‘No, sir. It’s only you gentlefolks who can afford such luxuries; your poor man may be tied to a harlot, or your poor woman to a ruffian, but once done, done for ever.’
‘Well,’ thought Lancelot, ‘we English have a characteristic way of proving the holiness of the marriage tie. The angel of Justice and Pity cannot sever it, only the stronger demon of Money.’
Their way home lay over Ashy Down, a lofty chalk promontory, round whose foot the river made a sudden bend. As they paced along over the dreary hedgeless stubbles, they both started, as a ghostly ‘Ha! ha! ha!’ rang through the air over their heads, and was answered by a like cry, faint and distant, across the wolds.
‘That’s those stone-curlews—at least, so I hope,’ said Tregarva. ‘He’ll be round again in a minute.’
And again, right between them and the clear, cold moon, ‘Ha! ha! ha!’ resounded over their heads. They gazed up into the cloudless star-bespangled sky, but there was no sign of living thing.
‘It’s an old sign to me,’ quoth Tregarva; ‘God grant that I may remember it in this black day of mine.’
‘How so!’ asked Lancelot; ‘I should not have fancied you a superstitious man.’
‘Names go for nothing, sir, and what my forefathers believed in I am not going to be conceited enough to disbelieve in a hurry. But if you heard my story you would think I had reason enough to remember that devil’s laugh up there.’
‘Let me hear it then.’
‘Well, sir, it may be a long story to you, but it was a short one to me, for it was the making of me, out of hand, there and then, blessed be God! But if you will have it—’