it," explained Jonah. "An' it tells 'pon the butivul body of her, like a blight 'pon a rose. She've been ill, to an' from, ever since the bearin' of that dead baaby; an' from being a woman of ready spirit she've grawed that down-daunted as you'd a'most say she'd cry or run if a goose hissed at her. An' now, be gormed if she ban't comin' to be a regular bed-lier! Think of her, so peart an' spry as she was, keepin' her room these summer days! Caan't 'e offer for to cure her, Cherry? I lay theer'd be gude money to it an' plenty, whatever hard thoughts some have got against you."

"Theer's but wan cure as I knaws for her," said the old woman gloomily; "an ugly, savage cure, an' fallen out of use these many days now. But a sure balm and a thing as eats to the heart like a cancer, rubbed under a woman's left breast."

"God's truth, mum!"

"'Tis as I tell 'e. Like a cancer; but 'stead of being death to the livin', 'tis life to the dyin', or them like to die. A savage cure, an' such latter-day stuff as Myles Stapledon would awnly cock his nose at it; so it won't be done, however. An' her'll die—her'll die for need of oil of man. 'Tis that—a thing in no books—a secret as'll be a dead and buried secret in a few years' time, when me an' the likes of me be dead an' buried."

"Oil of man? I've heard Churdles Ash name it."

"Ess, he'd be sure to knaw at his age. 'Tis simple enough. Theer's a virtue in all bones—that everybody knaws who's drinked soup, I s'pose."

"Surely; an' the better the bone, the better the broth," assented Jonah.

"That's it! You've hit the point I was comin' to. So it happens that a Christian bone of a human be fuller far of virtue than any saved from a sheep or other beast."

Cramphorn felt a cold shiver slide up his spine like a speedy snail, and spread out upon his neck and shoulders.

"Christ A'mighty! What be tellin' 'bout? Would 'e have folks turn into black cannibals?"

"Didn't I say 'twas used outwardly, you gaby? Oil of man be rubbed 'pon the heart, or be burnt like a candle. In that shaape 'tis a torch held up for them wanderin' in the world to come home to others as yearns for 'em. Both ways be precious deeds. Theer ban't none wanderin' she wants; so us must rub it 'pon her heart against this fit she'm suffering from."

"Wheer's such a thing to be got?"

"You ax that! As for preparin' the bones, 'tis my work. Gettin' of 'em be a man's."

Mr. Cramphorn breathed hard.

"A sure cure?" he asked.

"Sure as Scripture. An' a thing knawed for centuries, so my mother used to tell me. She made it a score o' times a'most. Men was braver then."

"Just—churchyard—bones," murmured Jonah with an expression like a dog half frightened, half angry.

"The skull of a man—no more. Bones as have held human brains. I'll do my paart for ten shillin'—same as you gived me when——"

"Hush, for the Lard's sake! Doan't 'e go back to that."

She laughed.

"You knaw at any rate that I ban't a vain talker. I'll say no more. Awnly if you'm serious set on restorin' Honor Stapledon to her rightful health, 'tis in your power. Mrs. Loveys can rub the stuff in when she's asleep if she won't consent to no other way. An' her'll come to herself again in a fortnight."

"Be so mortal light of evenings now, an' never dark all night," said Cramphorn, his mind running ahead.

"That's your outlook. If you'm man enough to go an' dig——"

"I be in a maze," he confessed. "Never heard tell of such a fearful balm in my born days."

"Very likely. Theer's more hid than you'll ever knaw, in this world or the next."

"I must think upon it. 'Tis a onruly, wild, dangerous deed. Might lead to trouble."

"'Tis a rightful, high act if you ax me. God'll knaw why for you be theer. Theer's a reward for the salvation of our fellow-creatures in next world if not this; an' I'm sure theer did ought to be, for I've saved enough in my time."

"I'll think about it serious," said Cramphorn, who was now desperately anxious to be gone.

"Just a bone against a woman's life. You think about it as you say."

"So I will, then, wi' all my strength."

Before he had reached the gate Cherry Grepe called him back.

"An' look here, I'll do my share for three half-crowns, seein' it's for her. I'm allus awnly tu glad to do gude deeds so cheap as can be, though wi' evil actions 'tis differ'nt. They win high wages all the world awver."

Then Jonah retreated with his dreadful idea, yet found that as it became more familiar it began to look less terrible. For all his follies and superstitions, he lacked not physical courage, and once assured by Gammer Grepe that such a sacrilege would be judged by his Maker from the standpoint of its motive, he troubled no further as to the performance of the deed. Thenceforward his mind was busy with details as to how such an enterprise might be safely achieved, and through his head passed the spectacle of many green graves. Even before the familiar memories of those who slept beneath them the dogged Jonah winced not; but presently a new reflection glared in upon his mind—an idea so tremendous that the man stood still and gasped before it, as though petrified by the force of his own imagination. For a moment this aspect peopled the night with whispering phantoms; it even set Jonah running with his heart in his mouth; then the wave of personal fear passed and left him well over the shock his thought had brought with it. But the effect of so much excitement and such unwonted exercise took a longer time to depart; his nerves played him some tricks; he was more than usually taciturn at supper, and retired to rest soon after that meal.

Yet, once in bed, Jonah's thoughts kept him such active and unfamiliar company that sleep quite forsook his couch, and it wanted but a little time of the hour for rising when finally he lost consciousness—to do grim deeds in dreamland.

CHAPTER X.

OIL OF MAN

Concerning this weird medicament, it is only necessary to state that memory of the nostrum lingers yet in ancient and bucolic minds; while the tradition, now nearly extinct, is nevertheless founded upon matters of fact from a recent past. For your Oil of Man was counted precious medicine through bygone centuries, and in the archives it may be gleaned that Moses Charras, author of a Royal Pharmacopoeia, published two hundred years ago, indicates the nature of its preparation, and declares how that the skulls of healthy men, slain in full flush of their strength by lead or steel, best meet its requirements. One Salmon of London prepared and sold Potestates cranii humani at the sign of the "Blew Bull," in Shoe Lane, during the sixteenth century; oleum humanum has within man's memory been a source of advantage to the porters of our medical schools; and, at a date even later than that of which we treat, a physician practising hard by Dartmoor received applications for the magic antidote from one who found herself in private trouble beyond reach of common drugs. She believed that oil of man must still be a medicinal commodity general as rhubarb or syrup of squills.

It was not surprising, therefore, that Cherry Grepe remembered the potent force of this remedy, or that Jonah Cramphorn, once satisfied that the decoction alone stood between his mistress and her end, determined to procure it. A great thought kept him waking until the sun was ready to ascend above the remote gorges of Fingle; but when Jonah rose, cold water and daylight finally dwarfed the dim horrors of his project until they grew perfectly plain before him. That the plan was defensible his strenuous spirit had long since decided. But an accomplice seemed necessary to such a design, for the feat was of too great a magnitude and peril to be achieved single-handed. The common operation of two willing workers might, however, make all the difference, and while he regretted a need for assistance, Jonah felt it to be imperative. Upon the subject of punishment in event of detection, he did not waste thought. The prospect from that standpoint was undoubtedly dark—too dark to dwell upon. The power of the law he could only guess at, and in his mind was a tumultuous upheaval of old recollections touching the theme. He remembered Burke, Hare, and others of their trade; but they had killed men; he proposed no action more unlawful than taking of bones long dead.

To choose his assistant for a matter so delicate appeared difficult in one aspect, yet simple enough viewed practically. That he must broach such a subject to a sane man offered no embarrassment to Mr. Cramphorn; but to select a kindred soul, of stuff sufficiently stern to help with the actual details, promised a harder problem. Scarcity of choice, however, tended towards elucidation. The field was narrowed to an option between Pinsent and Collins; of whom Jonah quickly decided for the latter. By midday indeed he determined that Henry should participate both in the peril and the privilege of restoring Honor to health.

The men met soon after noon near the farmyard, and Cramphorn seized his opportunity.

"Come in here, an' put home the door behind 'e, Henery Collins," he said; "I've got somethin' mighty serious to say to you. For your ear awnly 'tis; an' you'll be very much dumbfounded to larn as you an' me be chosen by Providence for a gert, far-reachin' deed."

In the dim light of a stable Mr. Collins gazed with round, innocent eyes at the speaker; then he began to clean his boots on a spade.

"Whatever do 'e mean? Providence doan't chose the likes of me for its uses, I reckon."

"I stand for Providence in this thing; an' I mean missus. Theer's no nature left in her now, as you must see along wi' the rest. An' why for? 'Cause she'm fadin' away like a cloud. So wisht an' hag wi' her trouble—an' her not quarter of a century auld yet. Dyin'—dyin' afore our eyes; an' theer's awnly one creation as'll save her; an' that's for you an' me to get, my son. 'Tis ordained as we'm the parties."

"Sure, I'd go to world's end for her," declared Mr. Collins.

"No need. No call to go further'n Little Silver buryin' ground."

"Then, if 'tis any deed of darkness, you'd best to put it in other hands to wance."

"No fay—you an' me. An' a high an' desperate act—I won't deceive you theer—but a act righteous in the eye of God; though, if it got knawed by humans, theer'd be trouble."

"I'm tu peaceful in my ways for it then, an' I'll take it very kind if you'll say no more about it to me at all. Ban't in my line."

"Tu late; you'm in the plot; an' you ought to be a proud man if you do feel all for missus as I've heard 'e say scores o' times, in drink an' out. Ess, you must do what I ax you; theer ban't no gwaine back now."

Mr. Collins reflected. He believed, despite the eggshell necklace, that he still gained ground with Jonah's elder daughter in that she tolerated him at less than a yard's distance by fits and starts; but the necessity for not proposing marriage Henry felt to hamper his movements. That Sally might refuse—perhaps a dozen times—was nothing against the argument, for a rustic love-maker is as patient as Nature's self. But in the heart of Collins, obedience to anybody who ordered him with voice sufficiently loud, was a rooted instinct. He had abided by Jonah's clear utterance during time past; and now he remembered it, and, astonished at his own astuteness, sought to make a bargain.

"If I help 'e with this thing, will 'e let me offer marriage to your eldest darter?"

The other was much astonished, for his views upon the subject of Sally had changed somewhat under Margery's delicate manipulation.

"Offer! Powers! I thought as you'd axed her years agone. What's to hinder 'e? 'Tis a free country, an' you'm auld enough to knaw your awn minds, ban't 'e?"

The younger labourer was hurt, and showed as much.

"Your memory's grawin' short seemin'ly," he said. "No matter. If you say I may ax her—'tis all I want. Then I'll serve 'e to the best of my power."

In less than half an hour Henry Collins departed from the stable a haunted man. His eyes roamed like those of a frightened horse; he would have given the wide world to be a thousand miles from Bear Down; for the deed without a name made him tremble to the foundations of his being and threw him into an icy perspiration each time that its significance crossed his mind. Only the permission to propose to Sally sustained him; and even his love could hardly stand the ordeal of this test, for, to tell truth, he doubted more than once whether the game was worth the candle.

How he lived through those moments that separated him from the night Henry never afterwards remembered; but the suspense only endured through some few hours, for Mr. Cramphorn, after revealing his design, perceived that it must be put into immediate execution if the other's help was to be counted upon.

"Give the fule time and he'll draw back or bolt," reflected Jonah.

But the sombre minutes, deep laden each with its own horrid burden of terror and presentment, flapped their bat-wings away into the limbo of time past, and a moment arrived—midnight between two days of late July—when Collins and his leader met by appointment at a spot in the great hayfield of Endicott's, and together proceeded down the hill to Little Silver.

Henry carried an unlighted bull's-eye lantern; Cramphorn's pocket bulged, and in his hand he bore a small bag of battered leather. Under their breath they discussed the matter. The night was moonless, and a haze of heat stole abroad upon the land. Pale green light shuddered along the north-eastern horizon, and the faces of umbel-bearing flowers caught it and spoke of it dimly out of the darkness. A dewy peace held the world—a peace only broken by the throb of the field-crickets that pulsed upon the ear infinitely loud in contrast with the alternate silences. Mist enveloped all things in the valleys, and as the men sank towards the churchyard, Collins shivered before cold moisture that brushed his face like a dead hand.

"'Tis a thing beyond all belief," he said; "an' I be very glad as you didn't give me more'n a day to think, else I should have runned away rather than faace it."

"'Tis a ugly thing done for a butivul purpose. 'Tis the best work as ever that brain-pan will have to its credit in this here world."

"'Struth! I cream all awver to hear 'e! Such courage as you've got. Did 'e get the keys?"

"Ess; when Noah Brimblecombe was up to the rectory. I seed un go; then went in the cottage an' waited, an' when his missus had her back turned at the door, I pulled the curtain in the corner, under the cloam images wheer the church keys all hang to. And them I wanted I found. To put 'em back wi'out him knawin' will be a harder job."

"An' arter the—the screws, theer'll be a lead case, I s'pose—have 'e thought 'pon that? But I lay you have."

"I've got a mall an' cold chisel in my bag. Ban't no harder than openin' a chest of tea," answered the old man grimly.

Mr. Collins whined and shivered.

"To think of it! The mystery of it! If she knawed—the very man she promised to wed. 'Tis tu gashly; I been ever since this marnin' broodin' awver the business."

"A gert thought—that's what it was, an' I be proud of it; an' if 'tis ever knawed an' telled about after I'm dead and gone, folks'll say 'tweern't no common man as carried out such a projec'. A fule would have digged in the airth an' be catched so easy as want-catcher kills moles; but theer's brains goes to this item. I minded Christopher Yeoland—him as was taken off in full power an' pride of life by a snake-sting; an' I minded how nought but the twist of a key an' the touch of a turnscrew still lay between him an' the quick."

"Twas 'cause you hated un so mortal bad livin' as your thoughts ran upon him dead," ventured Collins uneasily.

"Not so 'tall. As to hatin' un, I did; but that's neither here nor theer. I'm just a tool in this matter, an' the dead dust of Christopher Yeoland ban't no more to me than the ridge of airth a plough turns. 'Tis a fact this same dust an' me comed to blows in time agone; but all these frettings an' failings be forgotten now, though we weern't no ways jonic—a empty, lecherous man. Still, he've answered for his sins, an' I hates un no more. I awnly wants a bit of the 'natomy of un for a precious balm; then 'tis screws again, an' locks again; an' none wiser 'cept you an' me an' the spiders."

"Theer's God A'mighty."

"I doan't forget that. The Lard's on our side, or I shouldn't be here. No puzzle for Him. No doubt Judgment Day will find the man all of a piece again to take his deserts."