The Torch and Other Tales

by Eden Phillpotts

II

Then came a night of stars, and once again Amos Gregory was shook up to his heels by somebody running in hot haste with news just as the farmer was about to go to bed. And once more it was his nephew, Ernest, who brought the tale.

"I've found a wondrous pit in the rough ground beyond Four Acre Field," he said. "I came upon it this afternoon, rabbiting, and but for the blessing of God, should have falled in, for the top's worn away and some big stones have fallen in. 'Tis just off the path in that clitter of stone beside the stile."

The young man was panting and so excited that his words tripped each other; but his uncle didn't see for the minute why he should be, and spoke according.

"My father always thought there was a shaft hole there," answered Amos, "and very likely there may be, and time have worn it to the light, for Vitifer Mine used to run out into a lot of passages that be deserted now, and there's the famous adit in Smallcumbe Goyle, half a mile away, to the west, long deserted now; and when I was a child, me and my brothers often played in the mouth of it. The place was blocked years ago by a fall from the roof. But why for you want to run to me with this story at such an hour, Ernest, I can't well say. Us ought to be abed, and Sarah will soon larn you to keep better hours, I reckon. You're a lot too excitable and I could wish it altered."

But the man's nephew explained. "That ain't all, Uncle Amos," he went on, "for I found Uncle Joe's hat alongside the place! There it lies still and little the worse—blue jay feather and all. But I dursn't touch it for fear of the law, and seeing it just after I'd found the hole, filled me with fear and terror. Because it looks cruel as if Uncle had pretty near got home that fatal night, and coming across by the field path in the dark, got in the rough and went down the pit."

Well, Amos had reached for his boots you may be sure before Ernest was to the end of his tale, and in five minutes he'd put on his coat and gone out with Ernest to see the spot.

Their eyes soon got used to the starlight, and by the time they reached the field called Four Acre, Amos was seeing pretty clear. In one corner where a field path ran from a stile down the side, was a stony hillock dotted with blackthorns and briars and all overgrown with nettles, and in the midst of it, sure enough, time and weather had broke open a hole as went down into the bowels of the earth beneath. And beside this hole, little the worse for five weeks in the open, lay Joe Gregory's billycock hat.

Amos fetched a box of matches out of his pocket, struck one and looked at the hat. Then he peered down into the black pit alongside, and, as he did so, he felt a heavy push from behind, and he was gone—falling down into darkness and death afore he knew what had happened. And in that awful moment, such a terrible strange thing be man's mind, it weren't fear of death and judgment, nor yet horror of the smash that must happen when he got to the bottom, that gripped Gregory's brain: it was just a feeling of wild anger against himself, that he'd ever been such a fool as to trust a man with a glide in his eye!

In the fraction of time as passed, while he was falling, his wits moved like lightning, and he saw, not only what had happened, but why it had happened. He saw that Ernest Gregory knew all about Joe and had probably done him in five weeks ago; and he saw likewise that now it was his turn to be murdered. Then Vitifer and Furze Hill would both belong to the young man. All this Amos saw; and he felt also a dreadful, conquering desire to tell the people what had happened and be revenged; and he told himself that his ghost should come to Merripit if he had to break out of hell to come, and give his friends no rest till they was laid upon the track of his nephew.

All that worked through his brain in an instant moment, like things happen in a dream, and then he was brought up sudden and fell so light that he knew he weren't dead yet, but heard something crack at the same moment. And then Amos discovered he was on a rotten landing-stage of old timber, with the shaft hole above him and a head, outlined against the stars, looking down, and another hole extending below. He was, in fact, catched half-way to his doom and hung there with the devil above and the unknown deep below and hung up on the mouldering wood. He heard Ernest laugh then, and the sound was such as none had ever heard from him before—more like a beast's noise than a man's. Then his head disappeared and Amos was just wondering what next, when his nephew came to the hole again and dropped a great stone. It shot past the wretched chap where he hung, just touching his elbow, and then Amos, seeing he was to be stoned to make sure, called upon God to save him alive. He pressed back against the pit side, while the crumbling timber gave under him and threatened to let him down any moment, but the action saved his life, for the time being, for as he moved, down came another stone and then another. Where the joists of the stage went in, however, was a bit of cover for the unfortunate chap—just enough to keep him clear of the danger from above, and there he stuck, pressed to the rock like a lichen, with great stones going by so close that they curled his hair. All was black as pitch and the young devil up over had no thought that his poor uncle was still alive. Amos uttered no sound, and presently, his work done as he thought, Ernest began the next job and Gregory heard him making all snug overhead. Soon the ray of starlight was blotted out and the pit mouth blocked up with timber first and stones afterwards; and Amos doubted not that his young relation had made the spot look as usual and blocked it so as nothing less than the trump of Doom would ever unseal it again.

And even if that weren't so, he knew he could never climb up the five and twenty feet or more he'd fallen. Indeed, at that moment the poor chap heartily wished he was at the bottom so dead as a hammer and battered to pulp and out of his misery. For what remained? Nought but a hideous end long drawn out. In fact he felt exceeding sorry for himself, as well he might; but then his nature came to the rescue, and he told himself that where there was life there was hope; and he turned over the situation with his usual pluck and judgment and axed himself if there was anything left that he might do, to put up a fight against such cruel odds.

And he found there was but one thing alone. He couldn't go up and he felt only too sure the only part of him as would ever get out of that living grave was his immortal soul, when the end came; but he reckoned it might be possible to get down. The only other course was to bide where he was, wait till morning, and then lift his voice and bawl in hope some fellow creature might hear and succour. But as the only fellow being like to hear him was his nephew, there didn't seem much promise to that. He waited another half hour till he knew his murderer was certainly gone home; then he lighted matches and with the aid of the last two left in his box scanned the sides of the pit under him. They were rough hewn, and given light he reckoned he could go down by 'em with a bit of luck and the Lord to guide his feet. Then he considered how far it might be to the bottom, and dropped a piece of stone or two, and was a good bit heartened to find the distance weren't so very tremendous. In fact he judged himself to be about half-way down and reckoned that another thirty feet or thereabout would get him to the end. He took off his coat then and flung it down; and next he started, with his heart in his mouth, to do or die.

Amos Gregory promised himself that nought but death waited for him down beneath, and he was right enough for that matter. How he got down without breaking his neck he never could tell, but the pit sloped outward from below and he managed to find foothold and fingerhold as he sank gingerly lower and lower. A thousand times he thought he was gone. Then he did fall in good truth, for a wedge of granite came out in his hand; but to his great thankfulness, he hadn't got to slither and struggle for more than a matter of another dozen feet, and then he came down on his own coat what he'd dropped before him. So there he was, only scratched and torn a bit, and like a toad in a hole, he sat for a bit on his coat and panted and breathed foul air. 'Twas dark as a wolf's mouth, of course, and he didn't know from Adam what dangers lay around him; but he couldn't bide still long and so rose up and began to grope with feet and hands. He kicked a few of the big stones that Ernest Gregory had thrown down, as he thought atop of him; and then he found the bottom of the hole was bigger than he guessed. And then he kicked a soft object and a great wonder happened. Kneeling to see what it might be, he put forth his hand, touched a clay-cold, sodden lump of something, and found a sudden, steady blaze of light flash out of it. He drew back and the light went out. Then he touched again and the light answered.

By this time Amos had catched another light in his brain-pan and knowed too bitter well what he'd found. He groped into the garments of that poor clay and found the light that he'd set going was hid in a dead man's breast pocket. Then he got hold of it, drew out an electric torch and turned it on the withered corpse of his elder brother. There lay Joe and the small dried-up carcase of him weren't much the worse seemingly in that cold, dry place; but Amos shivered and went goose-flesh down his spine, for half the poor little man's face was eat away by some unknown beast.

Joe's brother sat down then with his brains swimming in his skull, and for a bit he was too horrified to do ought but shiver and sweat; and then his wits steadied down and he saw that what was so awful in itself yet carried in its horror just that ray of hope he wanted now to push him on.

His instinct was always terrible strong for self-preservation, and his thoughts leapt forward; and he saw that if a fox had bit poor dead Joe, the creature must have come from somewheres. Of course a fox can go where a man cannot, yet that foxes homed here meant hope for Amos; and there also was the blessed torch he'd took from his dead brother's breast.

He nerved himself and felt all over the poor corpse and found Joe's purse and his tobacco pouch and the two pipes he was reported to have bought at Exeter; and doubtless he'd bought the electric torch also, for Amos knew that his brother possessed no such thing afore. But there it was: he'd been tempted to buy the toy, and though it couldn't bring him back to life, there was just a dog's chance it might save his brother's. Amos knew the thing wouldn't last very long alight, so he husbanded it careful and only turned it on when his hands couldn't tell him what he wanted to know.

At first it seemed as though there weren't no way out; but with the help of the light, he found at last a little, low tunnel that opened out of the hole; and then he found another opposite to it. And the one he reckoned must run up under Vitifer into the thickness of the hill; while t'other pointed south. Then, thinking upon the lay of the land, Amos reckoned the second might be most like to lead to the air. And yet his heart sank a minute later, for he guessed—rightly as it proved—that the south tunnel was that which opened into a cave at Smallcumbe Goyle, near half a mile down under. A place it was where he'd often played his games as a child; but that ancient mine adit was well known to be choked by a heavy fall of rock fifty yards from the mouth, so it didn't look very hopeful he'd win through. However his instinct told him the sole chance lay there; for t'other channel, if pursued, could only lead to the heart of the hill. He set out according and after travelling twenty yards with bent head found the roof of the tunnel lift and went on pretty steady without adventures for a few hundred yards. 'Twas very evil air and he doubted if he'd keep his head much longer; but with the torch light to guide his feet, he staggered forward conscious only of one thing, and that was a great and growing pain in his elbow. That's where the first stone had grazed him that his nephew had thrown down the pit, and he stopped and found he was cut to the bone and bleeding a lot. The loss vexed him worse than the pain, for he knew very well you can't lose blood without losing strength, and he couldn't tell yet whether it might not be within his strength to save him at the other end. So he slit a piece off the tail of his shirt and tied it above his elbow so tight as he was able. Then he held on, but knew too well he was getting spent. For a man well over fifty year can't spend a night of that sort and find himself none the worse for it.

A bit farther forward there was a little more to breathe, and as the tunnel dropped, he felt the air sweeter. And that put a pinch more hope into him again. It was up and down with him and his mind in a torment, but at last he tried not to think at all, and just let his instinct to fight for life hold him and concentrated all his mind and muscle upon it. Yet one thought persisted in his worst moments: and that was, that if he didn't come through, his nephew wouldn't be hanged, but enjoy the two farms for his natural life; and the picture of that vexed Amos so terrible that without doubt 'twas as useful to help him as a bottle of strong waters would have been.

On he went, and then he had a shock, for the torch was very near spent and began to grow dimmer; so he put it out to save the dying rays against when he might need them. And he slowed down and rested for half an hour, then refreshed, he pushed slowly on again.

And things happened just as he expected they would do; for after another spell, he was brought up short and he found the way blocked and knew that he stood a hundred feet and no more from the mouth of the tunnel in a grass-grown valley bottom among the rocks outside. But he might as well have been ten miles away, and too well he knew it. The air was sweet here, for where foxes can run, air can also go; but outlet there was none for him, though somewhere in the mass of stone he doubted not there was a fox-way. He turned on the torch then and shifted a good few big stones and moved more; but he saw in half an hour the job was beyond his powers and that if he'd been Goliath of Gath he couldn't have broke down that curtain of granite single-handed.

He'd found a pool of water and got a drink and he'd satisfied his mind that his elbow bled no more, and that was all the cheer he had, for now his torch went out for good and with its last gleam he'd looked at his watch and seen that it was half after two in the morning. Night or day, however, promised to be all the same for Amos now, and he couldn't tell whether daylight would penetrate the fall of stone when it came, or if the rock was too heavy to allow of it. And in any case a gleam of morning wouldn't help him, for the Goyle was two good miles from Merripit village, and a month might well pass before any man went that way. Nor would Amos be the wiser if a regiment of soldiers was marching outside. So it looked as if chance had only put off the evil hour, and he sat down on a stone and chewed a bit of tobacco and felt he was up against his end at last. Weariness and chill as he grew cold acted upon the man, and afore he knew it he drew up his feet, rested his head on his sound arm, and fell into heavy sleep. For hours he slumbered and woke so stiff as a log. But the sleep had served him well and he found his mind active and his limbs rested and his belly crying for food.

He poked about and at last saw something dim that thrust out of the dark on the ground, and then it got brighter, and he marked low down, no higher than his knee, a blue ghost of light shooting through some cleft among the stones. It waxed until he could put down his watch and read the hands by it. And he found it was past six o'clock.

He set to work at the rocks again presently, but surrounded by darkness he didn't know where to begin and knew that a hungry man, with nought but his two hands, could make no great impression on all that stone; but he turned where the ray came through and putting his head to the earth, found there was a narrow channel out to the daylight, and wished he could take shape of a badger and so get through.

Time dragged and hope waned. But the water proved a source of strength, and Amos knew a man can hold out a long time if water ban't denied. His life passed through his mind with all its ups and downs, and he found time to be thankful even in all his trouble that he was a bachelor without wife or child to mourn him. And then his thoughts ran on to the great mystery there would be and the hunt after him; and he saw very clear indeed that all would go just as it done before, and the police would never find a trace, and Ernest Gregory would weep his eyes out of his head very near and offer a reward so large that everybody would say he was an angel barring the wings.

Amos was dwelling on what his nephew would get in the next world, to make up for his fun in this one, and marvelling in his simple mind that the wicked could flourish like the green bay tree and nothing be done against 'em by Providence, when that happened to fill his mind very full of his own affairs again.

He was sitting with his eyes on the shaft of daylight under the stones, when suddenly it went out and for a moment disappeared. But then, like a cork out of a bottle, something emerged, and Amos saw a long red thing sneak through and drop, panting, on its side not three yards from him. And well he knew what it was, even if the reek hadn't told him. 'Twas a hunted fox that had saved its brush—not for the first time belike—in the old tin mine working, and that meant more to the man than a sack of diamonds just then. He moved and the fox, little thinking to find an enemy on that side of the barrier, jumped to his feet and galloped up the passage so hard as he could pelt; while Amos strained his ears to the hole and prepared to lift his voice and have the yell of his life for salvation when the moment arrived.

How long the fox had stood afore hounds he couldn't tell; but long or short, they'd run him to the rocks for certain, and then the prisoned man would hear 'em and try to make the hunters hear him if he could. Hounds met at Dart Meet that day, and Gregory doubted not they'd found a fox as was had took 'em up East Dart and then away to the Vitifer mine district, where he knew he was safe.

And in ten minutes he heard hounds and in five minutes more they was got within a few yards of him, yelping and nosing t'other side of the granite. He guessed the huntsman would soon be with 'em at the cave mouth and presently gave tongue down the road the fox had come, and after shouting thrice with all his breath, waited, and sure enough heard an answering shout.

Yes, he'd been heard screaming for his life, and presently the men outside drew off the hounds and was able to get into conversation with Amos and larn the rights of his fearful story.

It was only a question of time after that and the field gave up hunting a fox to save a man. Labourers were sent for, and the rocks attacked in good earnest; and the huntsman did a very clever thing, for he sent his fox terrier through the hole to Amos with a packet of sandwiches tied on his back. Presently the little dog went in again with a bottle of cordial as one of the hunters gladly gave for the purpose, for Amos Gregory was well known for a good sport, and the field felt terrible glad as they'd been called to save him.

As soon as he was in communication with the outer world, Amos had ordered one thing to be done before all else, and it was done. So long before he'd got free, for it took five hours of desperate hard work to get to him, the police had done their bit elsewhere and arrested Ernest Gregory for the murder of his Uncle Joe. He was spreading muck on Four Acres Field at the time and called on God to strike the constables dead for doing such a shameful deed as to suspect him.

'Twas all in the newspapers next day, of course, and all men agreed that never was such an escape from death afore. In fact, my friend Amos was one of the wonders of the Dartmoor world for a long time afterwards. He never got back the full use of his elbow, but weren't a penny the worse any other way in a month and quite well enough to testify afore the law about all his adventures had showed him.

And Ernest turned out one of the vain murderers who be quite content to go down to history on the debit side so long as he's famous, if only for sin. He explained that Joe Gregory had always intended to come home from Exeter by way of Moreton, and that he had done so, and that Ernest had met him there and reckoned that particular wild, black night very well suited for putting the old man away. He knew all about the codicil to Joe's will, and having found the mine shaft months afore, used it as we know how. He'd took Joe to see it on getting home, and knocked him in, just as he'd treated Amos after. And 'twas all done for the land, which had become his god; and when Amos told his nephew he'd made no will, he was so good as signing his own death warrant.

They tried to fetch him in insane; but it didn't work with the jury nor yet the judge, and Ernest Gregory was hanged for his sins to Exeter gaol; and Sarah White, who had meant to wed him, felt terrible glad it happened before and not after the wedding.

As for Vitifer and Furze Hill, now both the property of Amos Gregory, no doubt Duchy will get 'em after all some day. In fact, Duchy always wins in the long run, as them mostly do who can afford to wait.

Our old parson preached a fine sermon on the affair after Ernest Gregory had gone to his reward; for he showed how by the wonderful invention of his Maker, Joe Gregory, though dead, yet was allowed to save his brother's life and so proclaim the wonder of God to sinful man. And no doubt all right-thinking people believed him.

Anyway, Amos set great store upon the electric torch ever after and it hangs above his mantelshelf to this day. And henceforth he always took off his hat to a fox whenever he seed one; for he was a very grateful sort of man and never forgot a kindness.

No. XIII
'SPIDER'

Surely few things be sillier than the way we let human nature surprise us. For my part 'tis only the expected that ever astonishes me, for men and women have grown so terrible tricky and jumpy and irregular nowadays, along of better education and one thing and another, that you didn't ought to expect anything but the unexpected from 'em. And I never do.

So when Jenny Pardoe took Nicky White I dare say I was the only party in Little Silver that didn't raise an upstore and cackle about it, because to the common mind it was a proper shock, while to me, in my far-seeing way, I knew that, just because it was the last thing on earth you might have thought Jenny would do, it might be looked for pretty confident. She could have had the pick of the basket, for there was a good few snug men took by her nice figure and blue eyes and fine plucky nature; but no: she turned 'em all down and fell in love with Nicky White, or 'Spider,' as the man was called by all that knew him, that being the only possible name for the creature.

Under-sized, excitable and small-minded was 'Spider.' He had breadth and strength of body, but no more intellects than please God he wanted. He was so black as if he'd been soaked in a peat bog—black hair, black eyes, black moustache and black beard. A short, noisy man with long arms and hair so thick as soot on 'em. He owned Beech Cot on Merripit Hill when his mother died, and there he took Jenny after they was wed; and the people called 'em Beauty and the Beast.

Not that there was anything right-down beastly about Nicky but his spidery appearance. He would be kind to childer and never picked a quarrel with nobody—too cowardly for that; but he was ugly as they make 'em and a sulky fashion of man. He had a silly, sensitive nature and a suspicious bent of mind. Such a man, with a wife as pretty as a June morning, was like to put a bit of a strain upon her; and he did, no doubt; for Nicky found himself cruel jealous of mankind in general where Jenny was concerned, and though there weren't no shadow of reason for it, he kept her mighty close and didn't like to think of her gossiping with the neighbours when he was away to work. At first she was rather pleased with this side of her husband, thinking jealousy a good advertisement, because it showed how properly he loved her; and there's no doubt no ugly little man ever had a more faithful and adoring wife. She thought the world of him and always said he was wonderful clever and much undervalued and good for far more important work and bigger money than ever he'd reached to. But that was her love blinding the woman, because in truth Spider had terrible poor thinking parts, and to cut peat, or cut fern, or lend a hand with a dry-built wall, or such-like heavy work was pretty much all as he could be trusted to do. And none the worse for that, of course. There's lots of work for good fools in the world; and there's lots of good fools to do it, if only the knaves would let 'em alone.

Well, all went proper enough with the Whites till Solomon Chuff came to Vitifer Mine as foreman, and he got to know 'em, and Jenny liked the man because he put her in mind of her dead father. He was ten years older than Spider—a big, handsome, clever chap with no vices in him; but there's no doubt he did like Jenny and found her suit him amazing well; and such was his innocence of all evil that once or twice he offered Spider a chance to growl. Once, for example, he over-got Jenny in the road by night and gave her a lift home in his trap. An innocent deed in all conscience, but Nicky didn't think so; for jealousy working in a silly man soon unseats his wits.

I pointed out to Spider, who was soon rampaging about him behind Chuff's back, that he had nought to fear. Because if the miner had been crooked, he'd have took care to give Jenny's husband no call for alarm.

"'Tis granted," I said, "that any wife can hoodwink any husband if she wants to do so. No woman's such a fool but she's equal to that. In your case, however, you've got a partner that would sooner die and drop into her coffin than do anything to bring a frown to her husband's face, or a pang to his heart; while as for Solomon Chuff, he's far ways off the sort of man you think him, a more decent and God-fearing chapel member you'll not find."

But wisdom couldn't live with Spider. He was made to flout it and go his own sheep-headed way. He hadn't the pluck to stand up to Chuff and explain his grievances and tell the man he'd kill him if ever he crossed his threshold again, or ought honest and open like that. Instead he sulked and plotted awful things quite beyond his powers to perform; and then finally the crash came six months after he'd glumped and glowered over his silly fancies.

Spider went fishing one Saturday afternoon when the Dart was in spate and the weather fierce and wild. He'd been wild and fierce himself for a week, as his wife told after; but she didn't trouble about his vagaries and never loved him better than when he went off to catch some trout for her that dark afternoon in March. But he didn't return, and when she came down after dark to her aunt, Maria Pardoe, the washerwoman at Little Silver, and made a fearful stir about the missing man, the people felt sorry for her, and a dozen chaps went down the river to find Spider and fetch him along. His rod they found, and his basket and his bottle of lob-worms on the bank above a deep pool, but they didn't see a hair of the man himself; and when the next day came and a proper police search was started, nothing appeared, and it seemed terrible clear that Jenny's husband was a goner.

Some thought he'd just fallen in by chance and been swept to his death in the flood; while others, knowing the fool he was, whispered that he'd took his silly life along of fears concerning Solomon Chuff. But for my part I never thought so, because Spider hadn't got the courage to shorten his own thread. He was the sort that threaten to do it if they lose a halfpenny; but they don't perform. I reckoned he'd slipped in the bad light and gone under with none to save, and fallen in the river and been drowned like many another spider afore him.

Months passed and Jenny was counted a widow; but though she mourned like one and wore her black, she never could feel quite sure about her state; and when Bill Westaway, the miller's son, began to push into her company, she gave him to understand 'twas far too soon for any thoughts in his direction. In fact you might say she worshipped her husband's memory as her most cherished possession, and now he was gone, she never wearied of his virtues, and wept at the mention of his name. She'd had two years of him before he went, and there weren't no family and nothing to remind her of him but her own faithful heart. Never a worthless imp won a better woman.

And then—after a full year was told—happened the next thing. I well mind the morning Jenny come over to me, where I was digging a bit of manure into my garden against seed planting. A March day it was, with a soft mist on the moor and the plovers crying behind it, like kittens that want their mother.

"Might I have a tell, Mr. Bates?" she said.

"You might," I answered, "and I'll rest my back and light my pipe while you do so."

She was on the way to her aunt's wash-house, where she worked Mondays.

"'Tis like this," she said. "I've had a very strange, secret sort of a letter, Mr. Bates. It's signed 'Well Wisher,' and I believe it's true. Thank God I'm sure if it is."

She handed me the letter and I read it. There weren't much to it so far as the length, but it meant a powerful lot for Jenny. It ran like this:

Dear Mrs. White, your husband's working to Meldon Quarry, so don't you marry nobody else. Well Wisher.

"Say you believe it," begged the woman, when I handed her letter back to her.

"Whether 'tis true or not can quickly be proved," I answered. "And if it's true, then Spider's foolisher and wickeder than I thought him."

"I don't care how wicked he is so long as he's alive," she said.

"His one excuse for leaving you was to be drownded in the Dart, and if he ain't drownded, he's done a damn shameful thing to desert you," I told her. "However, you can put it to the proof. The world is full of little, black, ugly, hairy men like your husband, so you needn't be too hopeful; but I do believe it's true. Of course somebody may have seen his ghost; and to go and wander about at Meldon is just a silly thing his ghost might do; but I believe he's there—the fool."

"Where's Meldon Quarry?" she asked, and I told her.

"Beside Meldon Viaduct, on the railroad over Okehampton way. And what the mischief will you say to the wretch if you do find him?"

"Be very, very angry," answered Jenny—in a voice like a sucking dove.

"I'm sorry for Bill Westaway," I said, "He'd have made a much finer husband for you."

But she shook her head impatiently.

"I hate him!" she vowed. "I couldn't say for why, exactly; but there's something about him—"

"All's fair in love," I told her.

"I only love Nicky and I shall go to Meldon Quarry and not leave it again till he be found," she promised. "And don't tell Mr. Westaway, please. He'd be properly furious if he thought my dear husband wasn't drownded after all."

And at that moment if the miller's son didn't come along himself. A very tidy-looking chap, and a good worker, and a likely sort of man by all accounts. They left me and walked up the street together; and I heard afterwards what they talked about.

"How much longer are you going to hold off?" he asked. "You know I won't let you marry anybody on God's earth but me."

Jenny hid the great hopes in her mind, for she doubted if she could trust Will with the news.

"How can I marry anybody until I know Nicky is dead?" she inquired of the man, as she often had before.

"If he's alive, then that makes him a low-down villain, and you ought never to think of the creature again. If he's alive, he's happy without you. Happy without you—think of that! But of course he's not alive."

"Until we know the solemn, certain truth about him I'm for no other man," she told him; and her words seemed to give Will a notion.

"'The truth about him': that's an idea," he said.

"It is now a year since he went to fish and vanished off the earth," went on Jenny. "I've sometimes thought that the people didn't search half so carefully for the dear chap as what they might."

"I did, I'll swear. I hunted like an otter for the man."

"You never loved my husband," she said, shaking her head, and he granted it.

"Certainly I never did. Weren't likely I could love the man who was your husband. But I tried to find Spider, and I'll try again—yes, faith! I'll try again harder than ever. He's in the river somewheres—what be left of him. The rames^[1] of the man must be in the water round about where he was fishing."

"What's the use of talking cruel things like that?"

"Every use. Why, if I was to find enough to swear by, you could give him Christian burial," said Will, who knew how to touch her—the cunning blade. "Think of that—a proper funeral for him and a proper gravestone in the churchyard. What would you give me if I was to fetch him ashore after all?"

Jenny White felt exceedingly safe with her promises now. She'd got a woman's conviction, which be stronger than a man's reason every time, that Spider was alive and kicking, and had run away for some fantastic jealousy or other foolishness. For the little man was always in extremes. She felt that once she faced him, she'd soon conquer and have him home in triumph very likely; and so she didn't much care what she said to Will that morning. Besides, the thought of giving the man a job that would keep him out of her way, for a week perhaps, rather pleased her.

"I'll give you anything I've got to give if you bring my poor Nicky's bones to light," she said. "But it's impossible after all this time."

Will Westaway's mind was in full working order by now.

"Nought's impossible to a man that loves a woman like what I love you," he said. "How was the poor blade dressed the day he went to his death? Can you call home what he'd got on?"

"Every stitch down to his socks," she answered. "He'd got his old billycock hat and his moleskin trousers and a flannel shirt—dark blue—and a red-wool muffler what I knitted him myself and made him wear because it was a cruel cold afternoon. And his socks was ginger-coloured. They was boughten socks from Mrs. Carslake's shop of all sorts. He was cranky all that day and using awful crooked words to me. I believe he knew he weren't coming back."

"By God, he shall come back—what's left of him," swore Will. "If it takes me ten year, I'll go on till I find the skelington of your late husband or enough to prove he's a dead 'un. He shall be found, if only to show you what my love's worth, Jenny."

"Looking for the little man's bones in Dart would be like seeking a dead mouse in a haystack," she said.

"Difficult, I grant, but nothing to the reward you've promised."

"Well," she told him, "you can have me, such as I am, if you find Nicky."

Then she left William, and he turned over what she'd said. He was cunning and simple both, was Bill Westaway. He believed by now that Jenny really did begin to care a lot for him, and was giving him a chance in her own way to make good.

"An old billycock hat and a bit of red-wool muffler, the tail of a blue shirt, a pair of ginger-coloured socks," he thought. "It don't sound beyond the power of a witty man like me. But she'll want more than that. Us must find a bone or two as a doctor could swear by."

Full of dark, devilish ideas, the young man went his way; and Jenny got down the hill and walked in her aunt Maria Pardoe's wash-house as usual.

But she weren't herself by no means, and the first thing she done was to tear some frill-de-dills belonging to the parson's wife. Then she had another accident and so she went to Maria—the kindest woman on earth—and told her aunt she weren't feeling very clever this morning and thought she'd better go home. "'Tis just a year since Nicky was took, as we all know," said Maria, "and no doubt you'm feeling wisht about it, my dear. But you must cut a loss like what your betters be often called to do. You must take another, Jenny, and be large-minded, and remember that there's better fish in the river than ever came out."

"Is Nicky in the river?" asked Mrs. White. "I'm powerful certain he ban't, Aunt Maria."

"He's there," said the old woman, cheerfully. "Don't you worry about your first. He'll rise at the Trump along of all of us. His Maker won't forget even Nicky. And meantime he's just so peaceful under water as he would be in the Yard. And when you think of the fiery nature of the man, what is there better than peace you could wish him?"

So Jenny went home and her great idea grew upon her, till by noon she'd built up her resolves and made ready for journeying.

And the very next day she was off and her house locked up, and a bit of paper with writing on it fixed up on the door.

Jenny White gone away for a bit. Please be kind to her yellow cat.