Front matter (continued 3)

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

CHAPTER XIII

THE FIGHT

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

In answer Crocker showed temper.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

The fight had lasted about three quarters of an hour.

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

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

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

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

Snow fell heavily now and detail was vanishing under it.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

BOOK II

CHAPTER I

'MEAVY COT'

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"What did your father answer?"

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

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

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

"She'll tell me, however."

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"We must find her a husband, David!"

He shook his head doubtfully.

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

Madge laughed.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"I daresay that's true."

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

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

He laughed.

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

"And your dear eyelid will droop for ever."

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

"He's coming up one evening to see this place. Not but he knows it well enough already. He told me that the valley under Harter up along and beyond be nearly always good for a snipe at the season of the year."

"A pity he don't come and lend a hand here, if 'twas only mixing mortar. 'Twould be something for him to do. How any living being can waste his life like that man is a mystery and a shame."

"Always happy too," said Madge. "He've got a very kind heart, David."

"I know that--else he'd have licked me instead of my licking him. Don't think I bear the man any ill-will--far from it. We're real good friends and he's very clever by nature. I'm only sorry he can't find man's work. He've larned a trade now, then why don't he use it?"

The conversation shifted to their house presently and Madge declared her longing to see it grow.

"And what be us to call the place?" she asked.

"I thought of 'Black Tor Cottage,'" he said, "since Black Tor's just above us."

But Madge little liked the name.

"'Black' ban't a comely word for a home," she said. "Think again, David."

He shrugged his shoulders.

"'Tis only the name of the tor," he answered; "black or white be no more than words."

"Call it 'Meavy Cot,'" she said. "'Tis an easy name for folks to bring to mind, and I'd sooner my home was called after the river than they great stones up over, though I daresay I'll get very fond of them too."

"So be it," he answered. "'Meavy Cot' is the name! and I hope that a good few prosperous years be waiting for us in it. But if ever I come to be Moorman of this quarter, I might have to leave it."

"You'll do greater things than that some day, David."

"I hope I shall," he answered; "but to be Moorman is a very good stepping-stone, mark you."

CHAPTER II

BARTLEY DOUBTFUL.

A great drake waddled out from the yard of Mrs. Crocker's dwelling, and some white ducks followed him. The male bird was grey, but his head shone with the rich black-green of the fir trees behind him on the hill and the light of these metallic and glittering feathers made a fine setting for his brown eyes. He marched to the stream, put down his bill and tasted the water; he then threw up his bill again, quacked an order to set forth, and so floated away with the current, while his household followed after. Under the little bridge they went, and the drake, screwing round his head, cast an upward glance at the parapet as he passed by. There he might have marked a familiar figure, for Bartley Crocker, with his hands in his pockets and his pipe in his mouth, sat and talked to a woman who stood beside him. Their position was public, but the subject of their discourse might have been considered confidential. For the woman the revelation he now made opened a desirable possibility. The man spoke half in jest, yet it seemed clear that he found himself perfectly serious and meant all that he said on the main question.

"Set down your basket, Madge, and listen. I'll carry it along for you presently; but I can't talk and walk together--not when the subject is so large. Where are you going?"

"Over to they old Elfords down at Good-a-Meavy. They be terrible poor, you know, and he's fallen ill and the pair of 'em was pretty near starving last week. One of the Bowden boys--Wellington, I think it was--called there, and he told his father; and of course the matter was looked to. I'm just taking them a thing or two, till the old man can get out again."

"'Tis only putting off the workhouse."

"Maybe--yet a good thing to put it off. They'll be too old to smart soon; and then it won't matter."

"How's Rhoda Bowden?" he asked suddenly.

"Very well, so far as I know."

"I've hardly seen a wink of her since I came back. Yet somehow, Madge, I find her terrible interesting."

"She's a fine character, Bartley."

"Well, when I went up to Barnstaple for three months after the fight, I did two things: I learned a trade, as you know, and I thought a lot off and on of Rhoda Bowden."

"Yes."

"'Tis something to be anything at all. Now, if anybody asks what I am, I can say I am an upholsterer. My uncle was well pleased for me to learn the business, and a very nice girl helped me how to do it. But, somehow, while I looked at her clever hands I thought of Rhoda Bowden."

"You ought to tell Rhoda, then--not me."

"Why should I? It's all ridiculous nonsense, of course; but you see I can't forget the peculiar way we were flung together. If you'd seen her after I kissed her! A princess couldn't have raged worse. Then--at the fight--time and again I tried to catch her eye; but never once she looked at me--always busy with David. Did you hear that she came down two nights after, all by herself, through the snow, to ask my mother how I was faring?"

"No!"

"She did; but nobody ever heard it--not even David, I believe. She told my mother not to mention it; and mother began to give her a piece of her mind; but she didn't wait for that."

"'Tis just like her. Something got hold of her to do it, no doubt, while she was walking through the night. She feels kindly to all sorts of dumb things; but she don't often show any interest in humans--except David, of course."

"If I was a dog now, she and me would be very good friends--eh?"

"Not a doubt of it. Anyway this is terrible interesting to me, Bartley--for more reasons than you'd guess. David and I were telling together only a week agone. I said that when we were married, we must set to and find Rhoda a husband; but David felt a bit doubtful about it."

"Well he may be!"

"You think that too?"

"I'm going to scrape acquaintance with her when you're married. Mind I don't say 'twill go very far. I'm a bit frightened of her yet, and 'twouldn't be very clever to offer marriage to a female that makes you feel frightened. But a man must get a wife some day or other, I suppose, and my mother's at me morning, noon and night to find one."

"You do tell me wonderful things!"

"But for the Lord's sake keep 'em dark. I can trust you--and only you. You've been a rare brick where I was concerned all your life, and 'tis very hard we couldn't have been married, as I shall always think whoever takes me. Still, you'll have to go on wishing me well."

"Yes, indeed."

"Say no more about it then. 'Tis only a moonshiney fancy at best, and very like I'd hate the woman if I knew her better--hate her as much as she does me. You know what a fool I am about 'em. I always see her sponging the blood off David's face and always catch myself wishing she'd been doing the same for mine. But I should have felt the same silly wish about any girl, no doubt."

"There's not another girl that ever I heard about would have done it."

"I know--and I ask myself if that's to praise her or to blame her. To hear my mother--"

"Better hear David. She didn't do it for fun, I can tell you. Not to me--not to no woman--did she ever tell what she felt afterwards; but she did tell David; and he says that she didn't know where she was for the first four rounds, and that once or twice after, when it looked like David being beat, that 'twas all she could do by sticking her nails into herself to keep herself from dashing out to help David against you."

Bartley nodded admiringly.

"I believe it," he said. "I saw it in her face."

"And now I must get on," declared Madge. "Can't waste no more time along with you to-day."

"I'll walk up over then and carry your basket," he answered. "When are you going to be married?"

"Not till the house is ready. They've started. There's a lot of the old building will work very suent into our new cottage."

"Yes," he said. "I was over there watching 'em at it yesterday evening. And d'you know what I was wondering?--What I should give you and David for a wedding present."

"No need, I'm sure."

"Every need. You'm like your mother. You'd give your head away if you could; yet when people think to do you a turn, you always cry out against it. 'Twill be a joy to many more people than your humble thoughts will guess, to bring something to help you set up house."

"It 'mazes me, the kindness of the world."

"It might--if the world followed your example. 'Tis your due, and it oughtn't to 'maze you. 'Twould be funny if anybody could be unkind to you."

"'Tis all very hopeful and beautiful, I'm sure--yet here and there I feel a doubt. Wouldn't name it to none but you; but mother don't seem at all hopeful--"

"Don't let her fret you," urged Mr. Crocker. "I beg you won't do that, Madge. There's not a kinder, humbler-hearted woman on the Moor than Mrs. Stanbury; but she's far too superstitious and given to the old stories--you know it."

Margaret looked troubled. These folk belonged to a time when still a few fine spirits from the middle place between man and angel haunted Dartmoor. The pixies were yet whispered of as frequenting this farmer's threshing-floor, or that housewife's dairy; the witch hare leapt from her lonely form; herbs and simples in wise hands acted for potions of might; and the little heath hounds were well known to hunt the Evil One through the darkness of winter nights and along the pathway of the storm. The toad still held a secret in its head; the tarn, in its heart; rivers hungered for their annual banquet of human life; the corpse candle burned in lonely churchyards; charms were whispered over sick children and sick beasts; the evil eye still shone malignant; the murmur of the mine goblins was often heard by the workers underground.

But the time of these mysteries has quite passed by. Back to the opal and ivory dream-palaces of fairy-land, back to the shores of old romance, have Dartmoor's legendary spirits vanished; they are as dead as the folk whose ruined homes still glimmer grey on twilight heaths at sunset and at dawn. Knowledge has stricken our traditions hip and thigh; our lore is obsolete; and our Moor children of to-day, as they pass through the stages of learning's dawn, see only an unlikeness to truth that stamps the faces of these far-off things. Yet who shall say that knowledge and wisdom are one? Who shall deny that not seldom the story loved in life's dawn-light and rejected at noon, is welcomed again and only understood when evening shadows fall?

Mrs. Stanbury was saturated with the ancient myths, and they brought her more sorrow than joy.

"I could wish that dear mother didn't believe so many things," admitted Margaret. "But there it is--father haven't changed her in all these years, so it isn't likely that ever he will. She was full of Crazywell Pool only yesterday. You know it--a wisht place, sure enough, and it tells about nothing but death and such-like dismal matters. But if you was to say to her 'twas all nonsense--not that I would go so far as that myself--she'd answer that you was courting your undoing and would surely come to harm."

"I know she would and you yourself are as bad, pretty near."

"Crazywell is harmless enough every night but Christmas Eve," explained Margaret. "Only then can you say that there's aught out of the common hidden in the water. But then--well, you know what they say."

"Stuff and nonsense! Your mother believes that you hear a voice there after dark on Christmas Eve; and that it calls out the names of them that'll die afore another year's out. What can be sillier than that?"

"Strange things have happened, all the same," argued Margaret. "I don't say I trust in all that dear mother does, though she can give chapter and verse for most of it; but Crazywell have spoken out the death year of more men than one. Why, only ten year agone you know how Joseph Westaway, being over-got by the fog, was along there on Christmas Eve and heard an awful voice saying, 'Nathan Snell! Nathan Snell!' And didn't Nathan Snell--Mr. Simon Snell's own father--actually die the March afterwards, of a kick from his horse? You can't deny that, Bartley, because Joseph Westaway heard it with his own ears--him being on the way to eat his Christmas dinner at Kingsett Farm, with the Pierces, and not so much as market merry."

"You're as bad as your mother, Madge, and worse than Bart. You'll believe in the pixies next, I doubt. But there's one thing I do say where Mrs. Stanbury's right, though I can't be supposed to know much about such matters--a bachelor man like me. Your mother told mine how 'twas arranged that Rhoda joins you and David at 'Meavy Cot' after you'm married; and Mrs. Stanbury said that somehow, though far be it from her to set her opinion over other people, she couldn't think 'twas a wise plan; and my mother who never beats about no bush, and always sets up her opinion over everybody, said for her part 'twas flat foolishness, not to say madness, and would end in a rumpus. What d'you think of that?"

"'Tis taken out of my hands, Bartley. I wasn't asked--no more was mother. Some might think that it wouldn't suit Rhoda--living along with a young married couple; but I know, and you know, what Rhoda is to David. 'Tisn't a common friendship of brother and sister, but a lot more than that. She'd be lost at the Warren House without him."

"But surely the man doesn't want her now that he's going to take a wife?"

"Yes, he does--to look after his dogs."

"Can't you look after his dogs?"

"No," said Margaret, firmly, "I can't. I don't treat dogs right. I spoil 'em."

"Well, if the three of you are of one mind, I can't see that it's any other body's business. Here's the top of the hill, and I can't go no farther, though I'd like to."

He put down her basket, and she thanked him for carrying it.

"And what you say is true, I'm sure! if we three--Rhoda and David and me--be well pleased at the thought of biding together, why shouldn't we do so?"

"Of course. You can but try it. Perhaps she'll marry afore long, and you'll have the dogs on your hands yet afore you expect it."

"I'm sure I hope--at least--good-bye, for the present," said Margaret, and hurried off.

"Ah! she told the truth then!" thought the man; "told the naked truth and caught herself up too late! 'I'm sure I hope she will go,' was what her heart prompted her to say. Maybe 'twill be my luck to cut the knot. Anyhow, as a full-blown upholsterer equal to making two pound a week at any time, I've a right to cast my eye where I please. Funny 'twould be if I should ever kiss Rhoda Bowden again. But 'twill be 'by your leave' next time, I reckon, if ever that happens."

CHAPTER III

PREPARATIONS

To Margaret Stanbury belonged the mind that suffers sadness at the return of autumn; and even with this autumn, which was to see her marry the man she loved, her usual emotions wakened as the light again faded out of the ling; as the brake-fern once more flashed its first auburn signal from the hills; as the lamp of the autumnal furze went out and left the Moor darkling. Grey rain swept the desert and the fog-banks gathered together in high places. Sheep's Tor's crown and the ragged scarps of Lether Tor were alike hidden for many days. Winter returned with the careless step of a conqueror. Now he delayed for a little, while belated flowers bloomed hastily and ephemeral things, leaping into life, hurried through their brief hours during some golden interval of sunlight and warmth; but the inevitable came nearer as surely as the days grew short and the nights long, as surely as the sun's chariot flamed on a narrower path and the way of the moon ascended into higher heaven.

The wedding day was fixed; the cottage under Black Tor was finished, and David laboured there to fence the scrap of reclaimed ground and make all sightly and pleasant for his bride when she should come. And now, while yet six weeks of maidenhood remained to her, Madge set off one day to visit Warren House upon various errands. Work was in full swing again at Ditsworthy and David laboured with the rest for his father. The mother of the household viewed this pending great exodus of a daughter and a son with tearful mind, only soothed by thoughts of the increased convenience when David and Rhoda should be gone; but as for the rest, none regarded the incident from a standpoint sentimental.

Now Margaret on her way fell in with Mr. Shillabeer, gun in hand, and she expressed gladness at the sight of him taking his pleasure. For Reuben Shillabeer by force of accident has until the present appeared in a light unusual and exceptional. The prize-fight and all that went before it created an atmosphere wherein the master of 'The Corner House' appeared translated from his true self. During that time he responded a little to the joy of life and went about his business a cheerful and even a sanguine soul; but with the decision of the contest and the departure of Mr. Fogo to his metropolitan activities, Shillabeer found life an anti-climax, the darker for this fleeting spasm of excitement. His wife, as if in reproach, returned upon him with the force of an incubus that haunted not only his pillow but hung heavy on his waking hours; a settled melancholy, the more marked after its recent dissipation, got hold upon him; he exhaled an air of depression even behind his own bar, and only the high qualities and specific vigour of his malt liquors were able to dispel it. The 'Dumpling' became increasingly religious and Mr. Merle had long since forgiven his lamentable lapse of the previous winter. Mr. Shillabeer was actually now engaged on behalf of the vicar of the parish, as he explained to Margaret.

"Come Woodcock Sunday, 'tis always my hope and will to get the bird for parson," he said. "He do read the chapter with special purpose to catch my ear; and so sure as it comes, I fetch out my gun and set forth for the man. But what with my failing strength and sight, I can't shoot a cunning creature like a cock many more years. I'm going down under Coombeshead to-day and I shall call on your mother come the evening for a cup of tea and a talk about the revel. Since the wedding feast is put into my hands, I shall do my duty, though I may tell you that a wedding in the air cuts me to the quick. It brings her back as nothing else does."

"I'm sorry for that--truly sorry."

"You can't help it," he said, rubbing the walnut stock of his gun with his sleeve until it shone. "Ban't your fault. But a oner for weddings she was--a regular oner for 'em; and a christening would draw her miles despite the girth of her frame. 'Tis only at the business of a funeral I can comfort myself with an easy and cheerful spirit; for she hated them. No doubt she knowed her own would come untimely."

"Perhaps 'twas an instinct in her against 'em."

"Though never a woman hastened to dry other people's tears quicker than her. Then 'churchings'--she never had no use for them herself, yet she'd often stop for the pleasure of:--'Like as the arrows in the hand of the giant; even so are the young children.' And so on. Nought's sadder than to see a childless wife, in my opinion--specially if she's fond of 'em. I hope you'll have a sackful, my dear."

"It's very kind of you--very kind," said Margaret, frankly. "David and me dearly love the little ones."

"As you should do. I've often thought if that blessed angel had given me a pledge, that I could have better stood up afore the trials of life. But there's only the Lord for me in this world now. True, Mr. Fogo talks of coming to see me again some day; but I don't suppose he will. What can the likes of me do for the likes of such a man as him? Besides, parson would never forgive me if I had him here again."

He wandered off, and Margaret, who instantly reflected the tone of other minds with the swiftness common to sympathetic and not very intelligent people, went saddened on her way. Some light expired out of the earth and sky for her. She could not use reason and remember that Mr. Shillabeer was--in a word--Mr. Shillabeer. She merely felt that she had met and touched hearts with an unhappy old man. Therefore herself instantly grew a little unhappy and a little older. Chance objects, as they will at such times, intruded and carried on the dominant mood. A thing beside her path chimed with Madge's emotion and lifted itself as a mournful mark and reminder by the way. Among reddening banks of bracken that spread in a tangle above a little hollow, where scarlet and purple of the bramble fluttered, and sloes took the hue of ripeness, there thrust up an object, livid and gigantic. It resembled some monstrous kindred of the fern that had taken root and risen here. But this bleached frond, so regular and perfect in its graduated symmetry of structure, had once supported an animal, not a vegetable organism. Margaret saw the backbone and ribs of a horse scoured into spotless whiteness by carrion crow, by frost, by rain; and the spectacle added another shade of darkness to her mind. She thought upon it a little while; then there came in sight part of the population of Warren House, and the twins, Samson and Richard, succeeded in lifting their future sister-in-law's spirits nearer to gaiety. The children were sailing boats in a pond, but they abandoned the sport at sight of Margaret, because they had secrets for her.

"You'll promise faithful not to tell, won't 'e?" asked Richard.

"If you don't promise, us won't tell 'e," said Samson.

"'Tis the present us have got against David's wedding-day," said Richard.

"But you must say 'strike me dead if I'll tell,'" added Samson.

"Mother gived us sixpence to buy it with, and Joshua got it last time he was to Tavistock," explained Richard; "but 'tis our present, mind."

"You ought to give us something if we tell you," suggested Samson; but Madge shook her head.

"I shall know soon enough," she answered.

"That you won't, then," replied Samson. "You won't know for six weeks."

"You might try to guess and give us a ha'penny each time you lose," suggested Richard.

"Yes, you might," declared Samson.

They walked beside her and, since nothing was to be made out of the secret, presently told Madge that their gift was a shaving-brush.

"And Napoleon and Wellington have given him a razor," said Richard; "so now he's all right."

"Yes," continued Samson, "and Nap was showing us how a razor cuts hairs in half, and he missed the hair and showed us how a razor cuts thumbs."

"My word--bled like a pig, he did," concluded Richard. "I'm sure I never won't use such a thing when I grow to be hairy. Much too 'feared of 'em."

"You mind when I'm married to David that you often come over and see me, Dicky; and you too, Sam," said Margaret.

"If one comes, t'other will come," said Samson.

"Us hunt in couples, faither says--like to foxes," declared Richard. "And we'll often come to tea."

"And oftener still if there's jam--not beastly blackberry jam, mind you, but proper boughten jam from a grocer's."

"I'll remember," promised Madge.

They reached the Warren House after some further bargaining on the part of Samson and promising from Margaret. Then the twins returned to their boats and she entered her lover's home.

David was at work, as the girl knew, but her business lay with Mrs. Bowden, and it happened that Elias himself was also within to welcome her. Both kissed Margaret and both declared their good pleasure at sight of her. She had already become a great happiness to them, and Elias did not hesitate openly to declare that his firstborn was luckier than even he deserved to be.

"'Tis about the Crockers I'm here," said Madge. "Mother, and father too, be wishful for them to be axed; but of course nothing in the world would be done by mother that could hurt your feelings.--Too tender herself for that. So I was to find out if you were for it or against it; and I was to learn if there was any other folk as you'd like specially invited that we mightn't hap to know."

"There's four or five must be there," said Mrs. Bowden. "God knows I don't want 'em; but even at a wedding it ban't all joy, and people often have to be axed for the sake of the unborn, though not for their own sakes by any means."

"I met with the 'Dumpling' up over a bit ago," said Mr. Bowden. "Going shooting he was--might have been going to shoot hisself from the look of him; for a mournfuller man never throwed a shadow. But we had a tell, and I hear as Bartholomew Stanbury means to give a handsome party."

Margaret smiled.

"So he does then. 'Tis wonnerful how father's coming out. Of course the farm's too small and too far off from the neighbours; but Mr. Moses has very kindly given us the loan of his shop nigh the church--the big room."

"'Twill smell of cobbler's wax, but that will be forgotten when Shillabeer takes the covers off," declared Mr. Bowden. "As for him, I could find it in my heart to wish he wasn't going to be there at all, for 'twill remind him of his wife and cast him down till he'll blubber into the plates, but of course he must be on the spot as he provides the dinner. And Charles Moses must be asked, if he's going to lend his big room, though, to be honest, I never liked the man since he made all that fuss about the fight. Pious it may have been, but godly it weren't, for fighting be the backbone of human nature, and you'll find that the Lord's chosen hadn't got far before He set 'em at it, hammer and tongs."

"But about the Crockers," said Margaret; "and if I may say so, I hope there's no objection, for David and Bartley be very good friends now, and I'm sure Bartley's terrible sorry he so far forgot hisself as to kiss Rhoda."

"He can come and kiss her again for all I care," replied Elias. "All the nation may be at the wedding and welcome. There's only one living man won't be there if I'm anybody. But Crocker's welcome, and his managing mother, and his Aunt Susan also."

"I don't like Nanny Crocker myself," confessed Mrs. Bowden. "She's a thought too swallowed up in vain-glory and seems to think that her family be something special and above common earth. But I had the best of her in argument when my twins was born, and I can afford to be large-minded. As for Susan, there's plenty of sense in her, only she don't dare to show it."

"Bartley's learnt upholstering," said Madge. "He could earn two pound a week in the world now at any time, and he's going to look out for a wife."

"All to the good and all sound sense," replied the warrener. "Well, us had better ask him to tea. Here's plenty here for all markets--our Sophia, with all the larning of a widow and youth still on her side, and our Rhoda--though 'twill have to be a frosty pattern of man to take her fancy, and our Dorcas--not much to look at, but very anxious to get married seemingly."

"'Tis Screech--that bowldacious ragamuffin!" burst out Mrs. Bowden. "To think such a man should dare to offer for any daughter of mine. A poaching, ragged rascal--more like one of they tramps than a respectable man. Faither's going to lay his horsewhip round the fellow's shoulders if he comes up here again--ban't you, faither?"

"Yes," said Elias, "I am. And don't you ask him to the wedding, Margaret, because I wouldn't have it."

Margaret was true to herself.

"Poor chap," she said. "I'm very sorry he can't have Dorcas, but of course you know best. Perhaps he'll mend some day."

"That sort don't mend. But they've a terrible power to mar--like one rotten apple will soon spoil a bushel. And if Dorcas grumbles to you about it, as she will, because you're the sort that hears all the trouble of the world, then you mind and talk sense to her. I'm a reasonable man and I wouldn't say 'no' to a hedge-tacker so long as he's honest; but William Screech don't have no child of mine."

The subject changed and Sarah spoke of all that David's departure meant to her.

"Can't see the place without him for tears," she said. "'Tis weak, but they will flow every time I say to myself 'one day less.' You see, it ban't as if we was all here, then I'd say nought. But Sophia, though she went, was soon back again; and let faither say what he pleases about Joshua, Joshua can't stand to work day and night like David, and Dorcas won't look after the dogs like Rhoda. 'Tis a great upheaval, look at it which way you will. If my son Drake had only been spared, of course all things would have fallen out differently."

"Yes," admitted Elias; "and if the moon had only been made of green cheese--us should always have had plenty of maggots for fishing."

Upon this great aphorism Margaret Stanbury took her leave; and Dorcas, who had been waiting for her, now approached in a mood neither lightsome nor joyous.

"I've got the headache," she said. "I've been crying my eyes out for a fortnight and I wish I was dead."

"Dorcas!"

"'Tis all along of Billy Screech--cruel and wicked I call it. But us will be upsides with father and mother yet. Why for shouldn't I marry the man if I love him? Such a clever man as he is--full of ideas and quite as able to make a living, I'm sure, as anybody else. And I want for your mother to ax him to the wedding, Madge--just to pay father out. If he sees Billy there his pleasure will be spoilt--and sarve him right--the cruel old man!"

"Don't feel so savage about it. Bide your time and tell Billy to stand to work and get regular wages and make Mr. Bowden respect him. I've often heard Bart say that Mr. Screech is wonnerful clever in all sorts of queer ways, and 'tis only the poaching makes your father angry, I expect."

"He's given all that up long ago. Will you ax him to your wedding?"

"I can't, Dorcas. Mr. Bowden has just expressly forbidden it. I'm very, very sorry. Perhaps after I'm married I shall be able to help you; but it rests with Billy."

"I'll marry him," said Dorcas. "And not a thousand fathers shall stop it; and I'll tell you another thing: it won't be long afore I do. Just you wait and see."

CHAPTER IV

THE WEDDING

"'Tis the difference in our natures," said David Bowden's mother. "Some folk haven't never ended their work, and some don't never begin theirs. I've known men and women--as thought they were busy people too--who died without ever tasting what I call a day's work."

Sarah walked between Nanny Crocker and Constance Stanbury, and the matrons on her right and left admitted the truth of the remark. They had all come from church; they had seen David and Margaret made man and wife; and it was during a brief review of the immediate past and its arduous duties that Mrs. Bowden uttered her philosophical observation.

"And rabbits going on all the time, mind you," she added. "Come what may, in season, year in, year out, Sundays only excepted, the rabbits goes over all--even a son's wedding. 'Tis the ordering of nature and we've got to bend under it."

"A very tidy little wedding," said Mrs. Crocker, who had pardoned all parties on hearing that her son was to be best man. David owned no close intimate of his sex, and since he and Bartley were now become excellent friends, he thought upon this idea and his old antagonist agreed to the proposal. For Nanny's son could feel, but not deeply. The past was past, and its disappointments had left no heavier scar on his mind than David's fist upon his face. He could view the prospect of being best man at Margaret's wedding without disturbing emotions, and he accepted the invitation gladly. True he wished once to marry her and would have been proud to do so; but when she chose elsewhere, his desire towards her perished. Other interests had taken its place, and he found himself well able to enjoy the friendship of David and Margaret without any tinge of bitterness even when the past filled his mind. It seldom intruded, for he was of the sort who lack much instinct of retrospection and, childlike, trust all their future happiness on the hope and promise of great to-morrows.

"A very tidy little wedding," repeated Mrs. Crocker, as though uttering a challenge. The mothers of the bride and bridegroom had waited each for the other to speak upon the first utterance of this graceful compliment; but now Mrs. Stanbury responded.

"Thank you for that kind word, I'm sure," she said. "Coming from you it will be a delight to all the parties to hear it, and I know Madge will be proud when I tell her. We was up altering her dress till the small hours, and it didn't fit to the last. No doubt you noted that ruckle right across the back of her stays, especially when she knelt down. But I hope you won't blame us. We did our best."

"A thing like that is of small account," declared Mrs. Crocker graciously. "Lord! how they'm ringing the heart out of the bells, to be sure. They never peal like that o' Sundays."

Mr. Moses approached and shook hands with each of the women in turn.

"No," he said; "the fellows be ringing for the best beloved young woman in the countryside to-day; that's why you hear what you do in the bells, my dears. Of a Sunday they'm ringing to worship and the glory of the Lord, all steady and solemn. 'Twouldn't be respectful to the Throne of Grace to peal so free as that."

Then he became personal.

"When I seed you three ladies come through the coffin gate, 'My stars,' I said, 'there's a bit of summer flower garden come back into winter!' 'Twas your bonnets, you must know. Such flowers I never did see out of nature, or in it for that matter. And in church--when the sun comed through Christ washing the Apostles' feet--as it do about mid-day at this season, and fell on your bonnet, Mrs. Crocker, 'twas as though a dazzling rainbow had broke loose in the holy place."

Mr. Bowden joined them and whispered to his wife. He was clad in Sunday black, but, to mark the great occasion, wore a blue-green tie with an old-fashioned garnet breastpin and chain in it.

"Did you see that scamp, Billy Screech, in church?" he asked.

"No," she answered; "but 'tis a free country: us couldn't forbid him to come there."

Rhoda, the widowed Sophia in a sentimental spirit, and Dorcas followed together. All were clad in new finery and all were quite silent. Mr. Hartley Crocker approached them and took off his hat. He remarked their moods and observed that Rhoda only was cheerful. She looked superb, he thought, in her purple cloth dress and little hat of squirrel fur.

"Cheer me up," he said. "I've got to propose the bride and bridegroom after the wedding, and I'm horribly frighted to have to do it. I'd almost sooner be fighting again, Miss Rhoda."

"I doubt you'll come well out of it," she said

"Did I hand David the ring all right?"

"I suppose so. The ring's in its proper place now--that's all that matters."

She was indifferent, but not absolutely cold. She had, he thought, forgiven him, and that made the day pleasant to him. It was the first time since the tragic moment at the Pixies' House that she had directly spoken to Mr. Crocker; and the sound of her voice, though not very mellow, yet gave him the greatest satisfaction.

"Did you take the best man's kiss when you was in the vestry?" asked Dorcas.

The interrogation was far from being a happy one; yet Bartley made a masterly answer, intended for other ears than those of the questioner. As a matter of fact, he had forgotten the immemorial privilege or most certainly he had exercised it. But now he was glad that he had forgotten.

"No," he answered. "There's a lot of silly old customs better left out, Miss Dorcas. 'Tis not a comely thing for any male to kiss a bride but her father or her husband."

This virtuous sentiment was directed at Rhoda, but she made no sign save a perceptible pursing of her lips.

Then the party, led by bride and bridegroom, passed through rows of the folk and swiftly reached the workshop of Mr. Moses near the bull-ring. It had been cleared for the occasion, and certain busy, kindly spirits had decorated it and concealed its somewhat naked and austere proportions with garlands of holly and laurel and trophies of coloured tissue paper. The place smelt of leather and cobbler's wax; but, as Mr. Bowden had prophesied in the past, these harmless odours vanished when the meal began.

Thirty people sat down to dinner, and Reuben Shillabeer, with his immense back view presented to the company, carved at a side table. To the windows of the chamber small, inquisitive boys and girls succeeded in climbing. They pressed their noses and cheeks flat against the glass, the better to see the glories within; and, thus distorted, their small faces made an unlovely decoration. From time to time Ernest Maunder wiped his mouth, rose from his seat at the table near the entrance, and drove the little ones away with vague threats familiar in his calling; but they feared him not and all climbed up again when he returned to his plate.

There were present the whole family of the Bowdens, the family of the Stanburys and the family of the Crockers. Mr. Moses occupied a seat beside the bride's mother, and strove, without success, to rouse a spirit of complacence and satisfaction in her; Mr. Timothy Mattacott, as Mr. Maunder's friend, sat by Mr. Maunder; and he showed extreme deference to everybody, because this was the greatest social experience of his life; while as for Simon Snell, who had also been invited, his beard shone with pomatum, and he experienced a real satisfaction in finding himself exactly opposite Rhoda, and in regarding the meal that she made and the two full glasses of beer that she drank with it.

"Will there or won't there be wine?" secretly asked Mrs. Crocker of Mr. Moses.

"From the large way in which everything has been carried out so far, and the loads of food over, I believe Bartholomew Stanbury has run to it," he murmured under his breath.

And he was right.

"Afore we come to the healths, I'll thank you to open they six bottles of brown sherry wine, Reuben," cried out the giver of the feast in a hearty voice, when the apple tarts and cream began to be eaten.

"Only got to say the word," responded Shillabeer.

"All's ready."

He was near Margaret as he spoke, and she put up her hand and stopped him.

"And you've got to drink too, mind," she said. "You've done everything as only you could do it. I never did dream of such a wonderful dinner in all my days; and to see all these beautiful wreaths and ribbons on the ceiling! I want to be thanking everybody. 'Tis almost too much kindness."

"Never!" he answered. "If I could put gold and diamonds in the food for you, I would; and them as hung up the adornments never did a bit of work with better appetite."

The wine was opened and poured into thirty glasses.

"There's only one health, or I should say two in one, to be drunk," explained Mr. Stanbury; "and Mr. Crocker here have kindly consented to do the speechifying."

Mrs. Bowden, rather to her own surprise, grew lachrymose with the dessert. She cheered up, however, when Bartley rose to propose the health of the bride and bridegroom. To the habitually taciturn folk about him, his flow of speech appeared astounding, and not a few agreed that, though Crocker never did any work, yet his native talents were extraordinary and might have led him to any height of achievement.

"Upon my word," admitted the bridegroom's father, "it can't be denied that the chap--light-minded though he may be, here and there--has got amazing gifts. In fact, to be honest, he can turn his hand to anything--larn a trade, fight a great fight and run into mouth-speech as easy and flowing as a parson. He's a wonder--though I say it to your face, ma'am."

He made this handsome criticism to Bartley's mother, and she explained how that Sheepstor as yet knew but a fraction of the truth concerning her son. That the warrener spoke thus, however, largely warmed Nanny Crocker's heart after her second glass of brown sherry; and she told Susan later in the day that there was rather more in Elias Bowden than met the eye.

Bartley received a cheer when he rose and a still louder round when he sat down again.

"Ladies and gentlemen," he said, "I beg leave to ask you all to drink long life and happiness to our friends David and Madge Bowden, who this day have joined hands for holy matrimony. I know 'em both and can give them both a very good character, I assure you. As for Madge, she's just a warm, loving heart on two legs--all heart; and if you want to know what she is, don't ask her, but ask the old people, and the terrible poor people, and them that be badly off for food and friends. They'll tell you all about her. But you prosperous people, all sitting around here waiting to have a dash at your sherry--you don't know nothing about her. She's a good angel, that's what Madge Stanbury have been ever since she could run to pick up some baby smaller than herself; and that's what Madge Bowden will be to her dying day. As for David here, last time him and me met in company, he was the best man, I believe. No use for you to shake your head, David. Bested I was; but to-day I'm the best man and he've got to sing second. And I tell him to his face that he's a right down good chap, and every good man be proud to know him. And, for my part, I think such a lot of David that I'd challenge him to fight again this day three months, but that I very well know what Madge would say about it. Besides, there's one or two other people in the world besides David to be thought upon, and, though I know 'twould cheer Mr. Shillabeer up a lot if we could get Mr. Fogo down again and have another fight, I'm afraid we're all too happy to want to go fighting; and we can't all hope to have David's luck in the ring and out. Well, he had one brave, beautiful woman in his corner when he fought me; and she helped him to beat me without a doubt; and now he has got another brave, beautiful woman in his corner, and she'll help him to win whatever battles he may have to fight. And here's good luck and long life and happiness and content for them and God bless the pair of 'em from this day for ever!"

Everybody rose, and David and Madge in their ignorance also rose, but were thrust back into their seats again. Immense applause welcomed Bartley's great oratory, but for his part he kept his eyes on one face, while he drank the health that he had proposed. Rhoda, however, did not return the gaze. She had blushed faintly at the sudden allusion to herself and the cheer from the men that punctuated it; but Bartley's craft and rhetoric quite missed her. The man seemed all of a piece to her: facile, unstable, untrustworthy--and his compliments touched her even less than he imagined. He had prejudiced himself in her eyes for ever, and it remained to be seen whether his own skill and pertinacity would prove strong enough to conquer and destroy that prejudice. It was true, as he had suspected earlier in the day, that her forgiveness was real; but her attitude towards him had been radically changed, or rather radically established, by his outrage. Before the event she had entertained no opinion, good or bad, concerning him. She was henceforth constitutionally unable to regard him as she regarded the bulk of men; and he felt this; but he also felt that he must always interest her; and there is no edifice of emotion that cannot be erected upon permanent foundations of interest.

So he hoped on and when Mr. Charles Moses, to please Mrs. Crocker, and to show the company that others of the hamlet also possessed a pretty gift of words, arose to propose the good health of Bartley himself, he listened in the best possible humour and made a reply that was full of rough and ready fun.

Health drinking became the feature of the wedding feast, despite the fact that it had been intended to eschew it. Everybody found himself or herself toasted, and every man of the company was tempted or chaffed on to his legs in turn. The wine running out, Mr. Shillabeer insisted upon a personal contribution in this sort, and sent a pot-boy for certain claret that had hung fire for some years and yet, owing to intrinsic poverty of nature, could not be said much to improve with age. Nobody liked it as well as the more generous and mellow brown sherry; but the liquid was wine and free of cost: therefore the folk consumed it, thanked the giver and invited him also to say a few words. Several shook their heads at the prospect and foresaw that the ample spectre of Mrs. Shillabeer must instantly rise to cast a chill upon the spirit of the hour; but it was Mr. Bowden himself who urged the host to speak, and Reuben straddled his legs, heaved a mighty sigh, crossed his arms and addressed the company.

"Why for you want me to say anything, Elias Bowden, I'm sure I don't know; but I must do my share with the rest, I suppose, and I'm sure I hope, as we all hope, that this here wedding will be the beginning of a happy united life for bride and bridegroom. We, as have been in the state and had the fortune to draw a prize, like Mr. and Mrs. Bowden here, and Mr. and Mrs. Stanbury, and Mrs. Crocker, though she's lost her prop and stay these many years, and me--we know what marriage is. But them as draw a blank, 'tis hidden from them, and the bachelor men and spinster women sprinkled about--they don't know neither. But perhaps nobody in this company--widows or them as be still happily joined together--ever felt to marriage what I felt to it. Time and again I said to my dead partner that 'twas too good to last, and she'd laugh at me and say I was the sort that always met trouble half way. And I seed her fading out week after week; and I seed the wonnerful bulk of her dwindling; and yet I couldn't realise what was coming till it did come. The last words she said to me--or rather she whispered 'em, for she was got far beyond speech--the last words was, 'Don't you take on too much, Reuben. We shall meet again in the Better Land.' And I'm sure I hope it may be so, though I'm an unworthy creature. And I hope you won't think that I say these things to cast down any joyful member amongst us. Far from it. I only want for these young people to remember that the more they love, the worst must they suffer if things fall out contrariwise. But whether David goes, or Margaret here be plucked off untimely, 'twill be the joy and gladness of the one that's left to remember what it was to have a well-loved partner. And so, whatever haps, they'll never regret this day's work. And I hope everybody have eaten and drunken to their liking."

Then the bride insisted that Reuben should himself have some dinner.

"If 'twas anybody else proposed it, I should certainly refuse," he said; "but since you want for me to do it, and my inwards are hollow as a drum, I'm quite agreeable to pick a bone and drink a quart."

Bartholomew Stanbury now spoke. He thanked everybody for coming, praised the dinner and the wine, declared it to be the second most joyful day in his life, and explained that the first had been when he himself was married. He confirmed Mr. Shillabeer's view of matrimony, staggered the publican by advising him to look round and find a second; and concluded by proposing the health of Mr. Charles Moses, who was among the oldest and best thought upon residents of Sheepstor, and who to-day had specially distinguished himself by lending his famous shop for the wedding breakfast. "Free of charge he done it, mind you," explained Mr. Stanbury, "just out of the goodness of his heart he turns all his tools and leather and what not out of this here place, and lets me have it for the feast; and I wish to publicly thank the man afore you, neighbours, and let everybody know the sort he is."