The whirlwind

by Eden Phillpotts

BOOK II

CHAPTER I
FIRST BLOOD TO BRENDON

In the struggle between Daniel Brendon and Jarratt Weekes, circumstances combined to strengthen the former's cause at every point. Right, as a matter of fact, was on his side, but what promised to be a greater source of strength, he found in Sarah Jane. The ingenuous and fearless character of his betrothed and her intrepid handling of truth, albeit embarrassing enough at times, made her strong against enemies of the type of Jarratt Weekes. Moreover, the lovers had many friends; the castle-keeper, few. His mother tried to help him; but she was honest and her shifts proved absolutely futile. She could only suggest that Jarratt should see Sarah Jane and argue with her the folly of such action. She herself invited Gregory Friend's daughter to tea, and used what powers of persuasion she possessed to turn the girl. She also saw Mr. Friend, and showed him the advantages of a union with the Weekes family. Her attacks were direct and straightforward; therefore they failed. Neither did Jarratt's more tortuous methods win him any advantage. He worked what little harm he could, but it amounted to nothing. Daniel's record was clean; he had a reputation for sober-mindedness; no man could tax him with wrong-doing. To separate him from Sarah Jane at any cost became the castle-keeper's problem; but, while achieving this deed, it was vital that the woman's regard for Jarratt should be increased rather than lessened; and the double task proved altogether beyond Jarratt's power.

He trusted that Hilary Woodrow might prove an obstacle, and that marriage must at least mean dismissal from Ruddyford; but even here his hopes were disappointed. Matters combined at the farm largely to advance Daniel Brendon's ambition, and a tower of strength appeared in a quarter from which little might have been hoped. Tabitha Prout smiled upon the match, first from kindness of heart, secondly to gain private ends. Another woman at Ruddyford had long been her desire. She sounded Brendon first, then finding that he approved, approached her master. The person most vitally involved in Tabitha's plot was her own brother; but she knew that John would make no difficulties, and therefore left him until the last.

"Does your maiden know anything about milk and butter?" she asked Daniel, on an occasion when they were alone.

"Can't say she does; but there's nothing she couldn't learn in a few months—quick as light at learning she is," he answered.

Then Tabitha proposed that Sarah Jane on her marriage should come to Ruddyford as dairymaid.

"As things go," she explained, "'tis all sixes and sevens; and now the boy milks, and now Tapson do, and there's no proper system to it. But with our cows, few though they be, a dairymaid ought to be kept; and she'd help me here and there—I expect that. And if she comes, we ought to keep three more cows, if not four. I only want to know if you be willing. 'Tis worth your while, for if that was planned, you could bide here after you're married and wouldn't have to look round again."

"Too good to be true, Tabitha Prout; yet none the less a great thought; and I lay you'd find Sarah Jane your right hand if she did come. But where could us bide?"

"That's easy enough. The difficulty is with Mr. Woodrow. However, I'll have a tell with him and put my grey hairs and increasing age as strong as I can. I'm overworked without a doubt. This place has suffered from lack of females for years, and I won't have no more boys, so I've got to do it all—save for the messy, silly help you men give. But there 'tis: with his hate of 'em, I doubt if he'd stand a young woman about the place."

"I wonder. Make a point of the extra cows, Tabitha. That might win him; and as for Sarah Jane, by the time we'm married, I'll promise for her that she knows the whole craft of milk and cream and butter near so well as you do."

But Tabitha would not allow that.

"In time—in time. She won't have my hand to butter in six months, Daniel—perhaps not in six years. Butter-making's born with a woman. But I'll teach her so much as she can learn. Not that anybody ever taught me—save nature and my own wits."

Joe Tapson entered at this moment, knew not of the argument, but heard Tabitha's self-praise and sneered at her. They often wrangled hotly about the relative powers of the sexes; for while Tapson was a cynic touching womankind, Tabitha declared that she had seen too much of men in her life to have any admiration left for them.

"'Tis about Sarah Jane and work," explained Miss Prout.

"Work?" he said. "What about work? Let her do her proper married woman's work and get boys.—plenty of 'em—eh, Daniel?"

Tabitha sniffed scorn upon him.

"Always the way with you vainglorious creatures. 'For us to be mothers and get boys'—the conceit of it! As if there was nothing else for a woman to do beside that!"

"Nothing—except get girls," said Joe bluntly. "There's nought else in the world that men can't do a darned sight better than females. Don't you deceive yourself there. Why, look around—even to cooking and sewing; tailors and men-cooks beat you out of the field, when first-class work has to be done. You work hard enough—too hard even in your way; yet the likes of you—to say it in a perfectly kindly spirit—don't really do much more than cumber the earth. Women be wanted for the next generation—not for this one. Their work lies there; and when you talk about the value in the world of all you frost-bitten virgins, I'm bound to tell you, without feeling, that 'tis only in your own imagination."

"You speak like the withered stump of a married man you are," she answered indignantly. "I blush for you—you to lecture me! 'Tis a good thing you've no finger in the next generation, I'm sure; and I lay the happiest moment in your wife's life was the last."

But Joe had not finished. He smiled at her temper and spoke again.

"Why, my dear soul, after the business of child-bearing's done, you ban't so much use as cows; for they do give us milk; but such as you yield nought but vinegar."

"What things to say!" exclaimed Daniel; "who ever heard the like?"

"Truth's truth; and the sharp truth about women none knows better than me. But all the same——"

"Shut your mouth and get out of my kitchen," cried Tabitha. "What woman could be blamed for treating you harsh? To insult the whole of us—a poisonous, one-eyed rat like you!"

"A one-eyed rat I may be," retorted Joe; "but I can bite, and 'tis easy to see the force of my words by the heat of your temper. You hate men, and I hate women, so all's said."

The question to be answered was Hilary Woodrow's attitude towards the suggestion of Sarah Jane as dairymaid. He had heard that Brendon was going to be married, and supposed that the giant would leave Ruddyford upon that event. But he cared little whether Daniel went or stopped. The problem of labour on a Dartmoor farm was far less acute fifty years ago than at present, and the master knew that Daniel's place might easily be filled. He listened to Tabitha's arguments but withheld judgment until he had consulted his head man. John Prout, however, approved, and himself disposed of the only difficulty attaching to the plan.

"I think very well of it," he said, "and to show how well, I'll help by coming to live here, and letting Brendon have my cottage. That makes all clear. She's a very nice, strong maiden, and Tabitha's right when she says we want another woman about the place. There's too much on her shoulders now. You'll do well to let it be so, master; and then the girl can set about learning her work straight away and be useful from the start."

Thus the matter fell out, to Sarah Jane's delight; and her father was also well pleased, because his daughter would henceforth dwell close to him. The woman asked for no assistance or advice in the conduct of her life henceforth. Her object was swiftly to master the business of the dairy, and to that end, after conversation with Tabitha Prout, she went to Lydford and saw Mrs. Weekes. Whether Hephzibah could be expected to serve her, Sarah Jane never stopped to consider. Nobody knew more about the local dairy-farmers than the wife of Philip Weekes; nobody therefore was better able to help Gregory Friend's daughter, if she chose to do so. But Hephzibah apparently did not choose.

"To have the face to come to me! 'Tis enough to make angels weep tears of blood, Sarah Jane," she said. "You throw over the best men in Lydford and go your own wild, headlong way to misery; and let me waste torrents of advice upon you; and then walk in, as if nothing was the matter in the world, and ax me to get you a larner's place along with cows! What you'll come to, be hid with your Maker, for no human can guess it. Never was such a saucy wench seen or heard of. You'll be asking me for a wedding present next, I suppose."

"Don't see no reason why not," said Sarah Jane. "I can't marry two men, I believe; and I love one and don't care a rush for t'other, so there's an end to it. Because you wanted for me to take Jarratt and I ban't going to—that's no reason why you shouldn't do me a kindness."

"Loramercy! you talk just like a man. If you don't carry a heart under your ribs, I do. You wait till you've got a proper son as hankers after a girl, and she won't have him—then we'll see how 'tis. Don't you never ax me for the price of a shoe-lace to keep you from the union workhouse, Sarah Jane, because you won't get it."

Sarah laughed pleasantly.

"For all you scream out at everybody, like a cat when his tail's trod on, you're my sort, Mrs. Weekes. You say what you think—though you may think wrong as often as anybody."

"You'm an outrageous baggage," said Hephzibah, "and I won't bandy no more words with you. Not a hand—not a finger will I lift to help such a thankless fool of a woman. Go to Mrs. Perkins at Little Lydford, and get out of my sight, else I'll put my ten commandants on your face!"

Thus, despite her ferocity and terrible threats, Mrs. Weekes told Sarah Jane exactly what she wanted to know; and Hephzibah knew that she had done so, and scorned herself in secret for a silly fool. But her nature could not choose but like Sarah Jane. In secret she loved all fearless things. Therefore, while hating the girl because she would not take Jarratt, Mrs. Weekes had to admire her because she was herself.

The work that Sarah Jane wanted was found for her, and during the next three months she disappeared from Amicombe Hill. Sometimes on Sundays, however, she visited her father. She worked as hard as she possibly could, proved an apt pupil, made new friends at her temporary home in Lew Trenchard, and saw Daniel Brendon now and then. She also wrote to him and her father.

Meantime her betrothed planned his future, calculated the cost of new furniture for Mr. Prout's cottage, and made himself very useful to that large-hearted man.

John Prout was quite content to return to the farm and live under the same roof as his master. For some reasons he relished the change, since it would now be easier to devote a little more personal attention to Hilary. He could see no faults in him; he pandered to Woodrow's lethargic nature as far as he was able; he stuck stoutly to it that the farmer was not a robust man and must be considered in every way possible.

The time sped and Winter returned. Then Sarah Jane, her education with regard to milk and butter complete, came home, and Daniel began to clamour for marriage. Mr. Friend finally decided that the season of Spring should be chosen. For himself he had planned to live henceforth in a little building at the peat-works. He held that a few slates and stones, some mortar and a pail of whitewash, would render it habitable. An engineer had paid one of his rare, periodic visits to the works, made some suggestions and departed again. Therefore Gregory was full of new hopes. There had also come increasing demands for Amicombe peat from various sources, and he was very busy with a trolly on the old tram-line. He loaded it from his stores, then steered it down the winding ways of the Moor, discharged his fuel near the railway station, and, with one strong horse to drag the trolly, climbed back again to his boggy fastness behind Great Links.

The banns were called at Lydford, and Sarah Jane and Daniel listened to them. He burnt under his brown skin; she betrayed interest, but no visible embarrassment.

At this season Jarratt Weekes was much occupied by business, into which he plunged somewhat deeply as a distraction. Widow Routleigh passed away, and it was known that her cottage had been purchased by the castle-keeper; but circumstances suspended the operations on the water-leat, and its advent at Lydford became delayed by a year. Therefore the advantages accruing to his new property were not yet patent to every eye, and only Jarratt and his mother knew the real quality of his bargain. In other directions he had obliged his enemy Mr. Churchward with a loan, because an opportunity arose for putting "the Infant," Adam's son, into business. William Churchward joined a bookseller in Tavistock. The occupation, as his father explained, was genteel and intellectual, and might lead to higher things. From William's point of view his work was sedentary and slight, and led to hearty thirst after the shutters were put up. He lived with his senior partner, pursued his efforts at picture-painting, and often came home at the end of the week.

No further meeting to discuss the water-leat celebrations had been called after the postponement was announced. But Mr. Churchward only waited a fitting time to proceed with his plans. The committee was understood to continue to exist, and Mr. Nathaniel Spry still flattered the schoolmaster; Mr. Norseman still went in doubt as to the propriety of the enterprise; Mr. Pearn still talked about his free luncheon; and Mr. Huggins still laboured under the thought of impersonating Moses.

Then came the wedding day and the wedding ceremony. Save for the master, Ruddyford was empty, because all asked and obtained leave to see Daniel married. Dunnagoat cot was not large enough to hold the wedding guests, and its inaccessible position made it impossible in any case. Therefore Mr. Friend, who insisted on straining his resources to the extent of a banquet, borrowed an empty cottage near the church, and with the assistance of Mr. Pearn and his staff, arranged a very handsome entertainment.

There were present the company from Ruddyford; and Mr. Churchward and his daughter also accepted Gregory's hospitality; for Mary Churchward and Sarah Jane were old acquaintance, and Mary, in secret, had liked Sarah Jane the more for refusing Jarratt Weekes. Mr. Huggins, Mr. Norseman and the latter's wife also attended; and five or six other men and women, with their grown-up sons and daughters, completed a throng of about twenty persons. Many more came to the church ceremony, and all frankly agreed that such a splendid man and woman had not within living memory been linked at St. Petrock's. But the house of Weekes was unrepresented, save by Susan. She had taken occasion to run away at dawn; and she thoroughly enjoyed the great event, without any uneasiness as to the future. Her aunt would be far too interested at learning all particulars, to waste time in reproaches and admonishment.

So Daniel Brendon and Sarah Jane Friend were wedded, and, having spent a week in Plymouth and watched the wonder of the sea, they returned to their little home at Ruddyford and joyfully set about the business of life.

CHAPTER II
THE GATES OF THE MORNING

Dawn had woven her own texture of pearl into the fabric of the Moor, and the sun, like a great lamp, hung low upon the shoulder of the eastern hills. Silence brooded, save for the murmur of water, and all things were still but the stream, upon whose restless currents morning wrote in letters of pale gold. The world glimmered under sparkling moisture born of a starry night, and every blade of grass and frond of fern lifted its proper jewel to the sun. Peace held the waking hour a while, and living man still slept as soundly as the old stone heroes in their forgotten graves beneath the heather. Then newborn things began to suck the udder, or open little bills for food. Parent birds and beasts were busy tending upon their young. The plovers mewed far off, and swooped and tumbled; curlews cried; herons took the morning upon their wings and swept low and heavily to their hunting grounds.

Young dawn danced golden-footed over the stony hills, fired the greater gorse, lighted each granite pinnacle like a torch, flooded the world with radiance, and drank the dew of the morning. Earth also awoke, and her sleeping garb of pearly mist, still spread upon the river valleys, at length dwindled, and glowed, and burnt away into the ardent air. Then incense of peat-smoke ascended in a transparent veil of blue above Ruddyford, while from the cot hard by came forth a woman.

Sarah Jane had been at her new life a week, and began to know the cows and their characters. They waited for her now, and soon the milk purred into her glittering pails. First the note of the can was sharp and thin; then, as the precious fluid spirted, now right, now left, from the teats under Sarah's firm fingers, the vessel uttered a milder harmony and finally gave out only a dull thud with each addition. The cows waited their turns patiently, licked one another's necks and lowed; as yet no man moved, and the milker amused herself by talking to the kine. She sat with her cheek pressed to a great red flank, and her hair shone cowslip-colour against the russet hide of the beast. Her splendid arms were bare to the elbow. Already something of the past had vanished from her, and in her eyes new thought was added to the old frankness. She thought upon motherhood as she milked these placid mothers; she perceived that the summer world was full of mothers wheeling the air and walking on earth. Wifehood was good to her, and very dearly she loved the man who had led her into it.

Sarah Jane whistled sometimes when she felt unusually cheerful. She whistled now, and her red lips creased up till they resembled the breaking bud of a flower. The sounds she uttered were deep and full, like a blackbird's song, and they made no set tune, but rippled in harmonious, sweet, irregular notes, as an accompaniment to kindred thoughts.

Suddenly feet fell on the stone pavement outside the cow-byres, and a man approached where she sat and milked the last cow. The others, each in turn, her store yielded, had passed through an open gate into the Moor, there to browse and repose and chew the cud until another evening.

Sarah Jane glanced up and saw Hilary Woodrow standing and looking at her. As yet she had but seen him once upon a formal introduction; now he stopped and spoke to her.

"Good morning, Mrs. Brendon. I hope your house is comfortable, and that you are settling down. Let Tabitha know if she can do anything for you."

"Good-morning, sir, and thank you. 'Tis a very snug li'l house, and nothing could be nicer."

He nodded. Then the last cow went off, and Sarah Jane rose, patted it on the flank and stretched her arms. He remarked her height and splendid figure.

"Rather cramping work, I'm afraid," he said.

"'Twas at first, but I like it better now. Cows be nice, cosy creatures an' terrible understanding. Some's so peaceful an' quiet; an' others that masterful they won't take 'no' for an answer, an' push afore the patient ones and get their own way, and will be milked first."

He nodded once more and smiled. Then she washed her hands in a granite trough of sweet water and spoke again.

"You'm moving early," she remarked, in her easy and friendly fashion. "John Prout said you always laid late for health, yet you be up afore the men."

"I slept badly and was glad to get out into this sun."

"You'm over-thin seemingly, and have a hungry look, sir. Here—wait a minute! Bide where you be, and I'll come back afore you can count ten!"

She vanished into Ruddyford, and Hilary, wondering, watched her swift, splendid speed. In a moment she returned with an empty glass. She filled it from the milk-pail and held it to him.

"Drink," she said. "'Tis what you'm calling out for."

"I can't, Mrs. Brendon—raw milk doesn't suit me."

"Don't you believe that! Milk hot out of the cow suits everybody. Take it so, and you'll get rounder and happier in a week. My own father was largely the better for it. Try, sir; do please."

He could not resist her eyes, and took the glass from her hands and thanked her.

"Here's good luck and all prosperity to you and your husband," he said, and emptied the glass.

Her face brightened with pleasure.

"Lick your lips," she begged. "Don't lose a drop of it: 'tis life—milk's the very beginning of life—so my mother used to tell."

"And do you think this cup is the beginning of mine?"

"No—yours beginned fifty year ago by the look of you. But milk will help you. You're just the thin, poor-fed fashion of man as ought to drink it. My Daniel's different. With his huge thews he must have red meat—like a dear old tiger. Milk's no use to him."

"By Jove—d'you think I look fifty, Mrs. Brendon?" he asked.

"To my eye, I should guess you wasn't much under. Beg pardon, I'm sure, if you be."

"I'm thirty-six," he said.

"My stars! Then you ought to take more care of yourself."

"I sleep badly."

"You think too much belike?"

"Yes—there's a lot to think about."

"You did ought to put a bit of wool round your neck when you come out in the morning air, perhaps," she suggested; but he laughed at this.

"Good gracious! I'm not made of sugar. I look a giant of strength beside town folk. 'Tis only in your eye that all of us seem weaklings beside Brendon. To tell you the truth, I'm rather a fool about my health. I said just now I had so much to think about: don't you believe it! I've got nothing to think about—hardly more than the cows. Now, I mustn't waste any more of your time."

He sauntered on towards the Moor.

Daniel Brendon was standing at his entrance as Woodrow approached, and he touched his hat and said—

"Morning, sir!"

"Morning, Dan," the master answered and passed on.

Sarah Jane took her milk-pails to the dairy, and then went home to breakfast. She chattered to her husband, narrated her morning's experience, and explained at length her theories of Hilary Woodrow.

"To think as he be no more than six-and-thirty!" she said.

"How d'you know that?"

"He told me. I forget how it went, but I'd just said I reckoned he was fifty, and he seemed rather troubled."

"Fancy your speaking like that!"

"He don't look much less, all the same. And I gave him a bit of advice too."

"Advise him! Nought stops you," Daniel said with his mouth full.

"Why should it? After you've been married a month—there 'tis—you've got more wisdom and understanding of menfolk than a century of maiden life could bring to 'e. I feel like a mother to these here helpless men a'ready."

"Never was such a large-hearted female as you, Sarah Jane."

"What that man wants is a wife. I couldn't have read him any more than you could a bit ago; now 'tis as plain to my understanding as this cup of tea. A wisht, hangdog, sorrowful face to my eye; yet very good-looking in his thin way. But hungry—awful hungry."

"As to women, he's had enough of them. One treated him shameful. But 'tisn't them: 'tis his terrible vain ideas about religion makes him fretful, I reckon. Well he may be hungry!"

"Don't you believe that," she answered. "Church-going don't put fat on the bones, whatever else it may do. He should have a female after him, to fuss a bit, and coddle him, and see he lets his proper food down. He wants somebody to listen to his talk—somebody to sharpen his wits on."

With startling intuition of truth she spoke; but Daniel did not appreciate her discernment.

"Fewer that listen to his talk, the better," he said. "Ban't likely Mr. Woodrow will be happy so long as he sucks poison out of all sorts of godless books."

"Poison is as poison does," she answered. "Everybody says he's a very good sort of man. The good man can't be godless."

"Because his Maker's stronger than his opinions and ban't sleeping, though Woodrow's conscience may be. In time of trouble I wouldn't give a rush for his way. There's nought to help then but Heaven; and so he'll find it. Not that I judge—only I'm sorry for it."

"He wants a woman after him," repeated Sarah Jane decisively.

Daniel laughed at her.

"You think, because you and me are married, that nobody can be happy otherwise."

"Men and women must come to it for sartain, if they'm to be complete, and shine afore their fellow-creatures. A bachelor's an unfinished thing; and so's a maiden—I don't care who she is. And she knows it at the bottom of her heart, for all she pretends different."

"That's not Christianity," Daniel answered; "and you oughtn't to say it, or think it. You speak in the first flush of being married; and I feel just the same and scorn a single man; but 'tis silly nonsense, and we'm both wrong. The saints and martyrs was mostly single, and the holiest Christians that ever lived haven't found no use for women as a rule. Christ's Self wasn't married for that matter."

She considered this view, then shook her head unconvinced.

"He went to marriages and was kind to the women. He might have found the right maiden Himself, and won joy of her after He'd set the world right, if they hadn't killed Him."

Daniel stared.

"Don't say things like that, Sarah Jane! You don't mean it for profane speaking; but 'tis very near it, and makes me feel awful scared."

"What have I said now, dear heart? I never know what you think 'bout things. You change so. If 'tis holier and better to bide single—but there—what foolishness! Jesus Christ set store by little children anyway; and He knowed you can't have 'em without getting 'em."

Brendon rose up from the table and kissed her neck.

"You'm a darling creature," he said, "and to look at you be to make single life but a frosty thing in a man's eyes, no doubt. Certainly 'twould be false for me to say a word against marriage; only it ban't for all; and the Christian religion shows that there are many can do more useful work out of it than in it."

"Poor things!" she said in her pride. "Let 'em do what they can, then. But I'd be sorry to think that a churchyard stone, getting crookeder every year, was all that was left to remember me by when I went."

"That's your narrowness, Sarah. There's other contrivances beside babbies that a man or a woman can bring into the world. Goodness and proper actions, and setting an example, and such like."

"Parson's work," she said. "What's that to taking your share in the little ones? If I thought us should have no childer, I'd so soon hang myself as not, Dan."

"Your ideas do hurtle about my ears like hail," he said, "And they'm awful wild and silly sometimes."

"I know it. You'll larn me better come presently."

"I hope so," he said. "You're all right at heart—only the pattern of your ideas now and then be a thought too outlandish for a Christian home. You wasn't taught all you've got to larn. I don't say it out of no disrespect to father; but—well—us all have a deal to larn yet—the oldest and youngest—and me most of all."

Daniel heaved a contented sigh upon this platitude, and his day's work began.

CHAPTER III
PROGRESS IN IDEAS

The Brendons always went to morning service at Lydford on Sunday. Sometimes Mr. Tapson, who was a churchman, accompanied them; but Agg and Lethbridge belonged to another sect, and their place of worship was at Mary Tavy. Neither John Prout nor his sister ever went. Indeed, Sunday dinner occupied the great part of Tabitha's energies on every seventh day.

Once, being early for service, Daniel and Sarah Jane wandered amid the tombs, and then sat down upon the churchyard wall and looked out over a wooded gorge beneath. Brendon was always very serious and sober on Sunday. It seemed to his wife that he donned a mental habit with his black coat, and in her heart she rejoiced when the day had passed. He looked strictly after her religion from the time of their marriage, and had lengthened her morning and evening prayers considerably with additions from his own. She fell in readily with his wishes, and was obedient as a child; but none the less she knew that the inward and spiritual signs he foretold from her increased religious activity, delayed their appearance. The daily act of faith was not necessary to her mental health, and it proved powerless to alter her natural bent of thought. Sometimes she still shocked him, but less often than of old.

She loved him with a great love; and love taught her to understand his stern soul a little. Not fear, but affection, made her careful. Meantime her own attitude to life and her own frank and joyous spirit were absolutely unchanged. Only, from consideration for him, she hid her thought a little, and often shut her mouth upon an opinion, because she remembered that it might give him pain.

"Do you ever think about the graves?" asked her husband, looking round thoughtfully at the grass-clad hillocks. But she kept her eyes before her and only shook her head.

"No, Dan—can't say as I do. The churchyard's the place for dead men—not living ones. Us shall spend a terrible lot of time here come presently, and I don't want to waste much of it here now."

"'Tis a steadying job to read the verses above all these bones," he said.

"Read 'em, then," she answered. "But don't ax me to. I hate graves, and I hate everything to do with death. With all my might I hate it."

"You shouldn't feel so. 'Tis a part of life, and no more can we have life without it, than we can have a book without a last page. And no one of all these men carried anything into the next world but his record in this. Yet to remember how soon we must give up our clay be a solemn, useful thought."

She did not answer, and he strolled apart and considered the trite warnings, pious hopes, and implicit pathos of dates, where figures often told the saddest tale.

A man came into the churchyard, and, looking round, Daniel, very greatly to his astonishment, saw Jarratt Weekes talking to his wife. Scarcely believing his own eyes, he strode over a row of the silent people and approached.

Neither his wife nor himself had spoken to the castle-keeper since their marriage; yet at last it seemed that the rejected suitor was recovering from his disappointment and about to forget and forgive the past. Weekes shook hands with Brendon, as he had already done with Sarah Jane; then he addressed them both.

"I'm hoping as you'll let bygones be bygones, Brendon. I was hard hit, and—well, 'tis no good going over old ground. I did my best to get you away from Sarah Jane here, and I failed. There's no more to be said."

"Except that you didn't fight fair," answered Daniel calmly. "You tried by very underhand ways to do me out of my own, and I'm sorry for it. All the same, I'm willing enough to forgive you and be friendly henceforth, Mr. Weekes."

"So am I," declared Sarah Jane. "'Twas a very great kindness in you to be so fond of me, and I never shall forget it. But there was but one man in the world for me after I met Daniel here, and so I hope there won't be no more feeling against us."

"Not on my side there won't," answered Jarratt. "I'm glad to let it go. Life's too short to harbour any bitterness like that. I hope you'll be happy all your days, and if ever I can serve you, Brendon, you've only got to tell me so."

Daniel glowed with satisfaction, took the other's hand again and shook it.

"This is an extra good Sunday for me," he answered, "and nothing better could have happened. And I'll say no more, except that I trust it may come into my power to do you good some day, Mr. Weekes. Which I will do, God helping."

"So be it," said the other. "I'll hold you friendly in my mind, henceforward—both of you."

He did not look at Brendon during this conversation, but sometimes cast a side glance into Sarah Jane's face. Now folk began to enter the churchyard, and presently the bells rang.

During service Brendon very heartily thanked Heaven for this happy event, and blessed his Maker, in that He had touched the angry heart of Jarratt Weekes to penitence. But Sarah Jane regarded the incident with a spirit less than prayerful. She was hardly convinced that her old lover meant friendship henceforth. She knew what he had attempted against Daniel; she remembered the things that he had said to her; and this sudden change of mind and expression of contrition found her sceptical.

As for Weekes himself, he had acted upon impulse and the accident of meeting them alone. But his motives were involved. He was not yet done with Sarah Jane. He rather wished to punish her, since he could not possess her. He certainly had not forgiven, and still desired revenge. Therefore he pretended a sudden regret, deceived Brendon, and so ordered his apologies that henceforth he might pose as a friend. He had, however, little thought of what he would do, and revenge was by no means the dominating idea of his mind at present. Much else occupied it, and so busy was he, that he knew quite well nothing practical might ever spring from his secret dislike of the Brendons. Time might even deaden the animosity, before opportunity arose to gratify it; but, on the other hand, with free intercourse once established, anything might fall out. So he left the situation vague for chance to develop. His malignancy was chronic rather than acute. It might leap into activity by the accident of events; or perish, smothered under the press of his affairs.

As they returned home from church, Sarah Jane warned her husband to place no absolute trust in the things that he had heard from Jarratt Weekes; but Daniel blamed her for doubting. He explained that Mr. Weekes was a Christian man and a regular attendant at worship. He felt positive that the other was truly contrite, and out of his own nature accepted these assurances without suspicion. He went further, and blamed his wife for her doubt.

"You mustn't be small like that," he said. "It isn't worthy of you."

"I know him better than you do. He was very much in love with me. He offered me a horse if I'd have him. That was pretty good for such a mean man as him."

"You must always allow for the part that God plays in a person. When anybody says or does a thing outside his character, don't jump to the idea he's lying or playing a part. But just ask yourself if God may not have touched the man and lifted him higher than himself."

"You can't be higher than yourself—so Mr. Woodrow says. I forget what we was telling about, but, coming for his milk one morning, he got very serious and full of religious ideas."

Daniel frowned.

"There's no true foundation to his opinions—always remember that."

"He's just as religious as you, in his own way, all the same," she said. "He told me religion be like clothes. If it fits, well and good; but 'tis no good trying to tinker and patch up the Bible to make it suit your case if it won't. I dimly see what the man means."

"Do you?—well, I don't, and I don't want to; and I won't have him talk to you so; I ban't too pleased at this caper of his, to come out every morning for a glass of warm milk when you'm with the cows."

"And of an evening too, he comes."

"It must be stopped, then. He shall talk no more of his loose opinions to you. 'Tinker and patch the Bible'! What will he say next? Sometimes I feel a doubt if I did ought to bide here at all. I'm not sure if one should be working and taking the money of a man's that not a Christian."

"He's a good man enough. I've heard you say yourself that you never met a better."

"I know it. And that's the mystery. I hope he'll come round and see truth as the years pass by."

"He's the better for the milk, and a kinder creature never walked," said Sarah Jane.

In truth she had seen a good deal of Hilary Woodrow since first he strolled abroad after a sleepless night and drank at her bidding. It pleased him to find her at her work, for she was always the first to be stirring; and now he had fallen into the way of rising early, walking in the air, and talking with the dairymaid while she milked the cows.

Sarah Jane, in some small measure, appeared to have revived his faith and interest in women. Her artless outlook upon life came as a novelty to him. Everything interested her; nothing shocked her. An almost sexless purity of mind characterized her speeches. An idea entering her brain came forth again chastened and sweetened. Her very plainness of speech made for purgation of thought. The things called "doubtful" were disinfected when she spoke about them.

Hilary Woodrow found Daniel's wife not seldom in his head, and as time advanced he grew to anticipate the dawn with pleasure, and looked forward to the fresh milk of her thoughts, rather than that she brought him from the cow.

He protested sometimes at the narrowness of the opinions round about, and told her, with gloomy triumph, that certain local ministers of the church declined to know him.

"Which is best," he asked, "to say that every man is born wicked, as they do, or say that every man is born good, like I do? Why, 'tis to condemn without a trial to say that every man is born wicked."

"Men be born little, dear, dinky babbies," she said—"no more wicked than they blind kittens in the loft."

"Of course not; but that's dogma. They find it in the Bible. It's called the Fall. I can't talk to the men about these things—except Prout. But I wish I could get at your husband a bit, because he's in earnest. The fault with earnest folk so often is, that they never will understand other people are earnest too."

"He knows you'm very good, sir, for all your opinions."

"You see, conscience and the moral sense are two different things; but Brendon would never allow that. He says that conscience comes from God. I say it is what you've been taught, or learned for yourself. If I believed in God—then I'd say the moral sense was what came direct from Him. But I don't, and so I explain it by the laws of Evolution."

She shook her head.

"That's all a rigmarole to me, though I dare say Dan would follow it. You don't believe in no God at all, then?"

"None at all—not the shadow of the shade of a God."

In her blue eyes nothing but the sky was reflected; in his there was much of earth; and his own earth was unrestful as he looked at her morning loveliness.

"Drink your milk afore the warmth be out of it," she said. "'Twould be a terrible curious thing if there was no God, certainly."

"The sun's my God."

"Well, then, there is a God—though we don't see over-much of Him up here."

"But we believe in him, and trust him with the seed, and the lambs; and know that he'll bring back Spring again when Winter is done. So, after all, I'm talking nonsense, because I've got as great faith in my god as your husband has in his."

"To hear you run on! Like a book, I'm sure."

"I can talk like this to you, because you don't look at me as if I was damned and you weren't sorry for it. That's what I get from most people. Have you ever read about Jehovah and the burnt offerings and the sin offerings, and how His altar was to be sprinkled with fresh blood all day long, and how the dumb beasts and birds were to be torn to pieces for a sweet savour before Him? That's the blood-sucking vampire the parsons think made the stars, and the flowers, and—you! I wish I'd lived a hundred years later: then I shouldn't have been fretted with so many fools, Sarah Jane."

"Us ought to live and let live, I suppose."

"Charity—that's all I ask. I only want 'em to practise the first and last thing their Lord begged for, and preached for, and prayed for."

"You'm very charitable, I'm sure—and never name the kind things you do—though John Prout tells about them."

"Does he? No, no, they're in his imagination. Prout spoils me and thinks too well of me. So do you."

"I'm sorry for you, because you've got such a lot of queer opinions, seemingly, and none to let 'em off upon. You must feel like bursting with trouble sometimes, from the look of your eyes."

He laughed at that and abruptly left her. It was his custom now to appear and depart without any formal salute. Sometimes, after absence of days, he would suddenly be at her side after dawn, or at evening. Then he would resume the thread of his last speeches, as though no interval had fallen between.

There was no secrecy in these interviews, and often another, or Brendon himself, might be present at them. But when once Woodrow appealed to Daniel, before his wife, to be larger-minded and more tolerant, the giant shook his head. He held it wickedness to be easy with wrong ideas. To him that man was dishonest, who had not the courage of his own opinions; and disloyal, who could even endure arguments directed against his faith.

CHAPTER IV
SATURDAY NIGHT

After heavy rain the evening cleared awhile and the sky showed palest blue, touched with little clouds that carried the sunset fire. But banks of mist already began to roll up with night, and their vans, as they billowed along the south, were touched with rose. Darkness swiftly followed; the world faded away under a cold fog, that increased in density until all things were hidden and smothered by it. Into the valleys it rolled, swept croft and heath and the channels of the rivers, sank into the deep lanes, searched the woods, spread darker than night upon the lowlands. Outside the Castle Inn it hung like wool, and across it, from the windows of the bar, streamed out radiance of genial light. But this illumination was choked within a dozen yards of its starting point; and, if a door was opened, the fog crept in with the visitor.

Men appeared to take their familiar parts in the drinking and talking of Saturday night, and each made a similar comment on the unusual density of the mist, each rubbed the dewy rime from his hair as he entered.

"If it freezes 'pon this, us shall have a proper sight of ammil in the trees to-morrow," said Mr. Jacob Taverner, who was of the company. "I haven't seen that wonder for ten years now; but well I can mind it. 'Twas a day soon after the beginning of the New Year—even as this might be; and us rose up to find every twig and bough, and stone and fuzz bush coated with pure ice, like glass. The sun played upon the country, and never such a dazzle was seen. 'Twas like a fairy story—all the world turned to gold and precious gems a-glittering. As Huggins said, it might have been the New Jerusalem itself, if it hadn't been so plaguey cold along with. Didn't you, Val?"

"I did say so—I remember them words," answered Mr. Huggins from his corner. "Cold enough to freeze the bird on the bough 'twas. I hope it won't never go so chill again, while I'm spared, for 'twould carry me off without a doubt."

"You'll live to play Moses an' walk along with St. Petrock yet," said Mr. Pearn slily.

Mr. Huggins always became uneasy when Moses was mentioned; and this his friends well knew.

"I wish the water had run to Lydford when 'twas first planned. This putting off for a year be very improper in my opinion," declared Taverner; and Mr. Adam Churchward, from his snug seat behind a leathern screen near the fire, replied:

"We can't honestly throw the blame on anybody, Jacob. You see, they were suddenly confronted with some engineering difficulties in getting the water over the railway cutting. 'Tis not as easy as they thought to do it. And then there was another trouble in that hollow full of springs under the Tavistock road. But I have no hesitation in saying, after my recent conversation with the deputy assistant engineer, that the water will be here definitely by June next, or Autumn at latest."

"Will you call up another committee then?" asked Mr. Huggins.

"Certainly I shall. Spry wrote out the minutes of the last meeting, and will be able to refresh your minds as to what was proposed and seconded all in form and order."

"How's 'the Infant' faring to Tavistock?" asked Mr. Pearn. "I was offered five shilling for that there little picture of the Castle he made a while back, and give me for a bad debt. It hangs over your head, Huggins."

Mr. Churchward was familiar with the sketch, and nodded.

"Yes, he has the artist's instinct. He colours still, I believe, and has sold one or two little trifles at Tavistock. He doesn't take to the book business, I find. If we could but get a patron for him—somebody to send him to London free of expense to develop the possibilities of art. But patrons are things of the past."

"Else you would be in a higher sphere yourself, no doubt, schoolmaster."

"Thank you, Taverner. But I am quite content. Multum in parvo, as we say. I get much into little. I hope the rising generation will show that I have done my duty, if not more than my duty."

"Be they a very on-coming lot, or thick-headed?" inquired Mr. Huggins. "I often think if us old men had had such chances to larn as the boys nowadays, that we should have made a stir in the nation. Anyway, we stood to work in a fashion I never see of late years. Hard as nails we used to be. Now—my stars! you'll see the childer going to school under umbrellas! 'Tis a great sign of weakness in my opinion, and ought to be stopped."

"As to the main question," answered Adam, "my youthful charges may be considered rather under than over the average in their intellects. With the exception of Johnny Williams and his brother Arthur, I should say my present classes will leave the world pretty much as they find it. I need not tell you that I inculcate high moral principles; and in that respect they are as good and honest a lot of boys as Lydford has ever turned out—or any other centre of instruction. But as to book learning—no."

"Too many school treats and holidays, in my opinion," said Jarratt Weekes.

He had just entered, and was shaking himself like a dog that emerges from the water.

"Hold on!" cried Jacob Taverner. "What be about?"

Weekes took off his coat and flung it on a settle.

"The usual," he said to Mr. Pearn, and, while his drink was being poured, turned to the schoolmaster.

"'Tis all of a piece—the softness of the times," he said. "You larn boys to be lazy to school. I don't say it specially of your school. 'Tis the same at all of 'em. Look at your own son."

"You mustn't say that," answered Adam. "I cannot suffer it. You ought to remember that the average of human brain power is exceedingly low. I am always against putting too much strain on the human mind on principle. Our lunatic asylums are the result of putting too much strain—not only on the mind, but on the body. It should be the object of every schoolmaster to feel that, come what may, no pupil of his shall ever be sent to a lunatic asylum or to prison. That has always been my object, at any rate; and without self-praise I may say that I have achieved it, except in the case of Thomas Drury, the Saltash murderer."

"We're a canting lot of humbugs," said Weekes shortly. "We think more of the fools of to-day than the wise men of to-morrow."

"Quite right too," declared Mr. Pearn. "They want it more. The wise men coming will think for themselves; the fools can't."

"Yes; they'll think for themselves, and laugh at us," said Jarratt.

"Let 'em laugh," said Mr. Huggins. "Who cares? We shall be underground, in other Hands than theirs. We shall answer to God A'mighty for our works, not to the unborn."

"The unborn will judge us all the same—Weekes is right there," admitted the schoolmaster. "I always feel the truth of that when I lift my rod. I say to myself, 'this erring child will some day be a father. I am therefore not only teaching him to keep the narrow road, but helping his children and his grandchildren to do so.' As I wield the instrument of correction in extremis, I often think that I may be moulding the character of some great man, who will not draw his first breath until long after I am dust. This may seem merely the imagination of the scholarly mind, yet so it is. Take your next with me, Weekes. I always like our conversation to be raised to a high pitch; and you always do it."

Of late, to gain some private ends, Mr. Churchward had resolutely ignored the ill-will of the castle-keeper. Jarratt continued to treat him indifferently; but Adam would never allow himself to be annoyed, and always offered the cheek to the smiter. Everybody perceived this change of attitude, and everybody, including Mr. Churchward's daughter, knew the reason.

Mr. Weekes nodded and his glass was filled again.

"I hope your mother be having good trade?" asked Noah Pearn. "I hear that the Christmas markets touched high water this year."

"All we could wish," admitted Jarratt. "She's worked like ten women this winter."

"Very aggravating 'tis to hear it—to me," suddenly declared a sad-looking, silent man, in a corner. "There's my wife might be doing the very same; but rabbit it! she've never got time for nothing now. We've gived up our market stall altogether. I've got to do everything of late days. I never thought she'd have changed like that—else I'd never have took her."

"How many children have you got, Samuel?" asked Mr. Huggins.

"But one," said Samuel gloomily.

"There 'tis!" cried the ancient. "They'm all the same with one—'tis the commonest thing. But wait till she've brought 'e half-a-dozen or more, and she'll have time for everything—market included."

"'Tis strange but true, like other ways of Providence," declared Taverner; "but I've marked it in my own family, that one child be far more trouble than six; an' takes far more time. 'Tis the want of practice, no doubt."

Men came and went. Presently Weekes prepared to depart, and put on his coat again.

"Where's my father to-night?" he asked. "'Tis past his hour. He had rather a dressing down afore mother started this morning. I should have thought he'd have come for an extra glass in consequence."

"He never takes but four half pints of a Saturday night, year in, year out," answered Mr. Pearn. "Sometimes he'll top up with a thimble of sloe gin, if the weather's harsh; but that's his outside allowance."

"Life's a stormy voyage—without no harbour—for him," said Huggins. "I don't speak disrespectfully of Mrs. Weekes—very far from it—she's a born wonder; but one of the sort built for wild weather. She likes it; she'd droop if everything went smooth."

"Everything do go smooth," said Jarratt.

"She is like a stately vessel that casts up foam from its prow," declared the schoolmaster. "Mrs. Weekes is a lesson to Lydford, as I have always maintained, and always shall do."

The husband of the stately vessel appeared at this moment.

"Be blessed if I didn't miss the door," he said. "Never remember such a fog. 'Twill be blind man's buff to-morrow."

He sighed and came to the fire.

"Have a drink, father," said Jarratt, as to an inferior. But Philip shook his head.

"Not yet, Jar, thank 'e. I must get a thought warmer first. I'll smoke my pipe a bit."

"Down on his luck he is to-day," explained the younger Weekes. "Down on his luck—because he don't know his luck—eh, father?"

Philip did not answer; conversation became general, and the castle-keeper departed.

Then, when he had gone, Noah Pearn endeavoured to cheer his customer.

"Us have got some hot ale here wi' a nutmeg and a bit 'o toast in it, my dear," he said. "You sup a drop and 'twill brace your sinews. The cold have touched 'e perhaps."

"Thank you, Noah," said Mr. Weekes, and took the glass. "You're very good, I'm sure. I've had a lot on my mind to-day."

"She'd be a fine woman, if there was a thought less lemon in her," said Taverner soothingly.

"She is a fine woman," answered Mr. Weekes, "—fine enough for anything; but fine weather's no good if you'm bedridden, and a fine woman's no good to her husband if she won't—however, us needn't wash our dirty linen in public. We've all our defects."

"Almost too high-spirited, if I may venture to say so," declared Mr. Churchward. "She has the courage of the masculine gender."

"So have I, if I was let bide," explained Philip. "That's the mischief of it. If I'd been a sort of weak man, ready to go under, and do woman's work, and play second fiddle happily, it wouldn't have mattered; but I ban't at all that sort of man by nature, and it hurts my feelings to be made to do it."

"I'm sure you'm too wise to rebel, however," said Mr. Huggins. "'Twas much the same with me, and often I wish I'd been so sensible as you; but my manly spirit wouldn't brook nothing of that sort. 'I won't have it!' I used to say in my fierce way. But I'm sorry now, because she might have been alive yet if I'd been a thought easier with her."

Noah Pearn winked behind the back of Mr. Huggins at the company generally, for it was well remembered that Valentine's vanished partner had ruled him with a rod of iron.

Mr. Weekes, however, showed no amusement. In his mind he was retracing certain painful recent incidents.

"Take what fell out this very day at morn," he said, "to show how rash and wilful Mrs. Weekes can be of a Saturday. I was down in the garden attending to a thing or two and packing a pair of birds for our own hamper. Suddenly she came out of the house and began. 'Twas all about Mrs. Swain, of course, and how I never can send two birds of the same size, and how my goings-on will ruin our custom and spoil business and fetch us to the poor-house in our old age. She was in full swing, souls, when down comes Susan from the kitchen, running as if the dowl was arter her. 'Oh, Aunt Hepsy!' she begins. Then her aunt cut her short, and told her not to dare open her silly mouth while she was talking. So Susan stood still and the missis went on at me. I was a greedy Gubbins, and a traitor, and a wolf in sheep's clothing, and a lot of other things; I was a reed shaken with the wind, a know-nought gert mumphead, and suchlike. Then, after ten minutes of it, I should think, she turned to Susan, and asked what she'd got to say. The toad of a girl grinned in our faces and said 'twas of no consequence, only a gert strange dog, with a bit of broken rope round his neck, had got into the kitchen and put his paws on the table and growled at her, like a bear, and showed all his teeth at once. Well—there 'twas—you can guess what the room looked like when I runned in. The dog—I know whose dog 'twas well enough!—had done just what he damn pleased. He only made off when he heard me coming, and a muck heap's a neat, orderly place to what that kitchen was after he'd gone. Everything off the table, for he'd got over the crockery to the bacon and swept the tea-pot and things afore him like a river sweeps straws—bread, milk, dripping—everything. Never you seed such a masterpiece! I lost my presence of mind and turned on the missis and said, 'There—that's your work! Let that be a lesson to you, you chattering woman!' I oughtn't to have said it, and I was sorry enough after; but God He knows 'twill be weeks afore I get in a word edgewise again. She had her spasms first; then she come to and let me catch it hot and strong from the shoulder, I promise you. She never stopped. While I drove her to the station, and shut the carriage door on her, and the guard he whistled and the train went, 'twas one shattering volume of speech. However, I needn't trouble other people. We've all got our cares, no doubt."

They expressed sympathy with Philip's difficulties, and Adam Churchward especially dwelt upon the bright side. He reminded Mr. Weekes of the noble character of his son, and explained that we all have the defects of our qualities, and must give and take in a large and understanding spirit, if we are to reach happiness, despite the adverse circumstance of being human creatures.

These kindly words and his third glass of warm beer and nutmeg comforted Philip; while the fourth and last found him resigned even to the verge of renewed cheerfulness.

"Take my advice and say the word in season first minute you see her to-morrow," said Mr. Pearn. "Then, if the market's been good, 'twill come all right."

"I will do so," promised Philip. "That reminds me: I must take a box o' straw to the station, for she was going to fetch home a new tea-pot and a good few other things with her. 'Twill all come right, and I dare say, after all, 'twasn't a bad thing that I forgot myself and put my foot down so resolute. She may think on it after."

"She will," foretold Jacob Taverner. "Be sure she'll think on it, and think none the worse of you for it. They like the manhood to flash out of us now and again—even the most managing sort."

Closing time had come, and with great exclamations at the density of the fog, Mr. Pearn's guests departed to their homes.

CHAPTER V
VISIT TO A HERMIT

The evidences of former humanity that abound upon Dartmoor may be divided into remains prehistoric and mediæval. Amid the first shall be found the ruins of the stone-man's home and the scattered foundations of his lodges and encampments. To him also belong certain cirques of stone lifted here and there in lonely places, together with parallelitha, or avenues, and those menhirs and cairns that rise solitary upon high hills to mark the sleeping-places of neolithic heroes. Profound antiquity wraps up these memorials, and the significance of their record is still matter of antiquarian doubt. To what purpose was erected the hypæthral chamber and the long aisle of stone, may never now be understood; but later entries in the granite cartulary of Dartmoor are more easily deciphered. From the middle ages date the tin-streamers' works, where Tudor miners laboured; and scarce a river valley shall be searched without offering many evidences of their toil; while upon the higher grounds, marking some spot of special note, indicating boundaries or serving as guide-posts from goal to goal, the old stone crosses stand.

It was significant of the different attitudes of Sarah Jane and her husband that she found a measure of interest in the pagan hut-circle or grave; he only cared to see the chance symbol of his faith. These Christian evidences were rare round about Ruddyford, but marks of the old stone men did not lack, and Sarah Jane, to whom Hilary Woodrow had once explained their meaning, always professed active interest in these fragments, and told the things that she had heard concerning them to her husband.

There came a Sunday in March when the Brendons went up to see Gregory Friend, that they might convey a great piece of news to him. The young heather was rusty-red in the shoot, and here and there swaling fires had scorched the bosom of the hills to blackness. The day was wintry, yet clear, but many snug spots offered among the boulders, where one might sit facing the sun and sheltered from the east wind.

Such a place Brendon presently found and bade his wife rest awhile.

"'Tis another of them hut-circles master tells about," said Sarah Jane. "That was where the door opened without a doubt. To think as folk lived here, Dan—thousands and thousands of years ago."

"Poor dust! I like the crosses better: they be nearer to our own time, I suppose, and mean a comfortabler thing. 'Tis wisht to hear farmer tell how savage, skin-clad folk dwelt here afore the coming of Christ."

"They couldn't help coming afore He did. He ought to have come sooner, if He wanted for them to know about Him," she answered.

Brendon frowned.

"You'm always so defiant," he said. "I still catch the master's way of speech in your tongue now and again. An' very ugly it sounds."

"I'm bound to stop and listen to him sometimes, when he begins to talk. But since he comed of a morning for his glass of milk and you stopped it—or I told him I'd rather he didn't—us have had no words about holy things. He's got a side all the same."

"I'm sorry to hear you say so. If you say so, you think so, no doubt."

Sarah Jane laughed.

"'Tis a free country—as far as thoughts be the matter."

"That's him again. I heard him say the only sort of freedom we could have was freedom of thought. But unbelievers shouldn't have that if I could help it."

She looked at him with love rather than respect.

"You'm deep but not wide in your way of thinking. I mind once last autumn coming to you and marking as you'd been trampling in the whortleberries. Your boots was all red and purple, and it looked for all the world as if you might have been stamping somebody to death."

"What things you say!"

"All the same now, be honest, Daniel—couldn't you do it? Can't you feel that things might happen so bad that you'd even kill a person? There's death in your eyes sometimes, when you talk of evildoers, and them that are cruel to children, and suchlike."

"'Tisn't a wifely thing to remind me I've got a temper. You've never had to regret it, anyway."

"How do you know that? But 'tis true: I never have. You're a deal too soft with me, bless your big heart. I can't do wrong in your eyes; and yet, sometimes, I wonder how you'd take it if I did do wrong—such wrong as there could be no doubt about. There's some things you'd kill me for, I do believe."

"You'm talking to a Christian man; but you don't seem to know it."

"A man be a man—Christian or heathen. Things do happen to men sometimes, and their religion don't make any more difference then to what they do than the hat on their heads. Quite right, too. I like to think there's a bit of metal in you. Sometimes I almost wish you'd make me feel it, when I startle you and say my silly speeches."

"How can I be angry with such speeches as yours? They'm silly enough only too often; but they'm frank as light. 'Tis the hidden and secret thing I'd rage against."

"If you found it out."

"I should find it out. There's no power of hiding in you, even if there was the will."

"You'm a dear man," she said, and lifted her mouth and kissed him.

"All the same," she added, "every woman's got a power of hiding—even the biggest fool amongst 'em—and—and the old gravestones of they lost people be quite as interesting to me as the crosses are to you."

"I don't say they are lost. I only say that we've no right to say anything about all them as went down to death before salvation came."

"Why couldn't Jesus Christ have hastened into the world quicker?" she asked. "'Twould have saved a deal of sad doubt about all them poor souls."

"You ought not to think such questions. I lay Woodrow said that."

"No, he didn't. 'Tis my very own thought. Suppose, Dan, that He'd been the earliest man born of a woman, and comed into the world Eve's first li'l one? How would that plan have worked?"

He stared at her.

"Who could have crucified Him?" he asked.

She sighed.

"I forgot that."

"It shows how ill-regulated your mind is, Sarah Jane. You oughtn't to let your ideas run so wild."

"'Tis no fault of yours that they do. And yet your fault it is, I do believe, Dan, for you keep me so terrible close to holy thoughts."

"The closer the better through the time that's coming. To think you could picture my boots stamping life out of a fellow-creature! 'Twasn't a kind fancy, to say no more of it. As much as to say I might be no better than a wild beast, given the temptation."

"All men are beasts when the wind blows from somewhere," she said. "Let a certain thing but happen, and they'll be as hot and stubborn and hard and fierce as the animals. Some would never forgive being robbed; some would never forgive being laughed at; some would never forgive being deceived by another person. Everybody's got one spot like that. Some will go mad for a woman; some for a thing. Why did Agg quarrel with Lethbridge and knock him off his feet into the stream last week? Such an easy, lazy man as Agg to do it!"

"Because Lethbridge said that Agg would get a girl at Mary Tavy into trouble before he'd done with her. 'Twas an insult, and Agg was quite right to knock him down. 'Twas no fault in him."

She did not answer. Then he spoke again.

"Don't think I don't know my faults. I know 'em well enough. The gospel light shows them up very clear. But jealousy ban't a fault, and I never will allow it is. 'Tis a virtue, and every self-respecting married Christian ought to be jealous. I'm jealous of the whole world that comes near you. I'm jealous of every male eye I catch upon your face—at church or anywhere. 'Tis my nature so to be. A man that marries hands over to his wife the best he's got, and 'tis just as precious to a day labourer as to a crowned king. He does well to be jealous of it. He'd be a mean-minded fashion of creature if he wasn't."

"I don't feel like that," she replied. "You've said yourself that nought can hurt a man from the outside; so how can a wife hurt a man?"

"Good Lord! what a lot you've got to learn, Sarah Jane! To talk of a wife as being outside! Ban't she the innermost of all—a man's own self—next to his God? 'Outside'! I wouldn't like for anybody else to hear you say a man's wife is outside him—and you a wife yourself."

"I'm rested," she said. "Us'll go on. I wish I was so deep-minded as you, but I never shall be. A regular Old Testament man you are."

"'Tisn't deep-mindedness," he answered; "'tis religious-mindedness. The puzzle to me is that you, who be so good as gold and honest as light, ain't more religious-minded. John Prout's the same. I know he's all wrong, yet I can't get up and point out where he's all wrong. 'Tis what he leaves undone that's wrong."

"It takes all sorts to make a world."

"But only one sort to make heaven," he answered very earnestly.

"Lucky we are not called upon to decide what sort."

He laughed rather grimly.

"You an' Prout would let all through, if you had to judge," he said.

They reached the peat-works presently, and found Mr. Friend awaiting them. Sarah Jane praised him for putting on his Sunday coat, but she expressed greater dissatisfaction than ever at seeing the place he called home. For Gregory had been true to his word, and left Dunnagoat cot after Sarah Jane's marriage.

Now he dwelt at the scene of his futile work, and only left it once or twice a week to gather his supplies. He had taken a chamber in the ruin, boarded the floor, built up a wall in the midst, removed his grate and oven from Dunnagoat, and established himself, much to his satisfaction, in the very midst of the skeleton of the peat-works. There he dwelt perfectly happy and content. No anchorite ever chose a spot more lonely and desolate for a home; but a repellent condition usually absent from the hermit's cell belonged to Mr. Friend's abode. Here were no surroundings of a natural grot, no ivy curtain at the door, no matin song of birds to rouse the recluse. Instead scowled rotting roofs, broken walls, rusting metal and a sullen spirit of failure. The very perspective of the tram-lines, stretching straight into the midst of the ruins, by some accidental stroke upon the mind through the eye, added another mournful character to this scene.

Mr. Friend greeted them cheerfully. Tea was made, and chairs were set about his little table. His daughter protested with all her might at the miserable conditions in which he now chose to dwell.

"Look at the damp on the walls! Ban't a place for a dog to live in, let alone a man. Dunnagoat was weather-proof, anyway."

"'Twill serve very well. There's a talk of something definite come the spring. So like as not we shall set to work again afore another year's gone; and I must be on the spot. I be going to see if I can get steam in the boiler this week. But I almost doubt it. Then there's an order for Plymouth will fetch best part of a five pound note."

"Us have brought 'e a bit of news," announced Dan; "but Sarah Jane's set on telling you herself."

"Guess, father," she said.

"That Dan's got advancement. 'Twas time he had too."

Brendon shook his head.

"I wish you was right," he answered. "But you're not. It don't look as if I was ever to be raised. However, farmer may see it presently."

"He does see it," declared Sarah Jane. "He's sharp as a needle behind his quiet, casual way. He knows what you're good for. Who is it he seeks if any thing's to be done? Who is it gets the difficult work, where brains be wanted to a thing? 'Twill come right, only us can't hurry it."

Brendon laughed.

"I shall get advancement the same time that you'll set your peat-works going again, and not sooner, father," he told Gregory.

"I hope so. They be both things delayed; but both be bound to happen sooner or later. You'm like Amicombe Hill—good all through, Dan. The time will come when other people will be sorry enough they didn't find it out sooner."

They discussed the various problems of Daniel Brendon and Amicombe Hill for some time. Both men were sanguine, and both wondered why other people so obstinately failed to see with their eyes. Daniel put his faith in God and declared that he felt no fear of the ultimate issue; but Mr. Friend inclined to trust man. It was idle to suppose that the results of his personal investigations on Amicombe Hill peat would be ignored for ever. He believed that some sagacious spirit must presently arise at headquarters, justify his patient belief, and delve for the treasure that he still so zealously guarded.

Presently Gregory turned to his daughter.

"And what's the secret only you are to tell me, my dear?" he asked.

"I be going to have a little baby," said Sarah Jane.

"A big one more like! And a boy I do hope. That's capital news, and I wish you both joy of him with all my heart. If 'tis a boy, call him 'Amicombe' for luck—eh?"

"No, no! He shall be called 'Gregory' after his grandfather," declared Daniel.

The news cheered Mr. Friend, and he became very solicitous for Sarah Jane.

"Don't you let her do too much work," he said. "She mustn't tramp up here no more. I'll come down of a Sunday instead."

But his daughter laughed.

"You old dear! I shall call you a grandmother instead of a grandfather."

"I can see him running about here taking his first lessons in peat, an' messing his little self up to the eyes in it," said Mr. Friend. "An' right welcome he'll be. There's many wonders up here as I'll show him."

"Might be a girl, however," said Daniel.

"I hope not and I think not," declared the peat-master. "'Twill be a brave boy, I'm pretty sure. Us may be doing a roaring business before he appears; but be that as 'twill, I'll always make time to play a game with him. When's he coming, Sarah?"

"In September, I reckon."

"A very good time. Well, well—what would your mother think!"

"She knows all about it, be very sure," said Daniel. "And now us must get going, for the dusk be down a'ready."

"I'll come to you next Sunday," promised Gregory, as he bade them "good-bye," after walking part of their road with them. "And there's four sacks more of my special fuel for you when you can draw them, Dan. You must keep her so warm as a toast through the spring weather, and 'if you want heat, burn Amicombe peat,' as I made up twenty years ago."

"'Tis a rhyme that will never be forgot," said his son-in-law; and Gregory, well pleased at the compliment, kissed Sarah Jane, then left them and returned to his den.

CHAPTER VI
AWAKENING OF WOODROW

Daniel Brendon had long since stopped the meetings of his master and his wife at dawn, when Sarah Jane milked the cows. He was naturally a jealous man, but in this matter emotion took an elevated form. No earthly consideration tainted it. His only concern was for Sarah Jane's soul. To let her come within the breath of infidelity, from Daniel's standpoint, seemed deliberate sin. His God was a jealous God, and, as he himself declared, he held jealousy, in certain aspects, a passion proper to healthy man. Therefore he had desired his wife not to speak with Hilary Woodrow more than she could help, for her soul's sake; and she had obeyed him, and avoided the master as far as she might without rudeness. Yet her heart felt sorrow for Woodrow. She perceived the wide want in his life and explained it more correctly than could her husband or any other man.

On the Sunday after their visit to the peat-works, Daniel took Sarah Jane to Mary Tavy instead of to Lydford. They went to chapel with Agg; and the service pleased Brendon well. He had debated as to the propriety of praying in a place of dissent, but Agg spoke highly of his minister, and induced the other to accompany him. The incident served powerfully to affect Brendon's future, for this service, largely devoid of the familiar formulæ of his own church, impressed him with its life and reality. The people were attentive, their pastor was earnest and of a warm and loving heart. A few got up and spoke as the sitting extended; and presently, to the amazement of Sarah Jane, her husband rose and uttered some words. He rehearsed a text from Isaiah, proclaimed it to be his favourite book in the Bible, declared that it covered all things and was tremendous alike in its threats and promises. For three minutes he stood up, and his great voice woke echoes in the little, naked, white-washed meeting-house. When he knelt down again there followed a gentle hum of satisfaction.

From that day forward Brendon threw in his lot with the Luke Gospellers and made Sarah Jane do the like.

Agg congratulated him very heartily as they returned home, and Daniel explained that to have acted thus was far from his thought when he started.

"Something pulled me on to my feet and made me speak. 'Twas a force, like a strong voice, whispering in my ear. I oped Isaiah at hazard—my Bible always falls open there—and them words fell under my eye, and I had to speak."

"You'd make a very valiant hand at it with a bit of practice," declared Agg, "and the deaf would come miles for to hear you. Your voice be like a big drum."

"There was a bird sat up on the rafters," said Sarah Jane. "The poor thing had flown in, an' couldn't find the window. It sat so still as a mouse through the sarvice, till Dan spoke. Then the rafter shook, I suppose, for it flew about, and drove against the window with its little wings."

"I'm mazed to look back and think that I've actually stood afore my fellow-men and spoke to 'em from God," said Daniel. "To do such a thing never entered into my mind."

"'Twas a terrible brave deed," declared Sarah Jane. "But I ban't surprised; there's nothing you can't do, if you think 'tis right to do it."

That night Agg took Brendon again to chapel; but the wife stayed at home.

It happened that Hilary was returning from a long ride after the hour of dusk, and as he came up through his fields he met Sarah Jane alone. She had walked to meet Daniel, who would presently be returning with Agg from the evening service at Mary Tavy.

The farmer stopped, and when she prepared to go on her way, bade her wait for a few moments.

"I'm in luck," he said. "I wanted to speak to you, Sarah Jane, and here's the chance. Where are you off to at this hour?"

"Going to meet Dan. Him and Agg have gone to worship with the Luke Gospellers down-along."

"You astonish me. Such a pillar of the church as Brendon to seek some new thing!"

"We went this morning, and Daniel was terrible pleased, and liked the homely feeling of it. They'm kind folk, and Mr. Matherson, the minister, speaks and prays beautiful."

Woodrow had often mentioned serious subjects to this woman without perceiving the futility of such a course. But he did so more for the pleasure of hearing his own ideas, than from any wish to influence her. There was none to heed his opinions, none with whom to exchange thoughts and arguments touching the topics that so largely interested him. At first, therefore, he had regarded Sarah Jane as a useful listener, and enjoyed talking to her for the sake of talking. Then her own attitude attracted him, and he spoke less and listened more. Her views arrested his mind a little. She was uneducated, yet nature had actually led her to some ideas that he had only reached through the channel of books. Once or twice, in her blunt speech and with her scanty vocabulary, she uttered a thing that wise men had only found by taking thought. Her natural mind drew Woodrow; then the lovely body of her interested him, and she began to fill his attention.

Women had almost passed out of his life after one of them jilted him; now this particular woman reminded him that they were not all alike. His eyes opened; it struck him that he was deliberately depriving himself of a great part of the joy of life by ignoring them. His thoughts began to play upon the subject, and his memory revived events of the past.

Whether it was Sarah Jane's sex, or Sarah Jane's self that had awakened him, remained to be seen. He told himself, despite his admiration for her spirit and her beauty, that it could not be the individual who had aroused dormant sense, but rather the accidental fact of having been thrown into contact with her. The world was full of women. He pondered the problem, and now, by light of moon, told Brendon's wife of a decision at which he had recently arrived.

"A great one for the Bible, my Dan," said she. "Miles of texts he've got by heart. A regular word-warrior he is."

"If he believes it, he's right to stick to it. Why, if I believed 'twas the Word of God—actually the very thoughts of the Almighty sent by Him—I'd never open any other book, Sarah Jane. I'd think that every second of my reading time spent with man's writings was a wasted moment. If I had faith—it would move mountains."

"That might be my Dan speaking. But you know pretty near so many verses as him, for all you don't believe in 'em."

"We free thinkers are much keener students of the Bible than thousands who profess to live by it."

"And yet you reckon there's no God and not another life after we die?"

"My old grandfather had a saying, 'When a man's dead, there's no more to be said.' That was his philosophy, and though my father called him a godless heathen, yet I always agreed with the old man, though I wouldn't have dared to say so. But mind this, Sarah Jane—this I will grant: if there's another world after death, then there's a God. You won't have one without the other. Nature can look after this world; but it will take a God to look after the next. Don't think I believe there's another. I'd scorn to believe anything that nature doesn't teach me. But, none the less, it may come true; and if it does, that means God."

"This life's mighty interesting," she said. "To me 'tis full to the brim; but Dan says the only drop in the cup that matters is the sure thought of the Kingdom of Heaven after."'

"Trust to this life. That's a certainty, at any rate. Look after this life, and the next will look after itself."

"Funny you should say that. Dan's way's just different. He says, 'Look after the next life, and this one will look after itself'!"

"Nonsense—I'm right. And you know I'm right."

Sarah Jane felt in a mind to tell him that she was with child. As yet only her husband and her father knew it. She was about to do so, when he spoke again.

"I shall not live to be an old man," he said. "I know, as well as I know anything, that the longest half of my days are done. I thought the best of them were done too. But you've made life very interesting again and well worth living."

"You shouldn't say things like that, I'm sure, though I'm very glad you like me, Mr. Woodrow. What's amiss with you?"

"Nothing—everything."

"Your cough's better, so Mr. Prout says. I wish you'd find a wife, sir. That might be the best physic for you."

He did not answer immediately. The moon came from behind a cloud, and Sarah Jane strained her eyes into the distance.

"Dan ought to be coming," she said.

"A wife?" he asked suddenly. "Perhaps if I could find another Sarah Jane——"

"My stars! what a thought! Poor company for 'e—the likes of me!"

"I've never seen such another, all the same."

She laughed.

"Well, why for don't you look round?"

He stood still and did not reply.

"My! how bright the moon be this evening," she said. "There they are—Daniel and Walter Agg. I see 'em long ways off.":

"Do you know that the moon was alive once?" he asked. "She was a mother; and now she's only a grave for all the things she bore. She's our picture, too—the skeleton at the world's feast of life. It will be just the same here, Sarah Jane—cold—dead—the earth and moon going round together—like two corpses dancing at a dying fire."

"What dreadful things you know!"

"Life's only conjuring with dust. I suppose we shall never find out how 'tis done. But there are clever chaps in the audience always jumping up and saying 'That's it! I see the trick!' Only they don't. Each new book I get hold of gives the lie to the last. There's nothing true that I can see. Like a boy chasing a butterfly: down comes his hat after a long run. But the butterfly's in the air."

"Proper place for it."

"Perhaps so. A butterfly pinned into a case is only half the truth of a butterfly. Words in a book can never be more than half the truth of ideas. But I'm sick of reading. I'm sick of everything—but you. Don't be frightened. You said just now I ought to go and look about. Well, I'm going. I'm going to London for a while, and then down to Kent to a cousin of mine—a hop-grower there."

"The change will do you a world of good."

"That's doubtful. I shan't be very contented out of sight of Dartmoor. Perhaps if I can't see Great Links for a while, I shall value it all the more when I come back."

"And do, for pity's sake, bring a wife with 'e."

Daniel Brendon and Agg approached, and Hilary spoke to them as they arrived.

"I'm telling Mrs. Brendon that I mean to take a holiday, Dan. Going to look at London again. 'Twill make me long to be back home pretty quick, if it does nothing else."

"You might buy one of them new mowing machines against the hay-harvest, if you be up there, master," suggested Agg; but Daniel did not speak. He had returned from chapel in a spirit very amiable, and to find Sarah Jane under the moonlight with Woodrow instantly changed his mood.

They parted immediately, and Brendon spoke to Sarah Jane as they entered their home.

"What be you doing, walking about with the man after dark?"

"I was afraid you might be vexed. We met quite by chance as I came to seek you, and he stopped, and would be talking. He said he ban't going to be a long-lived man, and I told him he wants a wife; and then he said if he could get another like me he might think of it."

"Be damned to him!" said Brendon violently. "I can't stand no more of this. I won't have this talking between you. 'Tisn't right or seemly, and you ought to know it, if you're a sane woman."

"He's never said one syllable to me you couldn't hear," she answered, believing herself, but forgetting a word or two. "All the same, I'll avoid him more, Daniel, when he comes back. He may fetch along a wife with him. But don't you be angered, dear heart. I'd rather up and away from Ruddyford at cocklight to-morrow for evermore, than you should frown. 'Tis silly to be jealous of the sun for throwing my shadow, or the wind for buffeting me."

"I am jealous. I'm a raging fire where you be concerned, and always shall be—for your soul first. I won't insult you to speak of any other thing. Any other thing's not speakable. You know I'm built so, and you don't strive to lessen it, but just the contrary. I wish you was more religious-minded and more alive to the sacredness of the married state."

"I'm myself, Dan—for good or bad."

The man was gloomy for some days after this scene, and Sarah Jane went her way with patience and unfailing good humour. She felt no anger with him on her side. She understood him a little; but jealousy was a condition of mind so profoundly foreign to her own nature, that her imagination quite failed to fathom its significance and its swift power of growth in congenial soil.

Hilary Woodrow kept his word, and presently left home for an indefinite period. He told himself that he was going away to escape temptation; in reality he went to seek it. His object was simple: to learn whether the arrival of Brendon's wife at Ruddyford had merely awakened his old interest in women generally, or whether it was she herself, and only she, who had roused him out of a long sexual apathy.

CHAPTER VII
IN COMMITTEE

Hilary Woodrow's departure from Ruddyford made no difference to the course of events. Routine work progressed according to the prescribed custom of Dartmoor husbandry. Oats were sown during the last week of March; potatoes followed; then the seed of mangold went to ground, and lastly, in June, with the swedes, this protracted planting of crops ended.

There came a night when John Prout found himself too weary to keep an appointment at Lydford. Therefore he asked Daniel to go instead.

"'Tis the business of the water-leat," he explained. "The water's coming in autumn some time, and now Churchward and the rest are going to set about things again in earnest. The committee sits at the schoolroom this evening."

Brendon, however, doubted.

"I can't just go and say I've come to take your place," he answered. "The rest might not want me on the committee."

"Oh yes, they will," declared Prout. "You'll do a lot better than me. You'm younger and have your ideas. 'Tis about the procession and so on. A lot was done last time; but 'tis such a while agone, that I dare say they'll have to begin all over again. Anyway, I couldn't ride to Lydford to-night for a fortune. I'm dog tired."

"'Twill fit very well," said Sarah Jane, who was clearing away the tea-things in Ruddyford kitchen. "I walk into Lydford myself this evening, to take the butter to Mrs. Weekes. Say you'll go, Daniel."

"I'm willing enough. The only point is if I can serve on a committee in place of another man."

"Certainly you can," said Mr. Prout. "They'll be very pleased to see you, I'm sure. Jarratt Weekes is a member, and he'll take you along with him."

"I'll go, then," assented Daniel, "and Weekes will post me up in the business, no doubt."

It happened that relations of a harmonious character existed at present between the family of Philip Weekes and Ruddyford. Hephzibah took large quantities of Sarah Jane's butter into Plymouth every Saturday; and sometimes Philip himself, or the girl Susan, came for this produce. Occasionally it was brought to Lydford by a messenger from the farm. The Brendons were now on terms of friendship with Jarratt's parents and of superficial friendship with the castle-keeper himself.

To-night Sarah Jane and Daniel heard the familiar voice raised as they entered the front gate, and, despite a loud summons, they stood some while under the dusk, with the scent of the garden primroses in their nostrils, before any attention was paid to them.

Then Susan appeared, and as she opened the door the full and withering blast of Hephzibah's rhetoric burst upon the air.

"Didn't hear 'e first time," said the girl. "Aunt's in one of her tantrums. A very awkward thing's happed just now. Awkward for Uncle Philip, I mean. He was in the street talking to Mr. Churchward; and unbeknownst to him, on our side the wall, not two yards off, Aunt Hepsy chanced for to be."

"Never mind all that," interrupted Sarah Jane. "Here's the butter, and my husband be come to see Jarratt. We don't want to hear none of your rows, Susie."

"You'll have to hear—you know what Aunt Hepsy be."

They went into the kitchen, and Mrs. Weekes, without saluting them, instantly turned the torrent of her speech in their direction.

Philip sat by the fire with his hands in his pockets and his wistful grey eyes roaming, rather like a wild animal caught in a trap; his son was eating at the table; Mrs. Weekes stood in the middle of the kitchen; her legs were planted somewhat apart, and her arms waved like semaphores to accentuate her speech.

"Your eyes be enough," she said. "You cast 'em to the ceiling, an' search the floor an' the fire with 'em; but you can't hide the guilt in 'em—you evil-speaking traitor! He'd have me dead—what d'you think of that, Sarah Jane? As a wife you can understand, perhaps. Every word I caught when I was in the garden—doing his work, of course, and picking the lettuces that he'd ought to have picked and washed and packed two hours afore. An' him t'other side of the wall telling to that wind-bag that teaches the children—though what he does teach 'em except to use long, silly words, I can't say. 'The sooner she's dead the better!' That was the thing my husband spoke—in a murdering voice he spoke it. And my knees curdled away under me—the Lord's my judge! I could almost hear him sharpening a knife to do it! 'The sooner she's dead the better.' That was what he said. Murder, I call it—black murder; and he'll hang in the next world for it, if he don't in this. Wished me dead! Knave—foul-minded rascal!—beastly coward to kill the wife of his bosom with a word! And now——"

The familiar gasp for which her husband waited came, and he spoke before she could resume.

"I'll only say this. I was speaking of Adam Churchward's old collie bitch—may I be stuck fast on to this settle for evermore if I wasn't; and when I said 'sooner she's dead the better,' 'twas in answer to schoolmaster's question. If I was struck dumb this instant moment, that's the truth."

"Truth—you grey and godless lump of horror! Truth—who be you to talk of truth? After this the very word 'truth' did ought to rust your tongue black and choke you! Not a word of that will I believe. 'Twas me you meant; an' when I heard it, I tell you the sky went round like a wheel. I catched hold of a clothes-post to stop myself from falling in a heap. And now if cherubims in a flaming, fiery chariot come down for me from heaven, I wouldn't go. Nothing would take me—I'd defy death for my indignation! I'll see you out yet, you wife-murderer, you vagabond, you cut-throat dog of a man—ess fay, I'll see you out if I've got to wait twenty thousand years to do it!'

"Here," said Jarratt Weekes to Daniel Brendon, "me and you will get from this. When she lets go, you might as well try to put in a word with a hurricane as with her."

"All the same, it was Churchward's old worn-out dog, as he'll testify to," said Philip. "The creature's suffering, and she'll be killed to-morrow morn; an' that's evidence for anybody who's got a level mind and no grudge against me. Be it sense or reason that I'd say a thing like that to a neighbour—even if I thought it?"

"How you can sit there with your owl's eyes a-glaring——" began Mrs. Weekes—then Daniel followed Jarratt.

"I'll come back along for you presently," he said to Sarah Jane. "You stop here till we're home from the committee."

A moment later he explained his purpose, and Weekes raised no objection.

"'Tis a silly business altogether," he said. "I so good as swore I'd not join 'em again myself; but if the thing's to be, 'tis well there should be a little sense among these foolish old men. You can take Prout's place and welcome. Churchward will try to talk Latin about it when he hears, and pull a long face, and say 'tis irregular or some rot. But if I tell him I wish it, he'll cave in. Last meeting was at his home; but we turned the room into a public-house bar before we'd done with it, and so his daughter won't let us assemble there again. Quite right too."

"A very fine woman she is—so Sarah Jane tells me."

"She is—and plenty of sense. In fact——"

Jarratt broke off and changed the subject; but Daniel, without tact, returned to it.

"I hope we'll all soon be wishing you joy in that matter."

Weekes made no answer at all. The thought was bitter to him that this common man, who had beaten him and won Sarah Jane, could thus easily approach him as an equal and congratulate him on his minor achievement. He hated anything to remind him of the past, and disliked to think that the fact of his rumoured engagement to Mary Churchward had reached the Brendons' ears. This girl was a promising wife enough; but she fell far short of Sarah Jane in beauty and strength and melody of voice.

"There's the schoolroom—the hour was seven-thirty, so we'm a thought late," said Jarratt Weekes.

They entered to find the rest of the committee assembled. Mr. Churchward, Mr. Spry, Mr. Huggins, Mr. Norseman, Mr. Pearn and Mr. Taverner—all were there.

Weekes explained that Daniel Brendon had come to represent John Prout, and suggested that the rest should fall in with this alteration. Some questions arose whether it could be permitted, and the schoolmaster instantly fulfilled Jarratt's prophecy by doubting if Daniel might stand for Prout—in propria persona.

Nathaniel Spry was referred to, but would express no definite opinion; then Weekes spoke again, inviting the committee to use its common sense, if it had any, and asked what earthly difference it could make to the upshot whether one farming man or another joined their deliberations.

"Me an' Mr. Prout think alike in some ways—not in all," explained Brendon. "As to such a matter as a revel, when the water's brought into Lydford, we might be of one mind. But I warn you, please, that in matters of religion we're different."

"That's all right, then," declared Noah Pearn, the publican, "for this hasn't nothing to do with religion—any more than my free lunch have."

"All the same I'll be party to nothing that can hurt religion, and well the committee knows it," declared Mr. Norseman.

"Don't you shout till you're hurt," said Weekes. "We're not heathen, I believe. I propose that Mr. Brendon takes Prout's place on the committee, and I ask you to second, schoolmaster."

None raised any further objection. Daniel took his place and Mr. Churchward turned to Nathaniel Spry.

"Read the minutes of the last meeting," he said.

The postmaster rose rather nervously and shuffled his papers.

"Keep it short as you can, Spry. We wasted a lot of time over that meeting—don't want to be here all night," remarked Jacob Taverner.

"I can't be 'urried, Jacob," answered the other. "I'm secretary, and I've done the work in a very secretarial way, and it's got to be read—all of it—hasn't it, Mr. Churchward?"

"Certainly it has," answered the schoolmaster. "In these cases the minutes of previous assemblies have to be kept carefully, including all memoranda and data. There is a right way and a wrong way, and——"

"Get on!" interrupted Weekes. "If Spry have to read out all that mess and row we had at the first meeting—sooner he's about it the better."

Nathaniel Spry rose and wiped his glasses.

"Go under the lamp, postmaster," said Brendon. "You'll see better."

"Thank you," answered the secretary. "Much obliged to you. I will do so."

"One thing," suddenly remarked Noah Pearn. "I want to ax whether among the characters in the show we might have Judge Jeffreys. I seed his name in an old book awhile ago, and 'tis clear he held his court to Lydford castle. Shall he walk with the procession?"

"We can go into that later. We must read the minutes first. Otherwise everything is ultra vires and illegal," declared Mr. Churchward.

"Well, Spry can set it at rest in a minute by saying who Judge Jeffreys was—that is if he knows," suggested Mr. Taverner.

"We all know that," declared Mr. Norseman. "He was a regular historical Lydford character."

"Would he do to walk, Spry, or wouldn't he? Answer in a word. If he's no good—we need say no more."

"Order!" cried Mr. Churchward. "I call everybody to order who interferes with Spry. We must have the minutes!"

"You ought to know about Judge Jeffreys yourself," said Weekes shortly. "You're a schoolmaster, and should have the whole history of the man at your finger-ends."

"And so I have," declared Mr. Churchward. "Of course I have. Who doubts it?"

"Then let's hear it. Ban't for the chairman to deny information to the committee," said Mr. Pearn.

Adam shrugged his shoulders.

"I bow to your opinions, though it's very unbusinesslike and improper."

Then he turned to Spry and spoke with resignation.

"Tell them about Judge Jeffreys, Nathaniel—since they insist upon knowing. If you make any mistake, I'll correct you."

Mr. Spry dropped his report hopelessly, took off his glasses and scratched his head over the right ear.

"He wasn't a very nice man, if my memory serves me, gentlemen. A thought 'asty and a thought 'arsh. There's poetry written about him. He did his work in the time of Charles I., or it might be Charles II."

"Or the Commonwealth," interrupted Mr. Churchward.

"Very true—very true, 'or the Commonwealth,' as you say, schoolmaster. He was rather what is called a hanging judge. Still, his red robes and flowing wig would be a great addition to the scene."

"Let the man walk!" cried Mr. Huggins. "A solemn judge would be so good as a sermon to all the young youths for miles around, and show 'em what wickedness might bring 'em to at any moment."

"You don't mean that, Mr. Huggins," explained Brendon, who knew the veteran. "You mean——"

"We all know what he means," declared Mr. Taverner. "Well, you propose Jeffreys and I'll second it, Noah."

"In due course—in due course. The judge shall pass committee in his proper turn," said Mr. Churchward. "Now, Spry, read as quickly as you can, but nothing's to be missed."

"How long is the report?" asked Henry Norseman.

"Twenty-four pages of foolscap and a half," answered the secretary. "I've written it all out twice, and it filled my spare time for three weeks doing it."

"Let's take the thing as read!" suggested Mr. Taverner.

But Nathaniel objected indignantly.

"Not at all!" he said. "I won't have that. I appeal to the chair—three weeks' work——"

"Don't want to have any words with you, postmaster; but all the same, without feeling, as a member of this committee, I propose we take the minutes as read," answered Taverner firmly.

"Who'll second that?" asked Weekes.

"I will," said Noah Pearn.

Mr. Churchward sighed, shook his head tragically, and put his hand over his brow.

"I do wish, Jacob Taverner, you would bend to the law of committees and listen to the chair," he begged. "Don't you understand me? I'm pretty good at making myself clear, I believe—it's my business to do so to the youthful mind—and I tell yuu it can't be done. Legally everything we enact before the minutes are read is nothing at all—a mere lapsus lingua, in fact."

"Besides," said Daniel, "I beg to say I ought to hear the minutes—else how can I know what was settled at the first meeting?"

"You're soon answered," replied Jarratt Weekes. "Nothing was settled at the first meeting."

"I beg your pardon, Jarratt," said Adam Churchward. "That is neither kind nor true. A great deal was settled—else how would it take Nathaniel Spry twenty-four and a half pages of foolscap to put it all down? And no man writes a better or neater hand. Therefore I ask you to call back that statement."

"There was a lot said—I admit. But surely you must allow there was mighty little done," retorted Weekes.

"The question is whether the minutes are to be taken as read. I've proposed that and Pearn's seconded it," repeated Mr. Taverner.

"And I rule it out of order, Taverner, so there's an end of that," answered Adam.

"The question is if you can rule it out of order," replied Jacob Taverner.

"Certainly he can. Bless the man, he's done it!" said Brendon.

"He says he's done it; but if it's not legal, he can't do it. Everybody's got a right to speak on a committee, and I never heard in all my born days that a chairman could rule a thing out of order, if 'twas properly proposed and seconded," answered the other.

Much irrelevant but heated argument followed, and none could satisfy Jacob that the chair was in the right.

Suddenly the landlord of the Castle Inn turned to Valentine Huggins.

"Let's abide by you, Val," he cried. "You'm the oldest among us. I warrant Taverner will abide by you. What do you say?"

"I say 'beer,'" piped the ancient man. "I be so dry as a dead bone along o' listening; what you talking members must be, I can't picture."

"I second," declared Weekes; "and 'tis idle for you to pretend that can't be passed, Churchward, because we're unanimous—except Norseman, who'll have his bottle of lemonade as per usual, no doubt."

Mr. Pearn had already put on his hat.

"I'll nip round myself an' tell 'em to send it in," he declared. Then he hurried off.

"I'm in your hands, of course," began the schoolmaster. "I merely remark that I don't pay again. If you had listened to the minutes, you'd have been reminded that the chairman stood liquor and tobacco last time. We must give and take—even in committee."

"I'll pay half," said Mr. Taverner.

"And I'll pay the rest," declared Nathaniel Spry,—"provided the committee will keep quiet and let me read the minutes while it's drinking."

"That's fair enough, certainly," said Brendon. "By the looks of it, this meeting won't have no time to do more than hear what fell out at the last. 'Tis near nine o'clock now, and us no forwarder."

When Mr. Pearn returned with a pot-boy and three quarts of ale, the secretary had started upon his report. Nobody paid much attention to him save Daniel Brendon; but as soon as the liquor was poured out—by which time Mr. Spry had come to St. George and the Dragon—an interruption took place.

"I ask for that passage to be given again," said Mr. Norseman. "I heard my name, but I didn't catch what went with it."

Nathaniel read as follows:—

"Mr. Valentine Huggins then proposed that the Dragon should go along with St. George, and it was suggested that Mr. William Churchward should enact the Dragon. Mr. Norseman then said that he would be party to no play-acting, because play-acting in his opinion was wickedness; and he added that if the committee persisted in this opinion, he would think it his duty to put the matter before the vicar. Mr. William Churchward was privately approached by the chairman subsequent to the meeting and refused to play Dragon——"

"If that's still your opinion, Norseman, you'd better go off the committee," said Mr. Taverner; "because to dress up to be somebody else is play-acting in a way, even though nought's said. You be in a minority of one, so you may just as well retire."

"I may be, or I may not be," answered Mr. Norseman. "I'm here to do my duty to the best of my power, and, in a word, I shan't retire."

"I don't hold with play-acting either," declared Daniel suddenly.

"Ban't sure that I do, on second thoughts," added Mr. Huggins. "Anyway, I want to say that if any other member would like to be Moses——"

"That's all settled and passed, and you can't withdraw, Valentine," replied Mr. Churchward. "Go on, Nat."

"What is play-acting and what isn't?" asked Mr. Pearn. "We'd better settle that once for all. I say 'tisn't play-acting if no speeches are made."

"If it has been carried that Mr. Huggins is to be dressed up as Moses, I'm afraid I must vote against it," said Daniel. "I'm very sorry to do anything contrary to the general wish, but I couldn't support that. In my view 'tis playing the fool with a holy character."

"Don't be so narrow-minded," said Mr. Taverner.

"You must be narrow-minded if you want to keep in the narrow way," declared Norseman. "The man's right, though I haven't seen him in church for three months."

"If we're going back on what we passed last time—'tis idle for you to read any more, postmaster," said Mr. Churchward. "I may remind the committee that Mr. Norseman himself had no objection to Moses before."

"More shame to me," answered the churchwarden frankly. "I was weak, as them in a minority too often find themselves; but now, with this man beside me, I'm strong, and I stand out against Moses tooth and nail."

"Let's drop Moses, souls!" said Mr. Huggins. "We can walk very well without him, and we don't want to offend church or chapel, I'm sure. 'Twould be a bad come-along-of-it if we had vicar and the quality against us. If I can give him up, I'm sure all you men ought to."

Jarratt Weekes had been turning over the pages of Mr. Spry's report while the rest talked. Now he suddenly rose to his feet and shouted loudly:

"Look here, Spry—what's this you've got here? Like your insolence—making me look a fool in the eyes of the committee! This stuff shan't be read—not officially. You've put words here that I spoke in heat. Not that they wasn't perfectly reasonable ones—all the same, they shouldn't be recorded. I'm not going to be written down, in cold blood, as using swear words. 'Tisn't fair to anybody's character. Here it is, neighbours, and I ask you if 'tis right—page twenty-one—"

He read as follows:—

"'The chairman then quoted the Latin language, which annoyed Mr. Jarratt Weekes, who thereupon asked him, why the hell he couldn't talk English."

"You oughtn't to have put that down, Nathaniel," said Mr. Churchward reproachfully. "It would far better have become you to leave that out. If I could forgive it—which I did do—surely——"

"There it is for anybody to see," continued Weekes; "and I propose we burn his silly minutes, for they'm nothing but a tissue of twaddle and impertinence and——"

"I rise to order!" cried Mr. Spry. "I'm not going to be insulted to my face and stand it. I claim the protection of the chair and the committee in general. What right had I to doctor the report? If people use foul language on a committee and lose their tempers and misbehave themselves at a public function, let 'em take the consequences!"

"You shut your mouth!" shouted Weekes, "or I'll make you. A pink-eyed rabbit of a man like you to stab me in the back with your pen and ink! I——"

"Order—order!" cried Pearn and Taverner simultaneously. Everybody began to talk at once, and Brendon turned to the chairman.

"Why the mischief don't you keep order?" he asked.

"Easy to say—easy to say," answered Adam wildly. "But what mortal man's going to do it?"

"'Twas you broke up the last meeting, Weekes, an' I don't think none the better of you for it," grumbled Mr. Huggins. "All the same us shan't get through no business now—an' the beer be all drunk and the time's past ten——"

"I propose we adjourn," said Mr. Norseman.

"And so do I," added Brendon. "Never knowed myself that a lot of growed-up men could make such a row and be so foolish."

"The meeting is suspended sine die, gentlemen," declared Adam Churchward, "and I may add that I'll not be chairman again. No—I will not. The strain is far too severe for a sensitive man."

"Just like you," answered Weekes. "The moment you get into a mess, you curl up, same as a frightened woodlouse. You're not the proper man for a chairman."

"And you're not the proper man for a committee," answered Adam, very pink and hot. "'Tis all your fault, and I say it out, notwithstanding the—the relations in which we stand. You've not the self-control for a committee. And you do swear a great deal too much—both in public and private life."

They wrangled on while Norseman and Brendon departed, and Spry only stayed to see his report scattered on the floor under everybody's feet. Then, with an expression of opinion unusually strong for him, he took his hat and went home. Mr. Pearn looked after the crockery, Mr. Taverner assisted Valentine Huggins into his coat and saw him on his way.

"Out of evil cometh good, Jacob," said the ancient. "Be it as 'twill, I've got Moses off my back. But this here have furnished a dreadful lesson to me not to push myself forward into the public eye. Never again will I seek to be uplifted in company. 'Twas only the sudden valour of beer made me offer myself, and I've never had a easy moment since."

Elsewhere Mr. Churchward and Jarratt quickly settled their difference. Indeed, as soon as Spry had departed, the chairman adopted an attitude very disloyal to the postmaster, and even called him an officious little whippersnapper. This appeased the injured Weekes, and when his future father-in-law went further and invited him home to see Mary and drink some whisky, Jarratt relented.

"Us'll drop this business once for all," he said. "It don't become your position to sit over a lot of silly fools that don't know their own mind. You've got something better to do with your time, I'm sure. When I'm married to Mary, you shall help me with figures and suchlike. Anyway, don't you call them ignorant men together again. I won't have it. Let the water come and be damned to it. 'Tis nothing to make a fuss about when all's said."

"You may be right," admitted Mr. Churchward. "In Christian charity the committee meant well, but they have not been educated. There's no logic—nothing to work upon. I'm disappointed, for I had spent a good deal of thought upon the subject. However, if it's got to fall through—there's an end of it."

And Brendon, as he tramped home with Sarah Jane, made her laugh long and loud while he told of the meeting. He was not much amused himself—only somewhat indignant at the waste of hours represented by that evening's work.

CHAPTER VIII
ADVENT

Gregory Daniel Brendon was born on the first day of October, and work nearly stood still at Ruddyford until the doctor had driven off and the great event belonged to past time. Nothing could have been more splendidly successful than his arrival, or himself. There was only one opinion concerning him, and when in due course the child came to be baptized, he enjoyed a wide and generous measure of admiration.

Hephzibah, who was nothing if not superlative, attended the christening, and, after that ceremony, proclaimed her opinion of the infant. Sarah Jane, whose habit of mind led her to admire Mrs. Weekes, had asked Philip's wife to be godmother, and such a very unusual compliment awakened a great fire of enthusiasm in the sharp-tongued woman's heart.

After a Sunday ceremony, according to the rite of the Luke Gospellers, all walked on foot back to Ruddyford, and Mrs. Weekes, with Sarah Jane upon one side of her and Susan, carrying the baby, on the other, improved the hour.

"Only yesterday, to market, Mrs. Swain said 'My dear Hephzibah'—so she always calls me—'why, you'm not yourself—you'm all a-dreaming! I ax for a brace of fowls,' she says, 'and, merciful goodness,' she says, 'you hand me a pat of butter!' 'Twas true. My mind ran so upon this here child, as we've marked wi' the Sign to-day. I tell you, Sarah Jane, that, cautious as I am in my use of words, I can't speak too well of him. He's a regular right down masterpiece of a child. Look at his little round barrel, if you don't believe me. An' a hand as will grasp hold that tight! An' a clever child, I warn 'e. Did 'e mark the eyes of un when he seed parson's gold watch-chain? He knowed! 'Twas his first sight of gold—yet up his fingers went to i' an' he pulled a very sour face when he had to let go. There's wisdom there—mark me. And hair like a good angel's. True 'tis only the first crop an' he'll moult it; but you can always take a line through the first what the lasting hair will be. Curly, I warrant, an' something darker than yours, but brighter than his father's."

"He've got his father's eyes to a miracle," said Sarah Jane.

"He'm listening to every word you be saying!" declared Susan.

"A precious, darling, li'l, plump, sweet, tibby lamb!" cried Mrs. Weekes in an ecstasy. "Hold off his blanket, Susie. Yes, if he ban't taking it all in. A wonder and a delight, you mark me, mother. You've done very clever indeed, and never have I seen such a perfect perfection of a baby, since my own son Jarratt was born. Just such another he was—a thought more stuggy in the limbs, perhaps, as was natural with such round parents; but noways different else. Would fasten on a bit of bright metal like a dog on a bone."

"My little one's got lovelier eyes, if I may say so—lovelier eyes than Jarratt's," said Sarah Jane.

"'Tis a matter of opinion. Some likes blue, some brown, some grey. Eyes be same as hosses: you can't have good ones a bad colour. Taking it all round, grey eyes see more than brown ones, and little eyes more than big ones. But long sight or short, us can all see our way to glory. This here infant's marked for goodness. Mind you let him use my spoon so soon as ever he can. 'Tis real silver, Sarah Jane, as the lion on the handle will tell 'e, if you understand such things."

"I knowed that well enough the moment I saw it, and so did Tabitha. 'Tis a very beautiful spoon indeed. He's had it in his mouth a'ready, for that matter."

"Trust him!—a wonder as he is! There ban't nothing he won't know the use for very soon. That child will be talking sense in twelve months! I know it! I'm never wrong in such matters. A lusty tyrant for 'e; an' a great drinker, I warrant!"

"A grand thirsty boy for sartain," admitted the mother. "An' my bosom's always brimming for his dear, li'l, red lips, thank God!"

Mrs. Weekes nodded appreciatively.

"You've got to think of his dairy for the present. Who be looking after Ruddyford's?"

"Why, I be," said Sarah Jane. "I was only away from work five weeks."

"When do Mr. Woodrow come back?"

"Afore Christmas, 'tis said; and that reminds me: Mr. Prout wants a tell with your son. There's something in the wind, though what it is I can't say."

"I'll carry the message. I see Prout chattering to Weekes behind us now; but 'twill be better he gives me any message that's got money to it. When Philip Weekes says he'll bear a thing in mind, 'tis a still-birth every time, for nothing's ever delivered alive from his addled brain. That poor man! But 'tis Sunday and a day of grace. However, I'll speak to Prout. Susan—what—here, give me over the child this instant moment. You hold un as if he was a doll, instead of an immortal Christian spirit, to be an angel come his turn. An' that's more'n ever you can hope to be, you tousled, good-for-nought!"

Joe Tapson and Walter Agg joined the women.

"These be the two men gossips," said Sarah Jane. "I wanted for Mr. Prout to be one, but Daniel mistrusted his opinions. Dan's very particular indeed about religion, you must know."

"Quite right too," said Mrs. Weekes. "And I hope as you men will keep that in mind and never say a crooked word or do a crooked thing afore this infant hero. He's a better built boy than either of you ever was, without a doubt, and you can see—by the make of his head-bones—that he'll be a master one day and raised up above common men—just like my own son be. But never you dare to lead him astray, or I'll know the reason why. I'm his god-mother, and I don't take on a job of this sort without being wide awake. An' if there's any faults show in him presently, I'll have a crow to pluck with you men very quick."

"What about his father, ma'am?" asked Agg.

"I'll say the same to him as I say to you," she replied. "I'll stand no nonsense from his father. The child's worth ten of his father a'ready. Lord! the noble weight of him! Here, take hold of him, Sarah Jane, for the love of heaven. He's pulling my arms out of the arm-holes!"

At the rear of the party walked together the father and grandfather of the baby.

Daniel had talked about his child until he felt somewhat weary of the subject. But nothing could tire Gregory Friend. Already he planned the infant's first visit to the peat-works, and every time that his son-in-law changed the subject, he returned to it.

Daniel laughed.

"Well, you'll have two things to talk about now," he said. "Afore 'twas only peat—now 'twill be peat an' the baby."

"Yes," answered Gregory, "you'm quite right there, Daniel. I'll larn him all I know, and I dare say, if he's spared, he'll find out more than I know. But my secrets that child shall have in course of time—if he proves worthy of 'em."

John Prout and Philip Weekes walked together and discussed another subject.

"He's coming home presently," said the head man of Ruddyford, "but the doctors reckon he'll be wise to stop off the high ground and winter in the valleys. His idea be to put up at Lydford for the winter, and he's divided between taking a couple of rooms at the Castle Inn, with Noah Pearn, or renting a house if he can get one. He'd rather have the house for peace and quietness. But 'tisn't often a house worth calling one be in the market to Lydford. Now I'm thinking of your son's place—what he bought back-along from widow Routleigh before she died."

"Might suit Jar very well, I should think," said the other. "'Tis true he's going to be married to the schoolmaster's daughter; but they'm not in any hurry. In fact, there's more business than pleasure to the match, I fancy, though I wouldn't dare to say so. Anyway, the cottage is empty now. 'Twould want doing up. 'Tis the very house for a tender man—sheltered from north and east and west, wi' a face that catches every glimmer of sun that shines."

"I'll name it to master in writing. I'm sadly troubled about it all. I suppose you don't know what your son would ax?"

"Can't tell you that. The more Mr. Woodrow wants it, the higher Jarratt will rise. That's business, of course. I'm not saying nothing in praise of such a way of doing things, but merely telling you what will happen."

"Of course master may prefer Bridgetstowe or Mary Tavy. Your son mustn't think there's no competition."

"I'll name it to him," said Mr. Weekes. "By rights I ought to get a little bit of a commission if it goes through; but nobody won't think of that."

They talked further, and Prout deplored the fact that Hilary Woodrow's condition had called for a visit to the doctor. It was thought he had been exceedingly well and happy among his friends and relatives in Kent. Then came the frosty news of indifferent health. Philip shared John's regret, and they still discussed the matter when Ruddyford was reached.

Tabitha had prepared a handsome tea which all attended, and Gregory Daniel sat on his grandfather's knee and watched the eating of the christening cake. A handsome silver mug quite threw Hephzibah's spoon into the shade. The gift commanded very general admiration, and Mrs. Weekes, when appealed to, declared that it could not have cost a penny less than five pounds. It came from Hilary Woodrow.

"I'm hoping he'll lift Dan up a bit after he comes back," Sarah Jane said privately to Mrs. Weekes, as the tea progressed. "My man's worked like a pair of hosses since master went away; and everybody knows it."

"Why for do he stop if he'm not satisfied with his wages?" asked Hephzibah. "Such a mighty man he is. Why, if there was an inch or two more of him, he might a'most have got his living in a doom-show, an' never done a stroke more work. I seed a giant at Plymouth fair two or three years back—a poor reed of a man, up seven foot high, wi' death written in the great, sorrowful white face of him. But Dan's so strong as he be large."

"He wouldn't fling up Ruddyford for anything. He gets very good money, you know, though not so good as he could wish. Then there's father up to the peat-works. I promised, and Dan promised, not to go very far off from him."

Mrs. Weekes shook her head at Gregory Friend, though he did not appreciate the fact, for he was talking to Philip.

"A wilful and a silly soul, though your father," she said. "'Tis wasting the years of his life to stop up there—no better than a pelican in the wilderness. He ought to be made to drop it."

"I wish you could make him," said Sarah Jane. "Already he's planning to teach the baby all about peat."

"'Peat'!" cried Hephzibah scornfully. "I hope no godchild of mine will sink to peat. Let me make a market-man of him, and take him afore the nation, and teach him the value of money, and the knack to get it, and the way to stick to it!"

"'Tis very good of you, I'm sure," declared the mother. "I hope he'll be much drawed to you, come he grows."

"He's drawed to me already," asserted Mrs. Weekes. "We understand each other mighty well."

Going home with her husband, Hephzibah heard the news concerning Hilary Woodrow and his proposed winter lodgment. She was much excited, and even Mr. Weekes won a word of praise. But he deserved it, and, in justice, his wife dispensed the same.

When first he told her, she stood still and rated him.

"You post—you stock of a man!—couldn't you see that the first thing was Woodrow's address? Now others will get to hear tell of this, and then Thorpe will be offering his dog-kennel of a house at Little Lydford, or them Barkells at Bridgetstowe will try to get him for that tumble-down hovel by the church. Why didn't Prout tell me instead of you? If you were a man instead of a mommet,[[1]] you'd turn back this minute and not rest till you'd got farmer's address for Jarratt. 'Tis taking bread out of your son's mouth if you don't—mark me."

[[1]] Mommet, Scarecrow.

"I'll run back an' get it, if you like," said Susan, who walked beside her aunt.

"As a matter of fact, the address is took down in my pocket-book," explained Mr. Weekes with calm triumph. "An' more than that: I've got John Prout's faithful promise not to tell nobody else the address till we've had two days' start. That may be the work of a post or a mommet, or it may not. For my part, I'm pleased with myself."

"Then why ever didn't you say so?" asked Mrs. Weekes. "'Twas a very proper, smart thing to do, Philip—and a very hopeful thing in you. I always say, and always shall say, that so far as Almighty God's concerned, He've done His part in you. You've got a handsome share of intellects—in fact, more than your share, if you wouldn't be so rash and reckless."

"So I say my self," answered the huckster; "and another thing: I ought to have a bit of commission from Jarratt, if this goes through. A lot of these little bits of business I do for him, off and on, but I never get a half-crown from the man."

"If it goes through, us ought to be thought upon, certainly," admitted his wife; "but what with his marriage next year, and that bad debt to Sourton, and one thing and another, Jar won't be flinging his money about over-free just now."

CHAPTER IX
A HUNGRY MAN

Hilary Woodrow returned home at Christmas. In the meantime he had heard from Jarratt Weekes and agreed to take his cottage at Lydford for an indefinite period.

The farmer conversed at length with John Prout, but told him little respecting his adventures in London, or in Kent. His health appeared to be entirely satisfactory, but Hilary explained that he had received certain medical warnings. His lungs were not strong. His physician did not object to a winter spent in Devonshire, but advised that the master of Ruddyford should seek a milder home than the Moor until spring returned.

"In soft weather I shall ride up every day," explained Woodrow; "but when the frost is heavy, or we're getting nothing but rain, I shall keep down below."

It was arranged that he should go into Jarratt's house immediately after Christmas, and, to her immense satisfaction, Susan secured the post of Hilary's servant. Her aunt managed this, and duly impressed upon the maiden that here was the opportunity of a lifetime. Let her but cook and order the simple household in a manner to suit Mr. Woodrow, and her fortune must unquestionably be made, so Mrs. Weekes assured her; but, on the other hand, if she failed to satisfy an unexacting bachelor, then her case was hopeless, and she must never expect to achieve the least success in service or in life. To Susan's face Hephzibah expressed the most fearful doubts; behind her back she assured the neighbours that her niece was well suited to the post.

"Have I been a-training of her four years for nought?" she asked. "A flighty wench, I grant you, and full of faults as any other young thing, but she can stand to work and take care of herself very well; and she've always got me to fall back upon for advice and teaching, seeing I'm but fifty yards away."

Of Hilary's inner life, while absent from his home, John Prout naturally heard nothing, and it was a woman, not a man, who shared the farmer's confidence. He had striven to seek escape of mind from Sarah Jane in the society of other women; and he had failed. He spent very little time in London, and found himself glad to quit it again. His old enjoyment thereof was dead. The place offended him, choked him, bored him. He had no desire towards any of its pleasures while there. Instead, he grew anxious about his health.

In Kent he found himself happier, yet the conditions of agriculture, rather than any personal relations with kindred, occupied his days. The hops gave him much interest. His cousins and their friends found him cold and indifferent. Sarah Jane's image haunted his loneliness, and her picture in his mind's eye was a lovelier and more tangible thing to him than the living shapes of the amiable young women he met. He had devoted a day to purchasing the silver cup for Sarah Jane's baby; and on return home he had pleased Daniel greatly by his attitude towards the infant.

"I would have offered to be a godparent," he explained to Brendon; "but you must take the will for the deed. With my views I could not have done so, and you would not have desired it. Nevertheless, I wish your child every good. 'Twill be a pleasant thing presently to have a little one about the place; and it should make us all younger again."

Brendon was gratified, and since his master henceforth adopted extreme care in his approach to Sarah Jane, relations proceeded in a manner very satisfactory to all.

But fierce fires burnt in both men out of sight. One's natural jealousy and suspicion kept him keenly alive to every shadow on the threshold of his home's honour; the other knew now with absolute knowledge that Brendon's wife was the first and greatest thought in his mind. Passionately he desired her. He believed that his own life was not destined to be lengthy, and his interests largely narrowed to this woman. Of late ethics wearied him. He was impressed with the futility of the eternal theme. For a season he sickened of philosophy and self-restraint. He found Sarah Jane lovelier, sweeter, more distracting every way than when he left her. At Ruddyford no opportunity offered to see her alone. Then, as he knew they must when taking the Lydford cottage, chances began to occur.

She often came with the butter for Mrs. Weekes, and Friday was a fever day for Woodrow, until he saw her pass his dwelling on the way to the village.

Once they spoke at some length together, for he was riding back to the farm for an hour or two. The time was dry and cold. A powder of snow scattered the ground, but the air braced, though the grey north spoke of heavier snow to come.

"You never asked me about all my adventures when I was away, Sarah Jane," he said. "I had such a number of things to tell you, but unkind fate seems to make it impossible for me to talk to the one person in the world I love to talk to."

"What silliness! I'm sure John Prout's a better listener than me."

"Prout's an old woman—you're a young one. That's the difference. He bothers over my health as if he was my mother. You don't let that trouble you, Sarah Jane?"

"Indeed but I do. 'Twas only a bit agone, at your gate, I was asking Susan if you took your milk regular, and ate your meat as you should. And when she said what a poor feeder you was, I blamed her cooking, and told her I'd bring a recipe or two from Tabitha, who knows the things you like. And I did."

"If you're hungry one way, you've no appetite another. Let me tell you about myself. We always want to talk of ourselves when we're miserable, and only care to hear about other people when we're happy. I went to seek peace and I found none. Nobody comforted me—nobody knew how to. Nobody knew Sarah Jane, and that was the only subject that could interest me."

"Doan't 'e begin that foolishness again. I had hoped so much as you might have found a proper maiden to love you and marry you."

"Who can love me? No, I don't ask that now. But—oh, Sarah Jane, I do ask you to see me sometimes—only very seldom—so that I may hear your voice and look into your eyes."

"Dan——"

"Is it my fault? Can you help loving your husband or your child? Can I help loving you? No—don't look wild and wretched, as if you thought you were going to be caught in a thunderstorm. I do love you, and only you; and my love for you is the only thing that kept me from going mad in London. You can buy sham love there, and sham diamonds, and sham everything. Shams are on sale to suit all purses. Once, when first I went there, I enjoyed them—not now. There's only one real love and one real woman in the world now. But don't be frightened, Sarah Jane. The knights of old loved just as I love you—a love as sweet and clean and honest, as reason is sweet and clean and honest. I only want to make you happier. The happier you are, the happier I shall be. You can't be angry with me for wanting to make you and yours happy. You might see me sometimes. It would be to lengthen my days if you would."

"Daniel——"

"I guess what you're going to say. He's not satisfied with things as they are. Well, leave that for the moment. He's safe enough. Safer and luckier than he knows."

"I wasn't thinking of that. I was thinking what he would say if he heard you."

"Don't tell him. Never make a man miserable for nothing. Another man couldn't understand me. But a woman can. You can, and you do. You're not angry with me. You couldn't be. You haven't the heart to be angry with me. Think what a poor wretch I am. I saw you once before you were married. I actually saw you up at Dunnagoat cottage. Saw you and went away and forgot it! 'Twas a sin to have seen you and forgotten you, Sarah Jane; but I'm terribly punished."

"What wild nonsense you tell whenever you meet me!"

"It was after that woman jilted me. I had no eyes then for anything or anybody. I was blind and you were hidden from me, though I looked into your face."

"Enough to make you hate all of us. She must have been a bad lot—also a proper fool."

They talked in a desultory manner and he spoke with great praise of her husband and promised fair things for the future. Then he returned to her and strove to be personal, and she kept him as much as possible to the general incidents of his visit to Kent. He told her of the cousins there, and described them, and explained how they were mere shadows compared with the reality of her. He spoke of the crops, of the orchards, strawberry-beds, osier-beds, and green hop-bines, whose fruit ripened to golden-green before the picking. But to return from the fertile garden to the stony wilderness was the work of a word; and before she could prevent it, Daniel's wife found herself again upon his lips.

Under White Hill he left her, and she went straight homeward, while he made a wide detour and rode into the farm near two hours later.

That day John Prout found his master vigorous and cheerful. He detailed the fact gladly, and they asked themselves why it was; but only Sarah Jane guessed, and she did not enlighten them.

She could not, and the necessity for a sort of secrecy hurt her. She thought very long and deeply upon the subject, but saw no answer to Woodrow's arguments. He had frankly told her that he loved her; and while her mind stood still at the shock, he had asked her how it was possible to blame him for so doing. He had gone away into the world that he might seek peace, and he had found none. Instead, she had filled his sleeping and waking thoughts, and the mere memory of her had proved strong enough to stand as a sure shield and barrier between him and all other women. His love was an essence as pure and sweet as the air of the Moor. He had solemnly sworn it; and she dwelt on that, for it comforted her. She retraced other passages of their conversation, and marked how again and again it returned to her. And not only her did he discuss, but her husband also, and her child, and the future welfare of them all.

She fought with herself and blamed herself for being uneasy and cast down. What made her fearful? Why did sex move her to suspicion before his frank protestations? He was a very honest and truth-loving man. He hated hypocrisy, and cant, and the letter that killed; he stood for the spirit that quickened; he longed to see the world wiser, happier and saner. Such a fellow-creature was not to be feared or mistrusted.

She told herself that she ought to love him, as he loved her; and presently she assured herself that she did do so. He was a gentleman, delicate of speech, earnest, and—his eyes were beautiful to her. She found herself dwelling upon his outward parts, his gaze, his features, his thin, brown hands.

Prosperity must spring out of Woodrow's regard for Daniel, otherwise the professed friendship was vain. She assured herself of this; then she endeavoured to lift the problem of her mind into the domain of religion. Her husband worked hard to make her religious; now she brought her difficulties on to that higher plane, and strove to find more light upon them.

Nothing hurt her here. Religion, as she understood it, spoke clearly and did not reprove her. She must love her neighbour as herself, and seek to let a little of her own full cup of happiness flow over to brighten the hearts of those less blessed. The sole difficulty was in her teacher, not in her guides. How would Daniel approve such a large policy? She asked him. But she did not ask him quite honestly. She knew it, and she was very unhappy afterwards. And then she told herself that the end had justified the means; and then she doubted. And so the first real sorrow of her life dawned, became for a season permanent, and shamed her in her own eyes.

"I met Mr. Woodrow to-day, Daniel," she said, "and walked a bit beside his horse as I came back from Lydford. I thought once he was going to begin about you, and hoped to hear the good news that he meant to lift you up at last; but he didn't actually say it. Only he asked me to see him sometimes when I brought in the butter of a Friday—just to bring news of Ruddyford."

"Well, you do, don't you? If there's any message, Prout always sends it by you—by you, or anybody that happens to be going in."

"Yes; only I generally see Susan, or leave the message with Hephzibah. But Mr. Woodrow said he'd like me to call myself if he was in. And my first thought was 'no'; then I saw he was so much in earnest, that I said 'yes.'"

"You'll do no such thing, and 'twas very bold for him to ask it, or you to grant."

"Of course I won't, if you don't like; but listen a minute, Daniel. He was kinder about you than ever I remember him to be. 'Don't you fear for your husband,' he said. 'I'm a quiet man, but I'm wide awake. I know him. I know him better than Prout knows him, though Prout's never tired of praising him. Leave your husband's future in my hands. I mean to make the man in my own good time.' That's actually what he said, Dan. And he knew very well that I should tell you."

Brendon thought awhile.

"That's very good news, and a great weight off my mind," he answered. "But why did he tell you? Let him tell me, if 'tis true. And that's neither here nor there, so far as your seeing him goes. Anyway, I forbid you to call at his house again."

CHAPTER X
KIT'S STEPS

The inevitable thing happened, and, after numerous evasions, Sarah Jane consented to meet Hilary Woodrow, that he might talk to her without restraint or fear of any eavesdropper.

Not until many months had passed did she agree to his petition; then, on a day when the year again turned to autumn, they met beside the river at a lonely place known as Kit's Steps.

The farmer had found Jarratt's cottage suit him extremely well, and, moved by more motives than he declared, continued to rent it. For a month only, during high summer, he returned to Ruddyford; but afterwards, though he rode over twice or thrice a week to his farm, Hilary dwelt in Lydford. Meantime Jarratt Weekes had married Mary Churchward, and since the master of Ruddyford offered him a very generous rent for the cottage, Mr. Churchward's son-in-law, as a man of business, felt not justified in refusing. For a further term of a year he let his house, and by arrangement, lived with the schoolmaster during that period. His wife little liked the plan, but was not consulted. Jarratt, however, promised her that in the following June, at latest, she should occupy her own dwelling; and with that undertaking Mary had to be content.

Now, on an afternoon of September, Sarah Jane came to Kit's Steps to pick blackberries and meet Hilary Woodrow.

Here Lyd drops through a steep dingle, over a broken wall of stone; and then, by pools and shallows and many a little flashing fall, descends with echoing thunder into the fern-clad gloom of the gorge beneath.

At Kit's Steps the river gushes out from a cleft in the rock, and her waters, springing clear of the barrier, sweep down in a fan-shaped torrent of foam, all crimped and glittering, like a woman's hair. But the waterfall is white as snow, and, like snow, seems to pile itself upon a deep pool beneath. Hence Lyd curls and dances away all streaked and beaded with light. Bound about, shaggy brakes of furze and thorn drop by steep declivities to stream-side, and the grey crags that tower above are decked with oak and rowan and ash. At the cleft whence the stream leaps out, a curtain of moss hangs down, and great wealth of ferns and lush green things prosper. Briars dance in the fall; and now they spring aloft, as the weight of the water leaves them, and now are caught by the sparkling torrent and bent again. The dark rocks, eternally washed by spray, shine like black glass; at autumn time the lesser gorses flame; cushions of heather creep to the edge of the low precipices and fledge each boulder; while loud upon the ear there sounds the roar of tumbling Lyd. It is a place cheerful in sunshine, solemn at evening or under the darkness of storm; but always singular and always beautiful. No spirit of fear or sorrow haunts it, despite the myth of one whose griefs were ended here on a day forgotten.

KIT'S STEPS.

Hilary was first at the Steps, and found a sheltered spot under an oak tree, where mossy stones made an easy couch. Here impatiently he awaited Sarah Jane; and at length she appeared with a basket half full of ripe blackberries.

At first she was uneasy; but he quickly made her forget the adventure of the moment, by interesting her mind with other matters.

"You ought to begin by praising me," he said, "for being so exceedingly good when I was at Ruddyford. I only spoke to you thrice all through that long month. At what a cost I avoided you, you'll never guess!"

"I was the happier that you did. I thought you was growing sensible—about things."

"Sarah Jane, there's no sense nor sanity for me away from you. I never knew, till I went away to London, what you were to me. I said to myself, 'She interested me in women again, because she's so lovely'; but it wasn't that at all. I soon found out you yourself interested me, and only you. The light dawned, and first I feared; then I feared no more. Now I glory in loving you. It is far and away the best thing that's ever happened to me."

"Was this what you wanted to say? It only makes me miserable—Hilary."

"Thank you for calling me that."

"You made me promise to."

"I didn't make you. We can't make our gods do what we want. We can only pray to them. What a curse it is that we weren't born under a different star, Sarah Jane. For me, I mean. If your fearless mind had only been taught otherwise—but that's vain to regret now."

"Always the same with you—trying to teach me things too hard for me, and mix up right and wrong."

"But I don't do anything of the sort. Right is a great deal to me. In this matter right and wrong are not the problem at all. I'm only mourning custom and convention—not the clash of right and wrong."

The sexual relation had never occupied this woman's mind apart from marriage. Now he made it do so, and very leisurely, very carefully, explained what he meant by "custom." His manner was light and bantering; none the less, he revealed to her his own deep interest in this discussion. He was a special pleader. He laughed at religious interference in this connection; told her that it was an outcome of yesterday; that foreign races shared wives and husbands; that where life was easy, many men had many wives; where life was hard, one woman might take several spouses.

"Marriage laws," he said, "have always been a matter of physical propriety and convenience. Temperature and latitude, the food supply, the possibilities of population, and the dearly bought wisdom of the community, have regulated it—not any false nonsense about right and wrong."

He told her nothing that was untrue; but everything he said was an indirect petition, and she knew it. She was not shocked at the facts he placed before her; indeed, they interested her; but she refused to let him influence her own opinion. She contrasted Hilary's information with the fierce and fiery ideas of her husband on the subject. Between the two her own mind, through forces of education, inclined to Daniel; yet she saw no great horror in a wider freedom.

"'Tis wonderful how opposite men's thoughts can be," she said. "You and my husband do look at life almost as differently as the people you be telling about. 'Tis all one to you, so long as folk do what's good to themselves, without hurting other folk; but to him—why, the very name of evil be evil's self! Yesternight he was talking to a tramp who took one of your turnips; and Daniel saw him. And he said that, according to Christ, to look over a hedge with hunger after a root was as bad as pulling and eating it."

"Doesn't it scorch you, living with such a narrow spirit?"

"'Twould scorch me to make him unhappy."

"That you must never do, Sarah Jane."

He began to talk again of the subject in his mind. But she begged him to desist.

"Leave it," she said. "What's the sense of telling me all these curious things about the way people go into marriage? Our way is so good as any, surely?"

"I only want to enlarge your ideas, and prove my argument: that there's no right and wrong in the matter, only the question of fitness and custom. You're too large-minded to care a button for peddling quibbles. But leave it, if you like. What you want to do, before all else, is to make your husband happy; and so do I. Then we'll talk of that, for there we quite agree."

"Thank you," she said. "'Tis more to me than anything."

"And you'll feel a little kind to me for coming to it?"

"Yes, I will. I always feel kind to you, because I'm sorry for you."

"Then 'tis my turn to thank you; and from my heart I do. You know why I'm going to talk of Daniel?"

"For honesty, and because he deserves it."

"Yes—and for love, and because you wish it."

"That spoils all, Mr. Woodrow."

"Call me Hilary, or I'll not go on. There's one more thing you must remember—in fairness to me. All good comes from God—doesn't it? Grant Daniel is right about a God, and you'll grant all good comes from Him."

"Why can't you say that good things come out of us ourselves? So you have said before to-day."

"And so I say again. But we must think with your husband's mind over this. If I lift him up a bit—what then?"

"He'll thank God for certain."

"Exactly. He'll be the better for advancement—body and soul. He's got a bit peevish of late. Success will sweeten him and make him a gentler man."

"He feels he's not made enough of at Ruddyford."

"Well, I promote him. I answer his prayers."

"And perhaps his God will pay you well. For Dan's very likely right."

"That's the point—I'm coming to that. I expect no payment—not from God; because I happen to know that God is an idea and not a fact. Therefore——"

"What?"

He was silent awhile. Her face changed, and he saw that she had caught his meaning. He gave her no time to dwell upon it then, but plunged into another subject suddenly.

"Nothing can happen that is not for good—if your husband is right. Always remember that, Sarah Jane. God rules everything and rules everything wisely and perfectly. Therefore, whatever you do, you are working out His pattern—whether you are making the world happier or more miserable. Now I'll ask you one question about something altogether different. Last Sunday I read the story of David and Uriah and Uriah's wife. You know it?"

"Yes, of course."

"Have you ever thought about it?"

"Only to be terrible sorry for the woman. 'Tis awful to think what she must have suffered if she loved her husband."

"I'm always sorry for Uriah. 'Twas a cruel way out of the difficulty. If I had been David I should have lifted that noble soldier's head high in the world, and studied his ambitions, and striven to make his life happier."

"David knowed the man better maybe. He reckoned 'twould be safer to put him out of the way—perhaps even kinder, too—if he was such another as my man."

"Don't think it. David had merely to keep Uriah ignorant. Many things, not the least evil in themselves, only become so by the revelation of them. Prevent those who will think them wrong from hearing of them, and no harm is done. I love another man's wife. Well and good. Is that a crime? Can I help it by an effort of will? Suppose that other man's wife is sorry for me, and fond of me too? Suppose that she finds me interesting, and useful to enlarge her mind, and helpful to throw light on the difficulties of life owing to my long years of study? Is that wrong of her? Can she help it? Can you help it, Sarah Jane?"

"I'll never come to you no more, then. I can help that, anyway."

"No, you can't help even that. You must come to me if you love—Daniel. I'm his destiny. I'm the maker of his future. His light shall shine, and he shall be a happy man, and do good and great work in the world long after I'm dead and gone. I'm only the poor means, yet vital. A stone counts for less than the tool it sharpens; but the steel couldn't do its work without the stone. You—you are your husband's light, and his life, and his salvation. You shall give him his heart's desire if——"

He broke off, was silent a moment, then asked a question.

"What would Bathsheba have said if David had put it so?"

"Depends on the sort she was. Might was right for her, poor woman. She had no choice."

"She'd have spoken according to the reality of her love for Uriah," he said positively. "She'd have said, 'I am in the hands of my God, and if good things may come to my husband through me, 'tis my joy and glory as a loving wife to take them to him.' Can God do wrong?"

He stopped and looked at her.

Her bosom panted and she grew weeping-ripe.

"Never—never, wrong or right. 'Tis cruel to put it so. He'd rather cut my throat with his own hand. He'd——"

"But think—so much for so little. I want so little, and yet not little, for I ask what's worth more than all the money I've got in the world. Kiss me—once, Sarah Jane—only once—and I'll do more for your husband than his highest dreams or hopes. For love of him kiss me—not for love of me. Would I ask you to do an evil thing? Is it evil to put new life into a very sorrowful man and purify every drop of blood in an unhappy heart? Is it evil to make the sick whole again at a touch? Didn't Daniel's Lord and Master do as much a thousand times——?"

She stared and turned pale, save for her lips. Twin tears glittered in her eyes. He put his arm round her swiftly and kissed her. For the briefest moment he held her, then he leapt to his feet and drew a great breath.

"If I did that often, I, too, should believe in God!" he said.

A moment later he had hurried away, and she sat solitary and tearful there for nearly an hour.

Through intervals of wild uncertainty the things that he had spoken returned to her memory, and she clutched at them, like the drowning at straws. To her husband and his opinions she also turned. The outlook of neither man was admirable to her now. She sickened at both surveys, and wished herself a maiden again.

Then, with great yearning, she yearned after Daniel, and rose and hurried off to her home. Before she reached it her husband actually met her. Upon White Hill he came, with his face to Lydford, and when she stood by his side he stopped and helped himself from her basket.

"Brave berries, sure enough," he said. "I wish I could carry 'em back for 'e; but Tommy Bates runned over five minutes agone with a message from farmer. He wants to see me at once, and I mustn't waste a moment. Can't say what's in the wind, I'm sure."

He went his way, and Sarah Jane returned to Ruddyford. As she arrived, a little boy came out. Tommy Bates had just enjoyed a good tea, and the jam that had smeared his bread left many traces about his mouth.

"Mr. Woodrow catched sight of me in the street by the post-office, an' ordered me to come out-along and tell Mr. Brendon as he wanted him this very minute," explained the child.

CHAPTER XI
TROUBLE AT AMICOMBE HILL

Tabitha Prout, despite her general contempt of the married state and those duties that belonged to it, awoke into a very active love for Mrs. Brendon's baby; and Gregory Daniel, doubtless appreciating the importance of having Tabitha upon his side, did all that he could to increase this regard. So it came about that when the little boy's mother was called away, as sometimes happened for a few hours at a time, the child found a friend in the old maid. She enjoyed to have the baby beside her at Ruddyford kitchen, and Daniel foretold that, as soon as the infant could steer a steady course from his mother's cottage to the farm, Tabitha would quickly find him a nuisance.

Brendon returned from his master in a very happy and exalted frame of mind. To Sarah Jane only he imparted his news; and it was not until nightfall that he did so. Then he chose the curious form of a prayer for his intelligence, and while they knelt together and he prayed aloud, as his custom occasionally was, she heard for the first time, in her husband's thanksgiving to Heaven, how Hilary Woodrow had kept his promise.

"O Almighty Father, I thank Thee for touching this man's heart to lift me up and advance my earthly welfare. And I pray Thee to be on my side always, that I may do wisely with Thy good gifts and turn more and more to Thee and trust Thee. And let me do worthy work and never bate my mind from thinking how to help Ruddyford and advance the prosperity of Mr. Woodrow. I thank Thee humbly, O God, for all Thy mercies, through Jesus Christ. Amen."

Before she slept he told his wife that Hilary had added ten shillings a week to his money.

"I must go on as I'm going, so he said," explained Daniel; "but his eyes are opened at last. I gathered from him that he quite understood what I am here. I must give him time, and all will come right. It's a lot of money, and better things in store, I do think. 'Tis the beginning of great blessings, Sarah Jane."

She expressed her delight; but when another morning came and the man awakened, like a joyful giant, to run his course, it was not only happiness, but the cloudy pain of a memory unhappy that dawned in his wife's spirit. Two different emotions pressed down upon her heart: remorse at the thing never to be recalled, and wonder at the price. The remorse waned and the wonder grew.

She mourned and rejoiced and went on with her life, into which henceforth Hilary Woodrow intruded.

Then her abstracted soul was rudely shaken out of itself, for one day there came running from the Moor a boy with an evil message. He had been picking whortleberries near the peat-works, when a man hailed him, and, approaching the ruin, he encountered Mr. Friend.

"He's cruel bad, seemingly. In a great heat—so he tells me. I was to let Mrs. Brendon know as he was ill. He'm short of victuals, and drink, too, and I was to say as if you could bring up a drop of spirits in a bottle, no doubt 'twould soon put him right. And I was to have sixpence, please, for coming. He hadn't got any small money by him for the moment; but he said he'll pay you back presently."

In ten minutes Sarah Jane was hastening over the Moor, and soon afterwards Daniel, carrying a basket, set out after her. He had visited the farm and collected such things as Tabitha advised. The man made light of his load, however, and soon overtook Sarah Jane.

"Don't you fret," he said. "You know what he is. The wonder is he haven't been struck down a score of times ere this. So careless of hisself as a child. 'Tis a bit of a tissick on the lungs, I reckon. Us'll soon have him to rights again."

"If he'm bad, I shall bide along with him, Dan. I can't leave him here—not for anything in the world."

"Of course not. I shouldn't ax it. Very like I'll bide too. If we think he's bad enough for a doctor, I'll go off for one myself."

She thanked him gratefully, and they spoke on indifferent subjects to calm their hearts. Sarah Jane hesitated not to praise Hilary Woodrow for his recent action. Indeed, she felt they owed him a very real debt of gratitude, and said so many times.

"You're almost too affectionate and kind to everybody," her husband declared. "Pushed so far as you push it, 'tis weakness."

"How can that be, Daniel? Even you hold it right to love your neighbour as yourself."

"You can strain that into foolishness," he answered. "And you are prone to do it. 'Tis a sort of gush in you. You mean nought—yet there 'tis. See how you look at a tramp that comes begging, and how Tabitha Prout looks at him. She tells the truth in her eyes, and shows her contempt of the rascal; you look as if you doted on his lazy carcase, and would gladly pour out the fat of the larder for him."

"I know 'tis so. I be fond of my kind—just because they be my kind, I think. I like 'em all—men, women, childern."

"So you should do—in a general spirit of religion, because they are made in God's image."

"No!" she said vehemently. "Not that—not that. Because they are made in mine!"

He showed discontent.

"You won't come to see the truth, talk as I may."

"Look at the night when you heard our good news," she answered. "That shows the difference betwixt us. You was thanking God so deep and true, that you hadn't a thought for Mr. Woodrow. You was so wrapped up in heaven that you never seemed to think 'twas a man on earth—a creature like yourself—that had lifted you up. All the credit went to God Almighty—all. Not a drop to farmer. Can't us poor human souls have a bit of praise when our hearts are generous and we do good things?"

So she argued in all honesty and out of a passionate abstract love for her kind. At that moment she forgot the circumstances and the nature of the bargain. She only begged that her husband should bestow a little of his gratitude on his earthly master.

"As for that, a good human being be only the middle-man between God and us," he said. "The Book says all good comes from Him, and only from Him. Same as evil comes from the Prince of Evil into man's heart."

"Then what be we but a pack of dancing dolls with them two—God an' the Dowl—fighting for the strings? Is that all you'd make of us? Is that all you'd make of me? You'll live to know different, Daniel."

"You fly away so," he said. "Of course there's Free Will, an' a very great subject 'tis; an' Mr. Matherson be going to preach upon it next Sunday, I'm glad to say. So I hope we'll both win a bit of light when he does."

Sarah Jane said no more. Strange thoughts, not wholly unhappy, worked in her heart, and she felt frank joy to think that, though Daniel Brendon had not paid Hilary for his kindness, somebody had done so.

So the husband and wife each failed to grasp the reality of the other. While she thus reflected, he was busying himself with how to earn this handsome increase of salary. A dozen plans began to develop in his mind. Only the inertia of old routine and custom still opposed his various enterprises. But now had dawned a promise of power, and he was full of hope.

They reached the mournful habitation of Gregory Friend to find him very ill. He sat by his fire with a couple of sacks over his shoulders, and complained of great pain in the lower chest and back, with difficulty of breathing.

"It came on two days ago, and I thought I'd throw it off, as I have many an ache before," he said. "But it gained on me. Then this morning, with light, I began to wonder what I'd better do, for I felt some deep mischief had got hold upon me. I put on my clothes and thought to try and get down to Ruddyford, as the shortest road to people. But by good chance there came a boy picking hurts, and no doubt he reached you."

They spoke together for five minutes. Then Daniel started for Bridgetstowe to get a doctor, and Sarah Jane attended to her father. She got him out of his clothes and into bed; she built a big wood fire that set the moisture glimmering on the walls of Gregory's hovel; she heated water and made him drink a stiff glass of hot spirits; and she set about a dish of broth, the ingredients of which Daniel had brought in the basket. Mr. Friend revived presently, but his pain was considerable and he found it difficult to breathe.

"Give me some more brandy," he said. "It lifts up the strength. I did ought to have a plaster put upon my back without a doubt, for I mind a man up here being took just like this. And they put a fiery plaster on him and drawed the evil out."

"There's nought but bread to make it of," said Sarah Jane. "Or else peat."

His eyes brightened.

"That's a good thought—a capital idea! Fetch a bit of the soft and make it red-hot in a saucepan, and 'twill be a very useful thing—better than mustard, very like."

She did her best, and presently Mr. Friend, with a mass of hot peat pressed against his side in a piece of Sarah Jane's flannel petticoat, declared himself much easier.

"'Tis life every way," he said. "This be a great discovery, and very like, if doctors come to know about it, 'twill go further than all they bird-witted engineers to set Amicombe Hill up again."

He stuck to it that the peat was doing him immense good. He drank a little broth when Sarah Jane brought it to him. Then he wandered in his speech, and then for a time he kept silence.

"Better for certain—better for certain now," he said at intervals.

Presently he asked after his grandchild.

"Must have him up here a lot next summer when the weather's good," he said.

He seemed easier presently, and his daughter had leisure to think of herself. She loved him dearly, and, since marriage, the gentleness and simplicity of his character had more impressed her than formerly. Before, she had no experience by which to measure his virtues. Now, with a larger knowledge of men and life, she could appreciate the single-hearted Gregory, sympathize with him and perceive the pathos of his life and futile hope.

She talked to him now very openly of her own secret tribulations and the difficulties of late forced upon her by her husband's master.

"He's lifted Daniel up, father; and Daniel have thanked God ever since; but—but 'tis me he ought to thank."

Then she proceeded, told her father of the scene at Kit's Steps, and asked him to help her.

"Do nothing to anger Daniel," he said. "You're playing with death and worse. This can't come to good, and I only hope to God you haven't gone too far already. That man Brendon as—as—build me up another hot poultice, will 'e, while I talk?—Brendon is a lion of the Lord; and he'd be a lion on his own account if anything happened to cross him in his den. Have 'e ever marked his eyes, Sarah Jane? But of course you have. They glow sometimes in the dimpsy light, like a dog's do glow. When you see that in a human's eyes, it means that, down under, there's a large share of burning fire in 'em. If Dan thought that he'd been wronged, not heaven or earth would stand between him and payment."

He began to cough and held his hands to his head.

"'Tis like red-hot wires going through the brain," he said. "But 'twill be better presently. I'm in a proper heat now. I've been praying to God to fetch out the sweat on me. Now the peat have done it."

"Don't talk no more, dear father. Bide quiet a bit an' try an' see if you can't sleep."

"So I will, then; but there's two things I must say first. One is that you must go away from Ruddyford. Mark me, 'tis life or death if the wind's in that quarter and Woodrow's after you. He's a desperate sort of man because he've got nobody to think of but himself—no family to consider—no wife or child—nothing. You must go—go—far ways off, where he can't come at you."

He stopped, and shut his eyes. Then, when Sarah Jane hoped that he slept, her father spoke again.

"The other thing is my knife—the famous one wi' the ivory handle and long, narrer blade, that I use when I do my chemical work. It have a history. My uncle fetched it from a foreign land, and it be made of a steel called Damascus—the best in the world; and there's gold letters let into it in a foreign tongue. 'Tis in the works, along with a few other things, Sarah Jane. My watch be there—not that 'tis any use, for it haven't gone for a year. Still, if the worst comes, I'd like little Greg to have 'em from me—also the shares in the Company. He'll live to see them a useful bit of money. And the rest must go to you and Dan."

"Don't—don't be talking. You've got to get well again quick," she said. Then she took away his plaster and brought another hot from the saucepan.

"A great invention," he said. "A great invention. If I'm spared, the thing shall be known far and wide afore long."

He dozed between fits of coughing, and moved uneasily in a semi-dream. Then came the sound of a galloping horse, and Sarah hastened to the door.

"Can't be doctor yet, unless by happy fortune Dan ran across him," she said.

But it was not the doctor. The bearded and grave countenance of Mr. Henry Norseman met Sarah Jane's eyes.

"Just met Brendon," he explained, "and hearing that Mr. Friend was in peril, I come up so hard as my hoss would go, to see if I could comfort him. I've been light at more death-beds than one in my time, including my own father's, and often a word helps the wanderer in the Valley."

"He'm not in the Valley, or anywheres near it," answered the woman stoutly. "But come in by all means. If you could bide with him a little, I'll look about, and set his living chamber in order, and try to make an egg pudding for him."

Mr. Norseman, who knew Gregory and his daughter but slightly, now dismounted, tethered his horse, and presently sat by the sufferer; while Sarah Jane, glad of the opportunity, worked hard to make the dismal hole that was her father's home a little clean and a little comfortable.

"Very kind of you to call, I'm sure," said Mr. Friend, when his daughter had gone. "Don't tell her yet, for I may be wrong; but I'm very much afraid 'tis all up with me. 'Tis awful deep in me. I got properly wetted two days ago, and went to sleep afore the fire."

"Where there's life there's hope," said Mr. Norseman. "But you're wise to face it. I wish you'd been more of a church-worshipper, Friend."

"Well, well. I've worked hard and tried to do my duty."

"But more goes to life than that. What are man's days without faith? Here you've lived for years, more like a wild savage of the woods than a devout Christian. I wish you'd planned your life wiser, Friend, I do indeed."

"So do I. So do all. So will yourself, when you'm down."

"As to that, I think I can look forward in hope. But you—you see, you put this life first always. Your thoughts ran upon making a fortune out of fuel in this world. You never thought about making a fortune in the next, I'm afraid."

Gregory laughed painfully.

"Plenty of free fuel where you think I'm going," he said.

Mr. Norseman was hurt.

"You ought not to jest about a sacred subject—never—and least of all at a time like this," he answered. "You're wise to face it—as we all should—but not in a ribald spirit. Don't die with a jest on your lips, Gregory Friend."

The other moved and groaned, but with present misery not in future fear.

"For your comfort I can tell you that hell's not what it was," said Henry Norseman kindly. "The more understanding way with respect to it, so parson says, is to believe that it won't last for ever. 'Tis a noble discovery, if true. No man was better pleased to hear the sermon he preached about it than I was. I can say that honestly. If hell's only a matter of centuries and not eternity—think what an uplifting thought for a death-bed! I don't say you're on your death-bed, Friend, and I hope you're not. But some day you will be for certain. And 'tis a great thought that the Lord may be found so forgiving that He'll abolish the place of torment once and for all—so soon as justice have been done. Justice first, of course. Even you, as can't be called a church member, or even chapel—very likely a thousand years will see you through it—or less."

"God is Love, my mother used to tell," said the sufferer.

"And for that reason we have a right to be hopeful," declared the churchwarden. "And I'm for limiting hellfire heart and soul; though, I warn you, everybody ban't of the same opinion. 'Tis justice against love weighed in the balance of the Almighty Mind; and ban't for us worms to say which will come out top."

Sarah Jane returned a little later, and found her father somewhat agitated.

"This man reckons I shan't have more than a thousand years in hell, if I'm lucky, Sarah," he said. "'Twas kind of him to come and lift my thoughts. And I said that I'd like to be buried up here 'pon Amicombe Hill, in the peat; but he reckons 'twould be against high religion."

"A most profane wish without a doubt," answered Mr. Norseman; "and as a Christian man, let alone other reasons, I shall object to it."

Gregory's daughter looked at him, then she turned to her father. "Try and eat a little bit of this, dear heart," she said. "'Twill strengthen you, I'm sure."

A moment later she drew herself up, regarded Mr. Norseman, and pointed to the entrance with a simple gesture.

"And you—you that could talk of hell to this poor stricken man, whose good life don't harbour one dark hour—you, that can bring your poor church stuff to my father—I'll ax you to leave him if you please. When he dies—and may it be far off from him—he'll go where the large, gentle hearts go—to the God that made him and that watches over the least. He's done man's work and been faithful. He's been loving and kind to all. Not here, nor in heaven, can any harsh word be spoke against my dear, dear father."

Mr. Norseman pulled his black beard and began to get annoyed.

"This isn't at all the way that Brendon would speak," he said—from the door.

"No," she answered. "He's a man, and strong in the arm. He wouldn't speak: he'd do. He'd take you by the neck and fling you back into Lydford—and your horse after you."

"You'll be sorry for this disgraceful behaviour," said the churchwarden. "'Tisn't a nice way to treat a religious person who rides four miles out of his way to comfort the sick."

"Rides four mile out of his way to bring hell-fire to a better man than himself," she retorted hotly; then Mr. Norseman turned his back and went to his horse.

Gregory chid Sarah Jane, but she would not let him talk, renewed his poultices and strove to make him eat and drink. He could, however, do neither, and he was wandering in his speech and partly unconscious before another hour had passed.

Time stretched interminably, and not until the evening of the day did a medical man arrive on horseback.

He had guessed from Daniel's description of the case what was amiss, and had directed Brendon to bring certain things to the peat-works as quickly as possible.

Sarah Jane watched while the physician made his examination. Then he took her into the other room, and told her that her father was dying.

CHAPTER XII
THE HERMIT PASSES

Jarratt Weekes came into his father's home with an item of news.

"That old madman at the peat-works—Gregory Friend—is about done for," he announced. "I met Brendon yesterday, running about for a doctor. I couldn't feel too sorry myself, and angered him. 'Wouldn't you do as much for your father-in-law?' he asked me; and I thought of Adam Churchward, and said I wouldn't."

"A man didn't ought to marry his wife's family," admitted Mrs. Weekes. "But you'm too hard without a doubt. Well, if Friend be going, there's an end of the peat-works for evermore. 'Twill be the last breath of life out of the place."

"All the same," said her son, "there's no call for that long-limbed man to reprove me, as if I was a creature not made of flesh and blood. He's so dreadful serious—can't see any light play of the mind."

"A deadly earnest creature, no doubt," admitted his mother. "I wonder if Sarah Jane will be any the better for Gregory's going? Probably not. But come to think of it, they've had their luck of late. Her man's getting what I should call fancy wages myself."

"He's worth it," ventured Philip Weekes. "The things he does—Joe Tapson was telling me. Even Joe, who's a jealous man, and didn't take at all kindly to Daniel's rise—even Joe admits that he's a wonder."

"Bah!" said Jarratt. "He's not half so wonderful as a three-horse-power steam engine, and can't do half the work of it."

"You're wrong there," answered his father. "He's got plenty of brains in his head, and Prout himself has let it be known that them alterations he begged to be allowed to make will certainly be for the better, though he stood out against them at the time."

"We're friends now, anyway," continued his son. "I'm not saying he's not a very useful man; but I do say, and always shall, that he wasn't good enough for Sarah Jane."

"Us don't want to hear her name no more," declared his mother—"not on your lips, that is. 'Tis Mary now, and she's a proper girl too. Where she got her wits from I never can make out. 'Twasn't from her mother, for the poor soul was only moon to schoolmaster's sun, and hadn't more sense than, please God, she should have. That gert, hulking chap, William, as paints his silly little pictures, be so like his mother in character as two peas, though he carries his father's body."

"Mary hasn't got no higher opinion of 'em than you have," declared Jarratt. "She can suffer her father, but not the 'Infant.' She'm twice the man he is."

"For my part, I'd sooner do with him than schoolmaster," answered Hephzibah. "Lord save us—such an empty drum never was. Why, to hear his great, important voice, you'd think he'd met a lion in the path. Moses—when he comed down from the Mount—couldn't have felt more full of news. And what do it all come to? Nothing at all—save that he's just drunk a dish of tea round the corner with some other old fool; or that one of the school-childer's got the mumps; or some such twaddle."

"Not that us should seek to set Mary against her own father, however," said Philip mildly.

"Be quiet, you mouse of a man!" answered his wife. "Who wants to set children against parents, I should like to know? If a child be set against parents, 'tis the silly parents' own fault—as you ought to understand—nobody better."

The family met again that night, and Susan, coming across from Mr. Woodrow's for some butter, brought the expected news with her.

"Mr. Gregory Friend was took off about midday," she said. "I met young Billy Luke—him as he apprenticed to Mr. Medland, the undertaker. He knowed all about it. They be building his coffin this minute, and 'twill be taken up to-morrow morning; and 'tis ordained that poor Mr. Friend shall be drove on the trolley that he used to work up and down the line with his peat."

"Quite right," said Mr. Weekes. "For that matter, there's no other way they could fetch him down. Well, well—who'd have thought of him going?"

"They've allowed Mr. Brendon to have the corpse took to the vicarage; and the funeral party will walk from there; and he's to be buried Friday; and two wreaths have come in already, if you'll believe it," continued Susan. "One from them people at High Down, that Mr. Friend did use to keep in firing free of cost; and one from somebody unknown."

"Us will do the same," declared Philip. "There should be some Michaelmas daisies near out, but I haven't looked at the front garden for a fortnight."

"If you had," said Mrs. Weekes, "you'd have found that owing to your mazed foolishness in leaving the gate open a while back, Huggins' cow got in, an' the daring hussy ate our Machaelmas daisies down to the roots afore I could force her out again. All the same, we'll do something, else Sarah Jane won't send us a memorial card; and I like to see them black-edged cards stuck in the parlour looking-glass. They be good for us, and remind us that a time will come when they'll be printing ours."

"Leave that to me," said Philip. "Not your card—God forbid!" he added hastily, "but the wreath. I thought well of poor Friend—very well—a most hopeful creature. 'Twas only back-along, at his grandchild's christening, that me and him had a great tell over things in general."

"If 'tis a boughten wreath, I'd be wishful to put a shilling from my savings to it," said Susan. "I'm terrible fond of Sarah Jane, and she'll be cruel sad for him."

They rolled the morsel of other folks' sorrow upon their tongues.

Mrs. Weekes surprised nobody by deciding to attend the interment. A funeral was an event she rarely denied herself, if it was possible to be present. She found the ceremony restful and suggestive.

"You and me will go, Jar," she said. "You can't come, master, because you'll have to be on your rounds against market-day. But Jar and me will stand for the family."

"And me," said Susan. "I can borrow a bit of black easily from a lot of girls."

"I want to go," began Philip. "I really want to go. As a rule funerals ban't all to me they are to you, my dear; but this is out of the common. Yes, I must ax of you to let me go, out of respect to poor Friend."

Thereupon Mrs. Weekes took the opportunity and her voice rose to a familiar and penetrating pitch.

"Nought to you if we starve," she began. "You—amusing yourself on Friday of all days—and the people along your beat waiting and wondering, and coming down on us next week for damages; and me going empty-handed to market Saturday, to be the laughing-stock of Devon and Cornwall; and——"

Here Philip, with deprecatory attitudes, withdrew.

For once the man stood firm, and having started on his rounds at dawn upon the burial day of Gregory Friend, he was able to pay final respect to the peat-master and be numbered with the mourners.

Their company was small, but among them stood one most unexpected. Hilary Woodrow had sent a wreath the night before, and its beauty occasioned comment and admiration among those who saw it; but that he should come to the funeral was a great surprise. Come he did, however, and attended the opening portion of the service; but he did not join the party in the churchyard.

Brendon waited to see the grave filled; then he returned to his wife. She went with her little boy to the house of Mrs. Weekes after the funeral; and there he presently found her.

Hephzibah insisted on Sarah Jane drinking a glass of brown sherry, while the child ate a sponge-cake.

"Pale sherry-wine be right at a funeral—not dark," said the market-woman; "but, at times like this, the right and wrong of such a small thing really don't count for much to a sad heart." Then she turned to Gregory, the child.

"You darling boy! Behaved so beautiful, he did, with his curls a-shining like gold over his poor little black coat! 'Tis one in ten thousand, as I said from the first. I could wish vicar had read the lesson himself, instead of letting schoolmaster do it. But Churchward's always turned on to the lessons nowadays. 'Tis like a bumble-bee reading, to my ear. And Farmer Woodrow there too! Fancy that!"

Sarah Jane nodded. She had suffered very bitter grief in this loss, but she showed little of it except to her husband. Only he knew the extent and depth of her sorrow. He had asked her not to come to the funeral, but she chose to do so. Pale and dry-eyed, Sarah Jane endured. Of her sorrow very little appeared. She lacked her husband's faith, and strove with poor success to pass the barrier, or see herself in her father's arms when life's day was done.

She drank the wine and brushed the crumbs from her baby's frock and face.

"He wrote Daniel a very beautiful letter—Mr. Woodrow, I mean. He don't think about death like my husband do; but the letter made even Dan think. 'Twas deep, lovely language," she said.

"He'll be meat for the grave himself if he ban't careful," answered Mrs. Weekes. "A poor, starved frame and hungry eyes, though there's a wonderful gentlemanly hang about his clothes. Something be burning him up in my opinion—we all mark it. Jarratt says 'tis his harmful ideas about religion; I say 'tis a decline. I told the man so to his face last week, when I went over to see Susan; and he laughed in his gentle way, and said he was all right. Still, I don't like his look—more don't John Prout."

Sarah Jane listened, but she knew a good deal more about Hilary Woodrow than any other living creature save himself. Little by little there had risen an intimacy between them—not of the closest, yet of a sort beyond friendship. She met him by appointment, now here, now there. To this extent she lived a double life, since Brendon heard nothing of these occasions. Woodrow talked of going away for the winter, but she knew that he would never do so. The days when he did not see her were blank days to him. He often spoke warmly of Brendon and of the future that he designed for him. He longed to make her presents, but could not. Now thinking upon almost the last words that her father had spoken to her, Sarah Jane determined to throw herself upon Hilary's goodness and honour. But she reckoned without his passion.

That night, while Brendon slept beside her, she turned and turned sleepless, with a wet handkerchief rolled up in her hands. She mused upon the dear dust in the churchyard, and the living man beside her, and of that other who thought waking, and dreamed sleeping, of none but her. How did she regard him?

For a month after her father's death Hilary Woodrow spared her, and she appreciated his self-denial. But during the days he saw her not he revealed a constant and steady thought for her. He had continued speech with Daniel, and Sarah Jane noted that Brendon's enthusiasm for his master grew as Woodrow's trust in him increased. Then she saw Hilary again herself, and his flame leapt the fiercer for their weeks of separation.

CHAPTER XIII
BURSTING OF THE SPRINGS

A year passed by and little happened to mark it. Then full store of incident fell upon the dwellers at Ruddyford Farm.

It is to be recorded to the credit of Jarratt Weekes that, in the bitter difference which now happened between him and Daniel Brendon, he was not altogether at fault. Nevertheless an underlying element of malignity mingled with his attitude. In giving of advice, subtle personal satisfaction often lurks; yet sometimes the emotion belongs merely to that implicit sense of superiority felt by the critic over the criticized. When Weekes met Brendon on an autumn day and plunged into the most dangerous subject that he could have chosen, he did so quite awake to the delicacy; but he did so from motives at any rate largely blent with good. He was now himself happily married, for Mary Churchward, despite a harsh voice and a hard nature, had plenty of sense, and proved practical and patient. Jarratt's feeling to Brendon and his wife was mainly friendly, and if some sub-acid of memory still tinged thought, that recollection had largely faded. To sum up, if his motives in this encounter were mingled, he meant no lasting evil, but rather lasting good from his action. That Daniel might smart a little he guessed, and the fact did not cause him any regret. Frankly, he was glad of it. The giving of this advice would lift him above the lesser man, and, by so doing, help him to win back a little self-esteem. As for the upshot of his counsel, he felt very certain that it must tend to benefit the other and establish him more securely in his home and its vital relations. Since he acted in profound ignorance of Brendon's own character, his conscience was clear, and his mind free to state the case with all the force and tact at his command. He told himself that he was doing his duty; but his deed, none the less, had a relish that duty usually lacks.

Under any circumstances danger must attend the operation—how great Weekes did not guess; and in the event, the added circumstance of Daniel's mood had to be reckoned with. This precipitated the catastrophe with terrific suddenness.

When they met, Brendon's dark star was up. Matters were contrary at the farm, and a thing, little to be expected, had happened in the shape of a quarrel between Daniel and John Prout. Their master was the subject, and a word from the younger man brought sharp rebuke upon him.

"'Tis all tom-foolery about his being ill," said Daniel. "He's as tough as any of us. 'Tis laziness that keeps him mooning about with his books down at Lydford—that's my opinion."

But Prout flashed out at this, and, for the first time, the other saw him in anger.

"Tom-fool yourself!" he said; "and never you open your mouth to chide your betters in my hearing again, for I won't stand it. You ought to know wiser. You to speak against him! If you had half his patience and half his brain power, you might presume to do it; but you haven't: you've got nought but the strength of ten men and a very unsettled temper to make it dangerous. I'm sorry for you—you that pose for a righteous man and mistrust them as be set over you. What do you know about the sufferings of the body? When do a cough rack you of nights and rheumatics gnaw your bones like a hungry dog? Don't you dare to say a disrespectful word of Mr. Woodrow again, for I'll have you away if you do! After the master he's been to you—lifting you above the rest and making you free of the farm to work where you will, as if 'twas your own. Dear, dear!—'tis a bad come-along-of-it, and I'm greatly disappointed in you, my son."

RUDDYFORD.

His anger waned towards the end of this speech, as his words testified; but Brendon, having heard, hesitated and showed self-control. He was bitterly hurt at this tremendous reproof, yet he perceived that it was justified from Mr. Prout's standpoint. He did not seek to set himself right. His first anger died out when John reminded him of the things that the master had done for him. He apologized, but in a half-hearted manner; and then, with darkness of spirit, betook himself about his business.

It was necessary that morning that he should go into Bridgetstowe, and through a wet autumnal Moor he walked, passed under Doe Tor, and presently reached the little Lyd, where she foamed in freshet from the high lands.

The springs had burst, and the wilderness was traversed with a thousand glittering rillets. In the deep coombs and wherever a green dimple broke the stony slopes of the hills, water now leapt and glittered. Traced to their sources, the springs might be found beginning in little bubbling cauldrons, from which, through a mist of dancing sand, they rose out of the secret heart of the granite. Then, by winding ways, they fell, and the green grass marked their unfamiliar passing with beads of imprisoned light on every blade. It was the death-time of heath and furze, the springtime of moss, lichen and fungus. Quaint fleshy caps and hoods—some white and grey, some amber and orange-tawny—spattered the heath; and many mosses fell lustrously in sheets and shone in pads and cushions. The great lycopodium spread green fingers through the herbage, and his little lemon spires of fruit thrust upward in companies and groups. Beside him the eye-bright still blossomed; the whortle's foliage turned to scarlet; and in the marsh the bog mosses made splendid mosaic of delicate and tender colours. At river's brink the seed-cases of the asphodel burnt, like a scarlet flame; the sky-coloured bells of the least campanula still defied death; and the later gentian grew and lifted purple blossoms from the glimmering grass.

Daniel Brendon crossed Lyd by the stepping-stones and met with Jarratt Weekes. They walked along together, and the elder man happened to speak of a matter then in the other's thoughts.

"I suppose you know Mr. Woodrow's going at last? My wife says she can't live with her father no more, and she's right; so I've had to say that I must have the cottage empty after Christmas. What's he going to do?"

"Can't tell you," answered the other. "There's a general opinion that he's not strong and didn't ought to spend his winters up here."

"I reckon we shouldn't have heard about his health if he'd been a poor man. He's well enough to do everything he wants to do. Have 'e marked that?"

Daniel nodded.

"All the same, we mustn't judge people by their looks," he said. "I was thinking much as you do only an hour agone—and saying it too. But I got a pretty sharp rap over the knuckles from Prout for my pains. Ban't our business, after all. He's a very good master—never heard of a better."

"And a very good payer. I've nothing to grumble at. Only a man's wife must be his first thought. Mrs. Weekes wants to go into the house."

"Us married ones can afford to laugh at the bachelors," declared Daniel.

"So us can—though the bachelors have been known to pay back the compliment sometimes, and make us a laughing-stock. When I was married, kind-hearted people whispered 'twas the rasp wedding with the nutmeg-grater. That's the sort of gentlemanly thing one's friends say behind one's back. But I think it has been proved different. My wife's a wonder in her way—got all my mother's sense without her tongue."

"You're lucky for certain. I'm glad Sarah Jane and her be such good friends."

"So am I, and—and friendship's nothing if it won't—— Look here, may I say a thing to you on a delicate subject, Brendon? Will you promise not to be angered if I do it?"

"If you speak of friendship, who can be angered?" asked Daniel. "What delicate subject should you have to speak to me about?"

"The tenderest a man can touch to a neighbour. But from pure goodwill I speak it. You'll judge that when you hear me. A man doesn't strain friendship and say ticklish things for fun. 'Tis only out of kind feeling for you and Sarah Jane that I'm going to say it."

"Better leave her out," said Daniel. "Her welfare's the same as mine. She've not got any good away from my good. If you do me a friendly turn, you'll be doing the same to she."

"I can't leave her out. She's the matter."

Brendon stopped and stared.

"What be you talking about?"

"About Sarah Jane. There it is. I told you 'twas a delicate matter. If you won't stand it, I'll leave it alone."

"Go on," said Brendon shortly. His voice had changed, and Weekes noticed it.

"Don't be angry for nought. It's a free country, and I've a right to my opinions, I suppose. I say again, 'twas a great act of friendship in me to touch this thing at all; but if you're going to take it in an evil spirit, I'll stop. 'Tis no better than the old saying of Lydford Law—when they hanged a man first and tried him afterwards—for you to speak in that tone of voice, and command me to go on, as if I was a servant and you the master."

"What do you want, then?"

"I want you to understand that I'm not doing this because I like it. I know the gravity of what I'm going to say; but I'm not a word-of-mouth friend, but a real one—where a man will let me be. So I say to you that unwise things are being done—not by Sarah Jane—not for a moment—but by Hilary Woodrow."

"I must ask you to name them."

Weekes did not answer immediately. Then he went to the heart of the matter, so far as he knew it.

"They walk together. They meet—accident on her part, no doubt; but not on his. Yet could he meet her if he hadn't fixed to do it? 'Tisn't wrong, of course; but 'tisn't wise."

"You've been watching Sarah Jane?"

"Not I. What is it to me? They've been seen together in lonely places, that's all—no harm, of course—still——"

The other blazed out and his voice rose.

"You're a dirty-minded man to say these things to me, and 'tis far off from friendship that makes you say them! Quick to think evil—and wish evil. To cloud the fair name of a man's wife—because she's a fool——"

"Don't be a fool yourself! I'm clouding nobody and nothing. I'm only telling you that——"

"Tell me no more!" roared Daniel.

"If I did, perhaps you wouldn't make such a silly row," answered Jarratt, hot in his turn. "Why, you great stupid lout, what is it to me if she's his mistress? I don't care a damn—I——"

Brendon cut him short, made a loud, inarticulate sound like an animal, and struck the smaller man to the earth. He hit Weekes with his right fist full upon the forehead; and the blow dropped the castle-keeper backwards, and deprived him of consciousness.

Daniel shouted at the prone figure, raved at him and cursed him. Any chance beholder had fled with fear, under the impression that a maniac rioted there. The passion-storm was terrific, and for a time Brendon seemed not responsible. Then his wrath gradually passed, and both the conscious and unconscious men came to their senses. Weekes recovered, sat up, then stood up unsteadily, and looked round for his hat and stick. Daniel immediately left him and went upon his way.

That night Brendon told his wife what he had done, and she listened while he spoke at length. He cast no blame upon her; but very sternly he bade her be more mindful of herself henceforth; and he warned her with terrible earnestness that he would hold it no sin to destroy any man who injured him in his most sacred possession. His great self-control on this occasion impressed her more than rage would have done, and she uttered no protest when he told her of a fixed intention to leave Ruddyford.

"You're right to go," she declared.

"John Prout threatened to have me turned off for speaking rudely of the master this morning," he said. "Well, I'll go without being turned off. I can stop no more after this, and I won't. Don't think I'm angered with you or with him. I'm not. I scorn to be. 'Tis only that knave that has angered me by his evil lie. This won't end here. He'll have the law of me for what I've done and disgrace me, be sure of that. I must suffer what I must suffer: my conscience is perfectly at peace about that. He got less than he deserved."

But time passed, and Jarratt Weekes made no sign. So far as Brendon could judge, none even heard of the encounter. At any rate, it did not reach his ear again. It was said that the horse of Mr. Weekes had lifted its head suddenly, and given him a pair of black eyes while he was stooping over its neck.

CHAPTER XIV
A LUNAR RAINBOW

The folk often called at the cottage of Philip Weekes, for, despite her loquacity, Hephzibah was known for a woman of judgment, and her friends, with practice, had learned to pick the grains of sense from that chaff of words in which it whirled.

On an evening some time after the reported accident to her son, Mrs. Weekes sat in the midst of a little company, for several men had dropped in on various errands.

Her kitchen reeked with tobacco-smoke. Philip and Mr. Huggins were side by side on a settle by the fire; Mr. Churchward occupied a chair near the table, and Mrs. Weekes herself sat beside it darning stockings. A bottle of sloe gin stood on a tray near her.

The schoolmaster thought more highly of Hephzibah than did she of him; but since Jarratt had chosen his daughter, she was always civil.

The talk ran on Adam's son.

"He has succeeded in getting a pictorial effort hung at a public exhibition in Plymouth," said Mr. Churchward. "They are holding a picture show there—all West Country artists; and I confess I am gratified to hear that William has been chosen. I think of taking Mary down to see it presently. Perhaps, if we selected the market-day, you would join us, Mrs. Weekes?"

"Likely!" she answered. "Me trapsing about looking at pictures, and my stall——there, you men! Guy Fawkes and good angels! And you go about saying you've got all the sense! I could wish your son might find something better to do, I'm sure, for there's no money to it, and never will be."

"The art of photography will be a serious stroke to the painters of pictures, no doubt," admitted Mr. Churchward. "Yet such things have not the colours of nature which the artist's brush produces—nor have they the life."

"As to life," she answered, "there's a proper painted picture down to Plymouth in a shop near the market—the best picture as ever I see in all my days. Two mice gnawing a bit of Stilton cheese. Life! Why, 'tis life. You can pretty near smell the cheese. And only two pound ten, for the ticket's on it. If you want life, there you are; but it have been in that window a year to my certain knowledge. Nobody wants it, and nobody wants your son's daubs. He'd much better give over and burn all his trash."

"He can't, my dear woman. 'Tis in his blood—he must be painting, like I must be teaching and you must be selling. We're built on a pattern, Mrs. Weekes, and that pattern we must work out against all odds. William is a lusus naturæ as one may say—a freak of nature."

"I'm sorry for you," answered she. "There's nought to be proud of, anyhow. Where's the cleverness in fashioning things that ban't worth more in open market than the dirt pies the childer make in the road? Better paint houses, and get paid, than paint pictures and get nought."

"'Tis a most curious thing that such a huge man as the 'Infant' do always paint such little pickshers," said Mr. Huggins. "Why—them things what Noah Pearn have got hanging up in the bar parlour ban't bigger than a sheet of writing paper. Yet, from the tremendous size of the man, you'd have thought he'd have taken a public-house signboard at the very least."

"Size in matters of pictorial art is nothing, Valentine," explained the schoolmaster. "Some of the biggest books and pictures have been written and painted by the smallest men of their inches you could imagine."

"All the same, give me they whacking pickshers you see hanging outside a circus," said Mr. Huggins. "In my time I've marked pickshers to the full so large as a rick-cloth, all a-flaming with tigers and spotted leopards and wild men, till you might think you was walking straight into them savage, foreign places where such things come from. If William could paint like that, I doubt he'd make a fortune."

"He would scorn to do it, Val. However, you are quite right when you say they would produce more money, for such is life. People don't want——"

Philip Weekes rose.

"There's somebody knocking at the door," he said.

"Susan, I expect," answered his wife. "My stars, the airs and graces of these giglet girls nowadays! What d'you think? She's started an evening out! And Mr. Woodrow—more shame to him—never raised any objection; and now, of a Thursday, she puts on her little silly frills and feathers, and goes off on her own account, Lord knows where, like a grown-up person! But I told him, as her aunt, that she had to be in by half after nine. And that she does do—else I'll have her back here again."

It was not Susan, but John Prout, who now entered. "Just dropped in for a tell and a pipe afore I go homeward," he explained. "Been seeing master, and it have cast me down."

"He's a deal better, in my opinion," said Philip. "Livelier like, and I should say he'd put on flesh. Anyway he's going to leave Lydford come spring, for Jarratt means to be in his house afore Lady Day."

Mr. Prout nodded and filled his pipe. At the same moment Jarratt Weekes himself entered.

"Hullo!" he said. "Have 'e got a party?"

"'Tis your mother's ripe wisdom, Jar, as draws us men," answered Mr. Huggins.

"An' her ripe sloe gin, I reckon. Has anybody seed Mrs. Brendon? My wife tells me that she's in Lydford to-night."

"I seed her at tea-time," answered Philip. "She was going up to visit Billy Long's wife—her that broke her leg in the gorge last August."

"Then I'll go that way myself," declared the younger Weekes. "I want a word with her."

"Tell her to call here, then, please; 'tis a rough night. Us'll go home-along together," said John Prout.

"She don't want you," answered Hephzibah.

"I know that; but I want her. She's as strong as a man, and I ban't now, worse luck. Sarah Jane will give me an arm up over White Hill, where the wind will be blowing a hurricane to-night. I had to go down in a hurry to Little Lydford on foot, and I'm cruel weary."

Mrs. Weekes poured out a large wine-glass of cordial for him.

"How's Mr. Woodrow?" she asked.

"Just been there. There's things troubling him. Even to me he was a thought short—distracted like. Wouldn't talk business, and sent me off almost afore I'd sat down. There's something on his mind without a doubt."

"His health?"

"Not that. I judge he's better if anything. But he's terrible lonely."

"Vicar's son often goes in to have a talk, I believe," said Philip.

"Vicar would stop it if he knowed, however. Mr. Woodrow's opinions are very queer, so 'tis rumoured," declared Mr. Huggins.

Prout sighed, drank his sloe gin, with many thanks to the giver. Then he rose painfully.

"I won't stop, for if I get stiff 'twill be a grief to my bones going home. If you don't mind, Jarratt, I'll go along with you."

"What I want to say to Sarah Jane's a matter of a little business touching her better half," the castle-keeper explained.

"So you shall, then. I'll walk out of earshot. But the night gets worse, and we'd better be on our way, if I'm to make as far as Ruddyford at all. I ought to have ridden, but I'd been on my pony all morning, and he was tired too."

They departed into rough weather. The moon was rising through a scud of light thin cloud, and fine rain, swept by the wind, drove out of the west.

"What will Hilary Woodrow do when he leaves my place?" asked Weekes.

"Don't know no more than you," answered the other.

They went to the house of Billy Long, and found that Sarah Jane had left it an hour before.

"She's half-way home now, no doubt," said Prout. "Well, I'll be going, Jarratt. I'll tell her you want to see her."

"And tell her unbeknownst to her husband, please. There's no harm brewed, I need not tell you that; but he's a peppery chap and his temper sometimes obscures his wits."

"It does. He talks of going away now."

"Going away! I hadn't heard that."

Mr. Prout proceeded. Then an idea struck Jarratt.

"You'm weary—see here; if we cross my orchard, behind the cottage, you'll save more than a quarter of a mile. 'Tis trespassing, so long as Woodrow rents the place, but he'll pardon the owner; anyway, he'll pardon you."

"Anything to save a few yards. I'd ask master for a shakedown here, but they'd be frighted out of their wits at Ruddyford if I didn't come back."

"Shall I see if I can get somebody to drive you out?"

"No, no; I can do it, if I go slow and steady. Us'll walk through the orchard certainly."

"Don't speak near the back-side of the house, then, else he'll hear you, and think 'tis people stealing the apples."

They went silently through the orchard, but the wind concealed lesser sounds and panted loudly overhead. Then they passed under a lighted window that faced upon their way. The blind was drawn down, but a bright beam shot along one side. On the impulse of the moment Weekes peeped in.

"Reading one of his eternal books, I'll wager," he whispered.

Then every muscle tightened. He glared and grinned out of the darkness into the light, and fell back with a great gasp. His mind worked quickly. Prout had plodded on, and Weekes now hastened after him.

"Come back, come back," he said. "'Tis worth a few steps. 'Twill do your heart good—quick!"

The other found himself dragged to the window before he knew what Jarratt meant. His face was thrust to the aperture at the blind edge. He could not choose but see. The whole incident occupied but a second, and John Prout fell back and nearly dropped upon the grass. His stick left his fingers: both his hands went up over his face.

"Ban't true—ban't true!" he groaned.

Jarratt Weekes picked up his stick and hastened the old man away.

"True as hell-fire," he said. "And never fool yourself to think you haven't seen it; for you have."

He laughed.

"Thank the Lord I waited," he went on. "This was worth waiting for! This be worth chewing over too! I shan't be in no hurry now! I'll bide a thought longer still. Keep up, my old chap! Your master's got a bit of life in him after all—eh?"

The other pushed off the arm that had supported him.

"Go—go, for God's sake," he cried. "And if you're a man, forget——"

"The beauty of it is, that if he'd not quarrelled with me, I should never have found this out," said Weekes gleefully. "You know so much, John, that I'll tell you a bit more now. 'Twasn't my horse, but Daniel Brendon's leg-o-mutton fist, that blacked my eyes and turned my face yellow and blue a bit ago. He felled me with a blow that might have killed me, because I warned him that his wife saw too much of yonder man. And if he'd not done it, I should not have wanted words with the woman, and never been here to-night. So he's brewed his own drink. D'you mark how God works in the world, Prout?"

He laughed again, and, waiting for no answer, vanished upon his way.

The old man remained trembling and irresolute. Then he turned again and went back and stood opposite Hilary Woodrow's dwelling under the rain. For twenty minutes he waited; then the church clock struck half-past nine, and Susan, with a youth holding an umbrella over her head, arrived. Her friend put down the umbrella, kissed Susan twice, then shook hand with her, and then departed. She entered the house, and a moment later Sarah Jane left it by a back entrance, and slipped into the road.

"Be that Mrs. Brendon?" Prout called out.

She stopped, and he approached her.

"Why, John, whatever are you doing down here? Lucky we met. I can give you an arm up-over. 'Tis a fierce night, seemingly."

Through the wild weather they passed, presently breasted White Hill, and bent to the tremendous stroke of the wind. Fierce thin rain drove across the semi-darkness, and where a rack of cloud was torn wildly into tatters, the hunter's moon seemed to plough and plunge upon her way, through the stormy seas of the sky. The wind whistled, but the heath was wet, and the dead heather did not utter the musical, tinkling note that the east wind's besom rings from it.

Mr. Prout was very silent.

"Be I travelling too fast for you?" she asked him.

"No, no," he answered.

"I'll ax you not to tell Dan that I went to see the master to-night," she said.

He did not reply.

"Dan don't understand him like you and me do," she continued.

"For God's sake don't talk," he begged. "There's a cruel lot on my mind."

"And on mine, for that matter. I'm a wicked, joyful woman, John Prout!"

For some time silence fell between them as they were thrust before the wind.

"Oh, my God, what a terrible, beautiful world it is!" she cried suddenly. "But cruel difficult sometimes."

He could not speak to her.

"D'you know what's going to happen?" she asked. "I mustn't tell Daniel, but I must tell somebody or 'twill kill me. Mr. Woodrow—he thinks the wide world of dear Daniel. He puts him first—first afore all in his mind."

Mr. Prout groaned, and she extended her hand to him.

"I do wish you'd take my arm, John. This be too heavy work for your weak legs."

He took it. He longed to speak and pray her for her own sake, and for his master's sake, to keep Brendon to his resolution. His master was the uppermost thought.

"Mr. Woodrow's going to write a will," said Sarah Jane. "I prayed him not; I prayed him not to think of death, or any such thing. His be a very beautiful, generous life, John."

"Oh, woman, why was you let come into it?"

"I love him, John."

"Don't—don't, for Christ's sake, tell these things. I can't bear 'em."

"I love him—because he loves me, but more because he loves Dan so much. He mustn't die—he——"

"Leave it—shut your mouth, or I won't say what I'll answer. God's over all—let me cling to that. I'd cut my heart out for him—but—there, never you speak to me about him again—never—never. I wish I had died afore to-night."

"Don't take on. I'll pay if—— You won't tell Dan I was with him. 'Twould spoil all—Dan being what he is. And you won't say a word of this great news. He's to speak to Daniel himself. What joy for Daniel! How he'll bless his God—eh, John?"

Prout dragged himself helplessly and silently beside her. Then a wonderful spectacle appeared above them in the firmament.

From the depth of the northern heavens there sprang an immense halo of colourless light, where the moon shone upon unnumbered particles of flying rain. Wan, yet luminous, flung with one perfect sweep upon the storm, it endured—the only peaceful thing in that wild world of tumultuous cloud and clamouring wind. The arch of the lunar rainbow threw its solemn and radiant span across the whole earth from west to east. It framed all Dartmoor, and one shining foot seemed to sink upon the Severn Sea, while the other marked the places of the dawn.

They stood and stared a moment; then both were nearly blown off their legs and driven forward by the sudden buffet of the gale.

"Heaven be over all, like that beautiful silvery bow above our heads," she cried loud in his ear.

"There's no rainbow for me," he answered. "And there didn't ought to be for you, woman."

"How do I know? I only know my heart be merry when I think on Daniel. Who can do wrong that brings joyfulness to good people?"

He groaned again and she misunderstood.

"Don't take on so and be sad for master. There's happiness even for him in the world still—here and there; and happiness is God's gift, I suppose. None else can give it to a man—so my Dan says. Them as bring it be the messengers—only the messengers. All the same, I hate only Heaven to be thanked when a man or woman does a brave, lovely thing."

"Won't you never be like other females?" he asked. "Seeing what your husband is, God help the reckoning."

"Leave it so," she answered, "and say nought to nobody. You know nothing more than that I love the man—so do you—for pity—and for his gentle thoughts—and for his loneliness—aye, and for his own self too. I'll say that to you. He's a good man. He does countless good things; you know that. Don't torment yourself for him—or me. Forget you met me to-night. Here's the stepping-stones, an' the moon hidden, just when we wanted the light most. Take hold of my hand. I'm stronger far than you."

They crossed the water carefully, and the great shape of Daniel Brendon loomed up ahead.

"At last!" he shouted. "I beginned to think you was night-foundered in the storm. Did you see that wonder in the sky a bit ago?"

Once more Sarah Jane spoke swiftly to Prout before they reached the other.

"Mind this too," she said. "There's the joy of giving, John. 'Tis a dear joy to give! Hilary Woodrow knows that—so do I—none better than him and me."

The old man drew a grief-stricken breath, and left her with her husband.