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•******， ………--








By C. L. ANTROBUS
QUALITY CORNER. 12° . - . $1.50
WILDERSMOOR. 12° . - . $1.50
New York—G. P. PUTNAM'S SONS-London


WILDERSMOOR
A NOVEL
By
C. L. ANTROBUS
Author of “quality corner,” Etc.
“Let both grow together until the harvest.”—MATT. xiii. 3o
49%
*
K G. P. PUTNAM'S SONS
NEW YORK AND LONDON
Cbe ſknickerbocket Dregg
1901
&O


THE NEW YORK
PUBLIC LIBRARY
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to My Cousin
ALICE HANSLIP
who THough A. RELATION
is ver, As FRIEND ºrs * -
this Book Is pedicated -
with THE perpest gravirube
**:Aso Arèserion
º ‘. .





WILDERSMOOR





WILDERSMOOR
CHAPTER I
GREY rugged hill was Wildersmoor Pike, over-
looking, like a grim sentinel, the wild moorland
that trended westward to the sea. A weird ghostly
tract of country, where mists lay hidden all day in the
marsh pools, and rose and coiled at night; where moss
grew deep and velvety, and luxuriant fern waved and
bent in the strong west winds that swept up from the
sea over the sandhills and across the moor.
A strangely silent place. The hum of insects, the
rush of the wind, the scream of the curlew : these were
the sounds of Wildersmoor.
Eastward the Pike looked down upon another and
a different scene, the manufacturing town of Woffen-
dale; a grimy hive of men, of blazing furnaces, of
chimneys pouring out volumes of dense black smoke
that hung like a dun pall in the atmosphere. A west
wind blowing off Wildersmoor rolled the smoke away
inland. An east wind swept it seawards across the
moor, dimming the pale blue northern sky—the pale
northern sunshine. But the rush and roar of the town
were as far away as though an ocean divided it from
that home of the curlew and the mist. Neither whirr
of spindle nor thunderous beat of engine reached the
I


2 Wildersmoor
silence of that lonely moorland. On this cold grey
December afternoon, the mists that lurked in the moor-
land pools floated upwards as twilight fell, spreading
their wan folds far and wide over the landscape like a
ghostly mantle. The Pike loomed dimly, a vast form-
less shadow, through the fog that rolled up so softly,
so silently. Even the ruddy firelight that streamed
cheerily from the windows of Wildersmoor Hall lost
itself in the white vapour before it reached the pines
by the gates.
Wildersmoor was crossed and recrossed by many
paths that wound past rush-fringed pools and treacher-
ous patches of marshy ground: paths easy to traverse
by daylight, easy, too, at night, to those accustomed to
the moor, those to whose eyes each heap of withered
fern, each clump of gorse or bramble or stunted wil-
low, was a familiar landmark. But to the stranger,
Wildersmoor without light of day or stars was a death-
trap; and in a dense fog such as was now veiling
everything it was dangerous even to those dwelling
on it from childhood.
Save to one. There was one man in the district
who, by reason of his affliction, could wander about
the moor as easily in the blackest night as in brilliant
sunshine. An elderly man, strong and hearty, known
as “Blind John o' Wildersmoor.” His surname had
been so long unused that it was well-nigh forgotten
He earned his living by carrying parcels to and from
the station. A cheap and trustworthy messenger was
a convenience appreciated in that part of the world,
where farms were wide apart and housewives busy.
Very often the modest sixpence which he demanded,
no matter how short or how far the distance, would


Wildersmoor 3
be supplemented by a gift of food or clothing. He
lived in one of a row of cottages near the Hall, and old
Granny Darlow, his next door neighbour, cooked his
meals and “redded up ’’ for him in consideration of a
small sum paid every Saturday night.
Despite his infirmity, Blind John knew by the voice
—nay, by the footstep—every man, woman, and child
for miles round; never failing to address them by
name when accosted. He knew, too, all the gossip of
the neighbourhood and retailed it with zest, sitting
over his pipe and beer in the little sanded parlour
known as “th' Snug,” behind the bar of the Grey
Wolf, the only inn in the district.
To his regular customers he was as good as-in fact,
better than a newspaper. For what did the dwellers of
Wildersmoor care about the doings of the great world?
Their world was bounded by Woffendale on the one
hand and the grey restless sea on the other. All else
was “foreign parts.” Blind John told them exactly
what they wished to know—viz., their neighbours' af-
fairs. Nothing else mattered. So the tap-tap of his
guiding stick was far more interesting on Wildersmoor
than the postman's knock.
This dark December evening that same stick went
tap-tapping on the frozen ground along a fairly wide
path that led across the moor to the north-west. The
fog was so thick that it felt like a damp blanket to the
face, and to distinguish surrounding objects was im-
possible. But Blind John went on at his usual slow
steady pace; to him darkness and light were alike. He
carried a large parcel, and was on his way to a dis-
tant farm where he was tolerably sure of a good sup-
per; and he further reflected that on his return home


4. Wildersmoor
he could spend the remainder of the evening at the
Grey Wolf, thus satisfactorily concluding the day.
He had gone, perhaps, a quarter of the distance he
had to traverse, the heavy tramp of his iron-bound
clogs and the light tapping of his stick sounding hollow
on the hard ground, when he heard other footsteps be-
hind him. He stopped and listened. His keen ears
told him the approaching stranger wore boots—not
clogs, and the step was unfamiliar.
“A mon—an' quick on th' feet—an' wi' boots,” he
muttered. “I conna tell whoever it mun be.”
And turning his head he challenged his unseen com-
panion:
“Who’s that theer?”
“What's that to you?” came sharply from the fog.
“Eh, mon!—tha needna freshen up so! Tha
mun ha’ getten too mooch beer i' thee. Most folk
'ud be glad enow to happen o' Blind John i' a fog
on Wildersmoor.”
“Are you blind?” the voice was friendly now ; a
singularly melodious voice, sweet and ringing. “Can
you guide me to North Rode station? I have lost my
way in this infernal fog.”
“I reckon thou hast,” with a chuckle of satisfaction.
“Most folk 'ud be lost but me. Ay, I con guide thee
well enow. North Rode, did tha say? Then tha
wants to go to Riverton, belike?”
“Now what does that matter?” The tone was half-
amused, half-impatient.
“Eh, dear!—up again! Mester, tha'll ha’ to be a
rare hond at punsin’ if tha means to go through th’
world talking to folk like that. Sithee, I allus charge
a shilling fur guiding folk in a fog.”


Wildersmoor 5
“I will give you five. Push on 1"
“Nay, nay. If I pushed on, as tha calls it, I’d
push th' two on us into th’ nighest pond, I’m think-
ing. I mun go my own pace mester.”
“Will not five shillings hurry you up?” with a
laugh.
“Nay, nor fifty. What 'ud be th’ good o' th' brass
if I wur sticking head down i' one o' them bog-holes?
Mester, tha's getten no more head-filling nor a babe.”
“All right.”
The stranger did not seem inclined to enter into
conversation, but Blind John had never held his peace
in his life, and was not likely to do so on the present
occasion. He wanted to know who he was guiding,
and therefore began talking in a manner calculated to
lead round to the subject of his companion's identity.
“Wildersmoor's a foine place fur fogs,” he observed,
complacently. “There's nowt like 'em i' a' Lancashire.
I’ve heard as theer's rare uns i' Lunnon, an' th' Queen
dunnot like 'em. Eh! if hoo'd coom down here I'll
warrant hoo'd see summat i' fogs as 'ud make Lunnon
nowt. Dost tha know Wildersmoor, mester?”
« No.”
“I thowt tha didna, or tha'd ha’ bethowt thee afore
tha'd ha’ set foot on it to-neet. Happen tha'rt fro"
Woffendale?”
(g No.”
“I know a many o' th' Woffendale folk. Theer's
owd Elkanah Fleming o' th' Atlas Works. I mind
him these forty year an’ more. Ay, an' his son, too,
Mr. Ralph. An’ theer's Mr. Quentin, brother's son
to owd Elkanah. Eh, everybody likes Mr. Quentin.
He lives o'er at th' Hall; his folk allus lived theer.


6 Wildersmoor
‘How art tha, John?' he says, wi' a slap betwixt th’
shoulders as 'ud almost jolt the Pike! He's a foine
young chap, is Mr. Quentin. Happen tha knows him,
mester, if tha belongs to these parts?”
“I don't belong to these parts,” absently.
“Riverton is nowt much o' a town, I’ve heard,”
pursued John, taking up a fresh scent. “It’s noan
place fur a mon to start in if he wants to make brass.
But belike tha hasna been theer long?”
No answer to this.
“An' theer isna many trains as stop at North Rode
fur Riverton. Tha sees, folk dunnot want to go theer.
I know’d a chap as coom fro’ Scotland an’ lived at
Riverton fur a spell. But he told me he couldna
stond it, it wur that dull. So he made a flitting to
Woffendale. He wur allus talking o' Scotland, saying
it wur summat grand.”
“It may be. I do not know.”
John tried another trail.
“Eh, but this fog's a thick un! I wonder what
them Lunnon fogs is like. Did tha ever see one,
mester?”
“Two or three.”
“Did tha P” in the tone of one who has at last ar-
rived at something definite. “I reckon they wurna like
this?” -
“ No.”
“I thowt not. But I make no doubt as Lunnon's a
foine place.”
No answer.
“I dunnot know as I ever see a Lunnoner afore, if
so be as tha's a Lunnoner born an’ bred,” continued


Wildersmoor 7
John, using, as he always did, the phraseology of those
blessed with sight. “Tha dunnot talk mooch, mester.”
“Don't I? Well, I am not sure that talking ever
does any good.”
This reply aroused the argumentative Lancashire
spirit.
“I dunno so mooch about that. Sithee, what's public
opinion but talking If theer wurna talking theer'd be
no public opinion. Art tha going to turn up thy nose
at public opinion? Eh, mester, tha's getten howd o'
th' wrong end o' th' stick this toime.”
The stranger laughed again. A pleasant laugh, but
it ruffled John.
“Ay, but tha has, I tell thee, an’ tha conna deny it.
Look at th' papers—a' gossip! I conna read 'em my-
sen, but I con hear other folk read 'em. I often hear
bits o' th' Woffendale Star, an' theer's a mort o' news
in it. Would tha do away wi' papers, an' ha' folk howd
their tongues fur a' th' world like th' dumb beasts? I
reckon th' Almighty meant folk to talk, else we couldna
do it—theer!”
No comment from the stranger.
“I see tha's getten nowt to say,” observed John with
a chuckle. “When it cooms to argyment, mester, tha
dunnot seem mooch o' a hond at it. That's th’ way
wi' a many. They're sharp enow at contradicting, but
when a mon tackles 'em—eh, dear! they shut up as
tight as a rat-trap. Theer's th’ station reet afore thee.
Dost tha see th’ signal lights?”
“Yes, I see them, thank you. Here are the five
shillings.”
“I’m mooch obliged. Tha con coom this way again


8 Wildersmoor
i' a fog as soon as tha pleases. I'll be glad to guide
thee. I shall know thee quick enow.”
“Know me?” said the stranger, in tones of sur-
prise, stopping in the act of turning away.
“Ay, to be sure. Why not? Dost tha think that
because I conna see I conna tell one mon fro’ another?
I'll warrant I'd know thy voice anywheres.”
“Well good-night! and good luck to our next meet-
ing.”
The unknown walked away towards the signal lights.
Blind John resumed his journey to the farm, shaking
his head now and then in a manner that indicated
grave disapproval of his late companion.
He duly arrived at the farm, received his sixpence
and the supper he had anticipated, and set off home-
wards in a serene and comfortable frame of mind.
“Theer’ll be toime fur half an hour at th' Wolf,”
he muttered to himself as he plodded unerringly
through the fog; past deep pools, past treacherous
patches of trembling bog, where a yard to left or right
would have plunged him in without hope of succour.
He had nearly reached home, had turned into the
track leading off the moor, and past the little inn to
Wildersmoor station, when his guiding stick struck
against something soft. He stopped. Then touched
it again with his stick.
“I conna make out,” he said, and stooping, passed
his hand cautiously over the object lying in front of
him. “It’s a mon! He mun be drunk. He's getten
a great-coat, an' a good un. He mun be a gentleman.
His hat's gone. Ay, an' he's getten curly hair, an’
it's wet,” feeling carefully, “wet wi summat sticky.
Eh, dear, happen it's blood! He's hurt hissen i' fall-


Wildersmoor 9
ing.” John straightened himself and pondered a mo-
ment. The innate caution of the blind made him
slow in deciding upon a course of action.
“I’ll go on to th' Wolf. Ay, that'll be best.”
And stepping over the prostrate form he plodded on-
wards. In ten minutes he passed under the swinging
sign, whereon some bygone local artist had depicted a
shaggy animal, pale of hue and terrific of aspect, into
the cheerful blaze of a mighty fire—a real north-coun-
try fire, filling the huge grate and roaring half-way
up the chimney. The landlord, Matthew Vose, was
dispensing “sixpenny” to several customers, and
greeted John as he entered—
“Well, owd lad, I thought it wur about toime fur
thee to drop in. Theer's a seat fur thee in th’ Snug,”
jerking his thumb towards the parlour behind the
bar.
“Thank ye, but I conna set in it yet. Some on you
mun coom wi' me. Theer's a mon lying on th’ road
nigh here. He's drunk or summat. I felt his head an'
it wur wet. Look at my hond.” And he held it out.
“Eh, mon!” ejaculated the landlord, snatching up
an oil lamp and holding it near, “it’s blood l’’
“I thowt so,” returned John complacently. “It isna
often as I'm mistook in owt.”
“Let's ha' a look,” said another man. “Ay, th’ chap
mun ha' struck again summat in falling. It's lucky
tha stumbled o'er him. This is noan the neet to be
lying on Wildersmoor.”
Here Vose, followed by three or four men, reap-
peared from the Snug, where he had been relating the
11eVVS.
“These chaps is coming,” he said, “are you fellys


IO Wildersmoor
coming too? William,” to a lad who was part ostler,
part pot-boy, “bring along them two lanterns, an’
fetch th' short ladder. It'll do to carry him on.”
The party sallied out, Blind John leading. Their
progress was necessarily slow, by reason of the fog
and their being obliged to follow John's deliberate
steps.
“This here's a frosty un,” remarked one, alluding
to the mist. “Th’ rime'll be as thick as snow to-mor-
row.”
“Ay, lad, tha'rt reet. We're getten on th’ moor
**
now.” It was the landlord who spoke. “Is it fur,
John?”
“Nay, tha'll be alongside o' th' chap in a minute.”
More silent trudging, then John halted: “Theer he
is l’”
The others crowded round, William and the land-
lord throwing the light of the lanterns on the pallid
face.
“Eh, it's Mr. Ralph Fleming!” exclaimed the lad.
And Vose echoed in consternation,
“Ay, it is, an' I'm feart he's dead. Chaps, this here's
a bad business.”
“Mr. Ralph " " repeated Blind John. “Art tha sure
he's dead? Happen he's only knocked hissen dazed-
like.”
“He’s dead for sure. An’ look at th' crack he's
getten on his head,” said another. “He never could
ha’ done that hissen! Theer's nowt to hit agen. Hond
o'er one o' them lanterns an' I'll glimpse round a bit.”
“Tha'll lose thysen, tha fool!” remarked a friend,
warningly.
“Na, I willna. I’m noan going but a yard off.”


Wildersmoor II
He groped about while the others lifted Ralph
Fleming and laid him on the ladder they had brought.
Not an easy task; all the Flemings were tall and heavy
men.
“Chaps!” cried the searcher, “I’ve found th' stick
as did it, an’ it's Mr. Ralph's own. I con see R. F."
on it.”
He held in the light of the lanterns a strong cane,
the loaded end stained with blood. Vose examined it
closely. -
“Ay,” he said, drawing a long breath, “it’s mur-
der | That's what it is.”
“It’s easy to see how it wur done,” observed the
finder of the cane. “Th’ felly mun ha' snatched yon
stick and throw'd it down when he run off.”
“An' I con tell thee th’ mon as did it,” said
Blind John, suddenly. He had been a silent and at-
tentive listener. “As I wur going o'er the moor to
th' Moss Farm to-neet, a chap coom up wi' me. He
wur noan so civil till he found I wur blind, when he
asked me to take him to North Rode station, an' I
did, an' he give me five shilling. He wur a close chap,
He wouldna say who he wur, nor wheer he wur bred,
nor owt. But he wur a stranger, an' he owned up as
he coom fro’ Lunnon.”
“Would tha know him again, John?”
“Ay, anywheer. Th’ impident nowt! he wur wish-
ing good luck to our next meeting. I reckon it willna
be a lucky meeting fur him! He'd a voice I'd know
again in a minute. It wurna a bad sort o' voice,”
added John, grudgingly, as the remembrance of those
laughing, musical tones rose on his mind. “He wur
young—I’m sure o' that. An' he wur in a rare hurry.”
-


I 2 Wildersmoor
“Belike he wur,” said Vose. “It’s like enow a mon
'ud be in a hurry when he's getting out o' th' way o'
th’ hangman Th’ Woffendale police ought to know
o' this. See here, we mun take Mr. Ralph to th' Hall.
Happen he wur going theer, Mr. Quentin will know
what to do. He'll ha' a noice job to tell owd Elkanah
o' this—ay, he will that!”
“I dunno as th' owd chap 'll take it to heart o'er
mooch,” said another man. “Mr. Ralph wur a bit o'
a wastrel, tha knows.”
“That's true enow, an' I conna say I liked un my-
self. But wastrel or no wastrel, a mon dunnot like
his son knocked on th' head in a fog. I'll warrant
owd Elkanah 'll pretty nigh raise a' Woffendale.
Heave up th’ ladder, lads. Lead on, John.”


CHAPTER II
ILDERSMOOR HALL was an old many-
gabled ivy-covered building, roomy and com-
fortable, with latticed windows and dark oaken floors.
It stood on the lower slope of the Pike, where the
ground rose from the moorland. In front of the house,
within the curve of the drive, was a lawn—mossy as
lawns only can be on the western coast; and on either
side of it and across the end of the gates, a double
row of pines stood darkly against the sky. They were
in perfect harmony with the old house and the wild
moor they faced. In summer and in winter—whether
warm breezes rustled and whispered through their
branches, or bitter winds wailed and whistled round
them, always the same. Not that there was anything
gloomy about the trees, but rather an idea of cheerful
friendliness. When all else was withered and bare,
the pines' warm red trunks and blue-green foliage gave
to the wild landscape the one touch of colour that it
needed.
The drive, after circling the lawn, went round to
the back of the house through the grounds, finally
joining a wide wheel-track that led from the moor to
the high-road. Where the track merged into the road
stood the little wayside station of Wildersmoor. The
station, the inn, a few cottages, and one or two farms,
were the only habitations nearer than North Rode.
The Flemings—a branch of the Cumberland Flemings
—had lived for generations at Wildersmoor Hall. The
I3


Wildersmoor I 5
From this speech a stranger might have formed a
tolerably accurate diagnosis of the characters of all
three men. But now, Ralph was dead on Wilders-
moor, and his bearers were carrying him through the
white fog to the Hall, where Quentin sat thinking
darkly of their last quarrel. While in Woffendale, old
Elkanah was entertaining at dinner a few of his ancient
cronies, and consulting them as to how he should make
his will so that Ralph would inherit a fortune and a
share of the business, yet not be able to squander the
one or ruin the other: a problem that had kept his
lawyer hard at work for the last eighteen months, as
no document he had hitherto compiled entirely satis-
fied the old man.
When Matthew Vose and his party reached the Hall
gates, the landlord stopped:
“Howd on a minute, lads. I reckon I’d best go in
an’ break it like.”
The men halted beneath the pines while Vose, taking
a lantern, groped his way along the drive to the
door.
“Is Mr. Fleming in?” he asked of the servant. But
as he spoke Quentin himself came out of the library.
“If you cross Scot and Norse,” said Gilbert of
Ghent, “you get a very big man.” Doubtless Quentin
Fleming's mingled northern ancestry accounted for
his height and breadth. He was a very big man, fair
and sunburnt, with closely cropped fair hair and dark
grey eyes that at night appeared almost black. They
were kindly eyes, too, that smiled with the mouth,
whose pleasant curves were hidden under a heavy fair
moustache.
“What is it, Vose?” he asked, seeing the landlord


I6 Wildersmoor
standing in the doorway, the white fog eddying past
him into the hall in pale coiling wreaths.
“Well, sir, it's Mr. Ralph. He has met with an
accident, or worse. Blind John found him lying on
th’ moor.” -
“An accident?” repeated Quentin. “Is he badly
hurt? Where is he?”
“We’ve getten him here,” with a backward jerk of
his thumb towards the gates. “I’m feart, sir, that it's
a bad business. It's all o'er with Mr. Ralph. Theer's a
crack on his head that has let out the soul, sure enow.”
Quentin uttered an exclamation and hurried out, fol-
lowed by Vose, who threw the light of a lantern on the
dead man's face as his cousin bent over him.
Those of the men who were not holding the ladder
drew back respectfully, but after that one horror-struck
exclamation Fleming said no more either of horror
or regret.
He directed the bearers to carry Ralph into the
library, and wrote out a telegram, telling the groom to
get a lantern and take the message to the station: “It
is just possible he may not be dead. This must go to
Dr. McKie at once. There is no one nearer.”
“Theer's the vet,” suggested a bearer in a hoarse
whisper, nudging Vose. “He’s a graidly hond at doc-
toring hosses. Happen he'd be better than nowt?”
Vose shook his head.
“It's all o'er,” he replied in a low tone. Then aloud
to Fleming,
“Blind John 'll take that telegram quickest, sir, slow
though he be; for this fog is like a blanket afore a
mon's eyes.”
“True. Is John here?”


Wildersmoor 17
He was standing in the hall in his usual attitude of
patient waiting, holding his stick before him, listening
intently to all that went on.
“I thowt I might be wanted again,” he observed
when Quentin addressed him, “fur theer never wur a
worse fog nor this. Ay, I'll go o'er to th’ station an'
anywheer else. Eh, dear!—but whatten a job, Mr.
Quentin l—whatten a job!”
“Yes.”
“Vose 'll tell thee about th' chap as I led o'er to
North Rode,” continued John, as he tapped his way
down the steps into the chill night air. “Eh, if I’d
ha’ known I’d ha’ led him safe to th’ police, fur it wur
him as did it, sure enow.”
The rest of the men, receiving Quentin's thanks
with deprecatory murmurs of “Eh, sir, it's nowt!”—
filed out after John and took their way back to the
inn, groping cautiously along with the aid of a lantern.
“If we arena there when tha cooms, John, tha mun
start out an’ look fur us!”
“Ay—ay,” came from that part of the fog wherein
John had disappeared.
Vose had remained in obedience to a sign from
Fleming.
“I'm afraid, sir, theer 'll be naught to be done. Mr.
Ralph is gone.”
Quentin turned away with a groan and leant his
elbow on the mantelpiece.
For a moment there was silence in the room, save
for the crackling of the fire and the low ticking of
the clock. Vose felt surprised that Ralph Fleming's
death should so affect his cousin, for as the landlord
afterwards remarked, “It wur hard work fur to find


I 8 Wildersmoor
owt good to say o' Mr. Ralph, fur a’ one liked to be
civil to a murdered mon.” And reflecting on this
undeniable fact, he ventured to offer a few words of
consolation. “It might be worse, sir,” he said, re-
spectfully. “It's bad enow, but it might ha’ been
someone that couldna be so well spared as Mr. Ralph
—begging his pardon l’
“What is this about a stranger whom Blind John
guided across the moor?” asked Quentin, turning
round.
Whereupon Vose told all he knew about the mysteri-
ous traveller whose secrecy had appeared so suspicious
to his guide. “John says he'd know the mon again,
an' I think he would,” finished Vose; “but, of course,
th' chap 'll take care to keep out o' John's way. An’
look at th' toime th’ mon's had to get off! He'd catch
th’ seven train at North Rode, an’ now it's nigh on
ten.”
“I’m going to the station to meet Dr. McKie. Can
you wait here till he comes? He may wish to hear
how you found my cousin.” -
Vose expressed his willingness to wait any time, all
night if necessary, but ventured a remonstrance re-
specting the fog.
“It's like a blanket, sir. You'll never find th’ station.
Blind John 'll surely be back in a minute. He ought
to ha’ been here afore now.”
The fact was that John, after despatching the tele-
gram, had lingered to relate to the station-master all
that had happened; and had then looked in at the
Wolf to see whether his late companions had reached
there in safety. So that he was but just approaching
the Hall gates when Fleming turned out of them.


2O Wildersmoor
“Weel, ye canna say Elijah achieved any warldly
success,” the doctor had retorted triumphantly, his
native Doric becoming stronger in the excitement of
argument.
Whether owing to his bald head or not, Dr. McKie
had certainly done well in Woffendale, so far as money
was concerned. But a man's life consisteth not in the
abundance of the things which he possesseth; and per-
haps there had been a time long ago, when the old
Scotchman had looked forward to a life different by
far to the cheerless existence he led in the tall narrow
Woffendale house looking out on the murky street;
where his old Scotch housekeeper, as gaunt and
grizzled as himself, kept him supplied with his national
porridge, cock-a-leekie, and that queer dainty whereof
the outside is hard as the heart of man, and the inside
black with rich spice.
But whatever tangle of circumstance had kept Dr.
McKie a bachelor, was known only to himself. He
had come to Woffendale a stranger and had there
settled down, speaking never of kith nor kin, making
his way by natural shrewdness and skill.
With the Fleming family he had been on terms of
intimate friendship for many years, and Quentin had
always been his favourite. Therefore a message from
Wildersmoor interested him more than ordinary and
the one that summoned him to-night had been urgent.
“And what is the accident?” he inquired, as they
stumbled towards the Hall in the fog. Then when
Quentin told him—“Weel, he may have done it him-
Self.”
McKie had not, however, expected to find Ralph
Fleming actually dead, grave though the words of the


Wildersmoor 2 I
telegram had been; and his face grew more serious
as he heard all that had happened.
“Weel lad,” he said to Quentin, after a brief ex-
amination of the body, “ye can console yourself with
thinking naething could have saved your cousin. May-
hap, if a surgeon had been on the spot and stopped
the bleeding he might have lived. But naebody but a
surgeon could have done it. Yes, I see,” as Vose
showed him the blood-stained stick, “that is his own
property. I know it well. The end is loaded. Yes,
that would do it. But, ma certes' " looking again at
the dead man's head, “it was a strong arm that struck
that blow. Robbery no doubt, was the motive. His
money and watch are on him, certainly, but that proves
naething. The murderer might hear footsteps—Blind
John's, for instance—and would fear to linger by the
body. There will be an inquest of course, and it would
be as well to let the police know soon. They might
chance to catch that fellow, after all.”
“I am going over to Woffendale to break this to
my uncle,” said Quentin, “and I thought of seeing the
superintendent there.”
“Nae, nae,” said McKie, shaking his head. “Just
send a message to the police-station, and let him come
here and talk it over. Dinna disturb your uncle to-
night. It's not far off eleven o'clock, and by the time
ye get there, he'll be sleeping in peace. Let him rest
till to-morrow, and I'll go with ye early, and help to
tell him. I'm thinking, I’ll stay here with ye to-night,
Quentin, if there's no objection. Elspeth knows weel
where I am if need be, and I’d like to see the police
when they come.”
“You know you are always welcome at Wilders-


22 Wildersmoor
moor, doctor. If you really think my uncle is best
left in ignorance of what has happened—”
“I’m certain of that,” interrupted McKie, with
emphasis.
“Very well, then I will send a telegram to the police,
as you suggest.”
At last Blind John plodded homewards. He would
cheerfully have spent the whole night in trudging;
partly for the sake of the excitement it afforded him,
and partly because a shining gold coin lay in his
pocket, bestowed upon him by Fleming as guerdon for
his labours.
“I hannot seen a sovereign fur many a day,” he ob-
served to Vose, who accompanied him on this last
journey; “an' since Mr. Ralph is naught mooch to fret
o'er, theer's no harm in saying it's an ill wind that
blows nobody good. Tha'll not be shutting up th’
Wolf th’ minute tha gets back, wilt tha, Vose? It isna
ower late yet, an' I mun ha' a pint o' sixpenny after a’
this.”
“Thee mun swallow it sharp, then,” replied Vose;
“I reckon tha'll ha' toime while I'm clearing th' chaps
out.. An' happen tha'll ha' a chance to earn a sixpence
or two more if tha likes, fur if they've been sitting
theer with only William to look after 'em, they'll noan
be like to see their way whoam in broad dayleet, let
alone in a fog.”
When comparative quiet was restored in Wilders-
moor Hall, Dr. McKie turned the key in the library-
door, where was lying all that remained of Ralph
Fleming.
“Have ye searched in his pockets for papers?” he
>


Wildersmoor - 23
inquired, as he followed Quentin to the dining-room.
Fleming shook his head.
“Weel, ye’d better; for whatever they are, they will
be nae credit either to himself or his family.”
But as Fleming still declined, the doctor remarked
that, “As an auld friend, he'd do it himself,” and
went back to the library, whence he emerged a few
minutes later with a pocket-book and a few letters.
“Here they are,” he observed, laying them on the
table. “Ye can either look over them yourself or give
them to his father.”
“I should prefer not examining them,” said Quen-
tin. “But if you would do so I should feel much
obliged. Perhaps it would be better for someone to
look at them before I take them to Woffendale.”
“That is precisely my opinion,” said McKie. “Why
are ye pacing up and down the room like a caged lion ?
Ye take your cousin's death o'er much to...heart, lad.
I can see it in your face. For my part, it is just one
of the few dispensations of Providence I can freely re-
sign myself to. I'll look o'er these papers. They'll not
take me a minute. And then I'll have a glass of toddy
if ye’ll ask me, Quentin.”
“I am ashamed not to have done so sooner. I am
so bewildered this evening that I never thought of it.”
“Bide a wee,” said the cautious North Briton as
Fleming stretched out his hand to the bell. “It is as
weel not to bring in servants till I have done with
these. There's no telling how much may be seen at
a glance.”
He opened the pocket-book, commenting aloud upon
its contents.


24. Wildersmoor
“A fair amount of money—yes—memoranda—noth-
ing much—betting, and so on. Weel, the auld man
can see that. Now for the letters—three of them.
Here is one signed, ‘J. Ulyett,’ asking for money, and
hinting that he has a right to expect it. It was written
the day before yesterday. Ralph must have got it
yesterday. It is dated from Driffield, and the writer
says he will, perhaps, be in Woffendale shortly. Do
ye know this Ulyett?”
“Yes; and so do you,” taking the letter from Mc-
Kie, “only you don't recollect him. You have met
Jack Ulyett at the Rusholmes’. He is a relative of
theirs. A nice fellow, but always coming to grief one
way or another. He was with Marston and Co. in
Driffield, but that has fallen through; so he is off to
the West Coast.”
“Just wanting in stability,” commented McKie. “I
remember him now. That sort are the rank and file
of the human army, and need to be under a strong
commander. There will be no occasion to show that
to Mr. Fleming, so far as I can judge. If the laddie
has relations in Woffendale, he'd rather they didn't
hear of his affairs, and your uncle would be pretty
sure to tell them, for there are bitter words in that
letter. I don't doubt Ralph deserved them; but ye
know, Quentin, that auld Elkanah thinks maebody
should wag a tongue but himself.”
Quentin dropped the letter into the blaze. For a
moment it was transparent, the handwriting showing
blackly. The next instant it shrivelled, and was gone.
But in that moment a single sentence had stood out
clearly before McKie's eyes. He had read it a few
minutes earlier, but it had not then conveyed to his


Wildersmoor 25
mind the significance it seemed to bear as it glowed
there in the flame.
“I never thought of that!” he cried, making a
snatch at the letter. Too late. It was gone.
“I didn't say burn it!” continued McKie, in great
excitement. “Dinna ye see, lad, how it might be?
Those words that stared me in the face but now—
aye—out of the fire! It was evidence—that letter.
Daft auld gomeril that I am!”
“I understand your suspicion,” said Fleming,
quietly; “but you are wrong. Whether Ulyett came
to Woffendale to-day or not, he never murdered Ralph.
He would not harm a fly.”
“Lad, ye canna tell. Want of money oft makes
desperate men out of the softest. Ye say this Ulyett
had friends and yet was always in difficulty. Now I
ask ye, what was to hinder him coming to Woffendale
to-day, as he proposed to do? How can ye tell that
he did not follow Ralph here and have sharp words
with him on the moor? How can ye tell yon Ulyett
was not the stranger that Blind John led and did not
recognize? He would be a stranger to John. He only
stayed now and then in Woffendale. Dinna ye see
how it all fits like the bits of a puzzle? And we can
both bear witness to the letter.”
“No,” interrupted Quentin, leaning against the
mantelpiece and looking down at McKie as he sat in
an easy-chair before the fire, his hard features aglow
with excitement; “you must pardon me, doctor, but
I am so convinced of Ulyett's entire innocence that
nothing will induce me to utter a word that would
cast the faintest suspicion upon him.”
“There's the letter,” said McKie, emphatically.


26 Wildersmoor
“We will not mention it.”
“Not?”—McKie leant back and stared at Fleming
in speechless amazement.
“I think not,” repeated Quentin, deliberately.
If McKie had the North British obstinacy he had
also the North British shrewdness and caution. In his
place old Elkanah Fleming would have pooh-poohed
any opposition to his own ideas, and would have per-
sisted in detailing to the first policeman who arrived
the contents of the letter and his own deductions there-
from. Not so McKie. He did not for a moment
swerve from his own conviction that there was ground
for suspicion against Ulyett; but he felt that Quentin
spoke as one having authority and he recognized that
he himself might be groping among pitfalls of which
he knew nothing—deep pools veiled from his eyes by
mists of ignorance.
“Of course,” Fleming resumed after a pause, “I
have no right to appear to dictate to you in this matter,
but it is a terrible thing to charge an absolutely inno-
cent man with a crime. I cannot permit Ulyett to be
perhaps arrested. His very embarrassments would tell
against him.” -
“Naturally,” responded McKie, dryly. “Never-
theless, since ye put it so strongly, lad, I am will-
ing to let the matter rest awhile. Here are the
other two letters. I see Aveland's handwriting
on one, so I’ll open it first.” Fleming made a
swift movement as though to take from McKie
the letter he was slowly unfolding. He checked
himself apologetically, but with an angry knitting of
the brows.
“I seem to be perpetually contradicting you this


Wildersmoor 27
evening, doctor, yet I am not sure that we ought to
read Dr. Aveland's correspondence.”
McKie paused and considered a moment. “I think,
under the circumstances, we may be allowed to do so.
Aveland is not the man to have anything to say to
your cousin that the whole world might not hear, and
the letter may explain the reason of Ralph being on
the moor to-night. So, with your permission, Quen-
tin, I'll just look at it.”
Fleming offered no further opposition. He knew
the gist of that letter. He had heard of it already.
“Short, and to the purpose, and very proper,” was
McKie's comment. “Will ye read it?” holding out
the note.
Fleming shook his head.
“Then I'll tell ye. It's just this. Ralph seems to
have been going over to Sandhayes—intruding there,
in fact; and Aveland just tells him roundly that his
presence is not desired. Depend upon it, that is what
brought Ralph here to-night. He was going to Sand-
hayes to remonstrate. The assurance of one like him
—for worthless he was—lifting his eyes to such a
bonnie lassie as Aveland's daughter! I would have
got up and forbid the banns myself. I suppose she will
be going away to relations down south when her father
dies. Weel, I shall miss the sight of her face.”
“Is Dr. Aveland worse? He did not seem worse
when I saw him yesterday.”
“I’ll not say worse,” returned McKie, cautiously,
“but he canna last long, and he may go off any min-
ute. He will keep up to the last. Ah, that is just a
dispensation of Providence I canna agree with. There
are plenty of natural-born rascals that could weel be


28 Wildersmoor
spared, and it's a real loss to the world that Aveland
should leave it, and a terrible loss to his daughter.”
Here the North Briton paused and looked up at
Quentin.
“I have often wondered,” he began, then stopped,
checked by something in the young man's face. It
needed a keen observer to detect the faint change of
expression, yet McKie saw it, and felt instinctively
that he must not finish the sentence.
“Here is the third letter and the last,” he said. “A
very uneducated hand, and signed ‘Rossela.” Uml
—precisely what I suspected when that girl disap-
peared from Wildersmoor. She tells Ralph that Ulyett
had called to see him, and was much put out by not
finding him there. Ye see, Quentin, how everything
points to Ulyett as the man who crossed the moor with
Blind John. He was first vexed at not seeing Ralph
in Driffield. Then he writes that letter which is, un-
fortunately, burnt. Then, no doubt, he comes to Wof-
fendale, finds Ralph here, they quarrel about the money,
and there ye are l’”
“No,” said Fleming. “Ulyett never touched
Ralph.”
“Weel, I agreed to let the matter rest awhile, and
so I will. Nevertheless, I have my opinion,” shaking
his head. “As for Rossela Darlow—the girl was al-
ways a bad lot. There never was any mistake about
that. And, I daresay, she has feathered her nest pretty
well. I should say ye can show this letter to auld
Elkanah or not at your discretion. By itself it does
not incriminate Ulyett at all. And now, Quentin,
I'll take my toddy, if ye’ll kindly order it.”


CHAPTER III
OFFENDALE is one of those Caves of Despair
that men construct for themselves and their
fellows. God Almighty never created such a den of
dirt. The wild thyme spreads its scented carpet alike
for king and beggar, and the wild bird sings its song.
But carpet and song and every sweetness and consola-
tion of life are denied to poverty in the brick and mor-
tar cave called a manufacturing town. There the hard
pavement only is under the tired feet, the jarring
noise of crowded humanity the only song for the tired
ears, and day by day, rich and poor alike—deprived of
the restful eternal pleasures provided for them in the
glory of earth and sky—grow more and more rabid
for amusement, and less and less capable of enjoy-
ment.
“I cannot tell him,” said Quentin, as he and McKie
got out at Woffendale Station the next morning, and
turned into the wide dingy street that led to Elkanah
Fleming's house.
“I will do it,” said McKie. “I expected to have to
do it myself. But I canna see why ye should trouble
owre much. If Ralph had been your ain brother, in-
stead of just a cousin, and one no weel disposed to-
wards ye either, ye could not fash yoursel mair about
it. Ye look pale under your tan, lad, and your e'en
are owre bright. There is Rusholme. I will ask him
to come with us.”
29


3O Wildersmoor
John Rusholme, a well-known and respected Wof-
fendale merchant, was an old friend of the Fleming
family. He came up with the evident intention of
speaking to Quentin and Mr. McKie, and his face was
grave.
“I heard a rumour this morning of Ralph Flem-
ing's death,” he said. “Surely it is not true?”
“Unhappily it is,” said Quentin. “We thought—I
hoped—you would help us to tell my uncle.”
“Certainly—certainly I am sincerely grieved. Not
that Ralph was all he should be, but one always hopes
for reformation, and he was an only child. How did
it happen?”
McKie related the story as the three walked up the
street. The news was evidently spreading fast, for
several people stopped them to ask if it were
SO.
“How could anyone in Woffendale know so soon?”
Quentin uttered the question almost impatiently, a
rare mood for one so even-tempered as he.
McKie glanced at him.
“What does it matter, lad? The whole town will
know in an hour. And what does it matter?”
“No, it does not matter,” Fleming returned, ab-
sently.
“I imagine,” said Rusholme, in his slow grave tones,
“that the news first reached us by way of the railroad.
My wife heard it from one of the maids, and she had
been told by a porter. I have no doubt,” addressing
Quentin, “that the men at the Works are discussing
it already.”
“I daresay,” replied Quentin, looking up at the
smoke-darkened stone house which was the end of


Wildersmoor 33
you, doctor. I am very grateful for all you have
done.”
“Weel, don't let it worry ye, and I'll take that as
my fee.”
The door had hardly closed behind him when the
elder Fleming reappeared. “McKie gone? Off to
his patients, eh? Look here, Quentin. Rusholme and
I think this will do,” holding out a paper.
“Your uncle,” said Rusholme, “wished to name a
higher sum. But I consider five hundred pounds
enough when offered for finding the man who went to
North Rode with Blind John. We are not sure that
the stranger is the murderer.”
“Not sure!” exclaimed Elkanah. “Rusholme, I'll
stake my life on it. Of course, that fellow is my son's
murderer.”
“I believe he is,” replied Rusholme, “but we cannot
be absolutely certain. Five hundred is enough. It will
be easy to raise it at any time if you should decide to
do so. I need not say I think the offer of reward a
wise step. It will stimulate the police for one thing,
and may perhaps induce them to regard a man's life
as of almost the same value as his watch. Do you go
to Wildersmoor now P”
Elkanah nodded.
“Come with us, Rusholme.”
“I am afraid I hardly can. But I will see to these
being printed,” touching the paper in his hand. “That
will save you a little time and trouble, and I will look
in when you return.”
Elkanah nodded again.
“I am much obliged. Yes, come again this after-
noon. I shall be back about three.”


34 Wildersmoor
“And will you ask dear Esmé if she can spend to-
day with me, Mr. Rusholme?” said Mrs. Holt. “It
would be a great consolation to me to have her.”
“I am sure she will be most happy to come,” re-
plied Esmé's father. “Our sympathy with you is very
great.”
Which was true. The Rusholmes had rather hoped
to see Esmé the wife of Ralph Fleming. Not that
Ralph was exactly an amiable—or even a decent—
character, but if Esmé wished to reform him, it was
not for her parents to object. It is but just to Mr. and
Mrs. Rusholme to say that they would not for a mo-
ment have urged, or even advised, their daughter to
marry Ralph. They were simply acquiescent. A
higher degree of virtue could not be expected from
them. The Fleming wealth was immense, and Ralph's
father and aunt evidently favoured the marriage, or
Esmé would not have been so constantly invited to the
house. A day had seldom passed without Mrs. Holt
sending for her, either to drive or to dine and spend the
evening. Therefore Ralph Fleming's unexpected
death came as a shock to the Rusholme household.
Perhaps Mr. Rusholme had hardly realized how much
he had counted on the marriage till this morning,
when he knew that fate had swept it into that vast
rubbish heap of things that might have been. The
thought of the chance that was lost followed him to
his office; made itself evident in the note he sent to
his daughter, giving her Mrs. Holt's message; haunted
him all day. “It was a pity,” he said to himself re-
peatedly, even while he tried to persuade himself that
Esmé was better without such a husband as Ralph
Fleming.


Wildersmoor 35
Old Elkanah, driving to the station with his nephew,
alluded to the matter.
“Maria always set her mind on marrying poor
Ralph to that eldest girl of Rusholme's. I don't know
that I should have objected. She is not much to look
at, and a fool. But she might have managed Ralph.
Well, you are the only one left now, Quentin,” this
with a suppressed groan.
Quentin listened silently, wishing for words where-
with to comfort the grieving father, yet knowing that
he had none to offer—that he, of all men, could have
none to offer. To him the events of the last sixteen or
seventeen hours had been as a frightful dream. Surely
awaking would come—that blessed awaking which
never does comes after great calamity. For many days
there would be for Quentin no dewy Aurora, but the
heavy returning to consciousness of the great Floren-
tine's Dawn, back from the mists of sleep to a dark-
ened and troubled future. He never clearly remem-
bered how that day passed. Vaguely he recollected
taking his uncle to Wildersmoor; to the quiet library
where that which had been Ralph was lying on the
table. He recalled, too, Blind John, standing in the
hall as he had stood the night before; repeating as it
seemed interminably the story of his walk through
the fog with the stranger. There was also Vose, who
took up John's story when it stopped at the Grey Wolf;
and the deferential police inspector. All these passed
before Quentin as phantasmagoria; and ever beyond
them—more distinct than all—was that stark figure
lying in the library. It seemed to be always present;
to be listening to each voice that told the tale of its
earthly ending, or debated the manner in which it


36 Wildersmoor
had parted with life, and detailed the fruitless seeking
for the unknown murderer. For the search had failed,
and the inspector met blandly the anger of Elkanah
Fleming, explaining the reasons of failure.
“You see, sir, our hope was that the officials at
North Rode would be able to describe and identify the
man, but they are positive no stranger left the station
either by the seven or any other train that evening.
Therefore we think he must have walked on to River-
ton along the line, guided by the fence and unseen in
the fog. So now we do not know whether he was dark
or fair, tall or short. Blind John says he was young,
by his step, and John may be right, but that one fact
is not much to go upon. Whoever he was he must
have followed Mr. Ralph from Wildersmoor station,
where he arrived at five o'clock from Woffendale. At
that time the fog was not so dense. Doubtless the in-
creasing fog emboldened the fellow to attack Mr.
Ralph. He may have demanded money, or attempted
to snatch his watch, and, failing, must have wrenched
Mr. Ralph's stick from him and struck him with it.
The end is loaded. Perhaps Mr. Ralph threatened
him with it. The blow may have been only intended
to stun—not to kill. Then something appears to have
startled the murderer. He fled away, through the fog
and naturally lost himself. Or, if he was no thief, but
a personal enemy of Mr. Ralph's, he would hasten
away from the spot through fear of detection. Thanks
to the fog nobody saw him come, nobody saw him go;
and the ground is too frozen for any footprints. In
fact, sir, we have absolutely no clue whatever. Blind
John says he should recognize the man's voice. Well,
if he ever does, we may hit upon something. But as


Wildersmoor 37
John told the man he should know him again, we may
be sure that the fellow will keep out of John's way.
Of course, we shall do our utmost, sir; but I confess
that unless some fresh evidence turns up, we see little
chance of discovering the man.”
“Somebody must have seen him at the station here,”
said Elkanah.
“Unfortunately, sir, the tickets were taken by a
young boy who is a complete stranger to the neigh-
bourhood and who was so engrossed by the to him—
novel responsibility that he did not notice the passen-
gers who got out except to be careful that they gave
him their tickets. You see, sir, the night was foggy,
and the lad had only a lantern by the gate, so that it
is natural he would not notice those who passed when
they were all strangers to him. There were several
third class tickets and one first. We have supposed
the first to be Mr. Ralph's.”
“What makes you suggest that my son might have
had a personal enemy? Of whom are you thinking?”
“Oh, not of anyone in particular, sir, oh–no.
Only—” with a little deprecatory cough—“Mr. Ralph
might have had a personal enemy.”
Ralph Fleming was likely to have had a good many
personal enemies, and of an unscrupulous class, too.
His father knew this as well as anybody. He appealed
to Quentin.
“Cannot you hit upon anyone who would be likely
to owe Ralph a grudge?” But Quentin shook his
head. Elkanah turned to the inspector again.
“You know, Hills,” he said, authoritatively, “you
police are far too apt to let a thing of this sort quietly
slide when you cannot discover the man immediately.


4O Wildersmoor
Darlow, whose grandmother lives close by. I had a
sort of idea she might have had a quarrel with Mr.
Ralph since she went away, and she's a bad lot, and
revengeful. But Mr. Fleming tells me there was a
letter from her found on Mr. Ralph that shows no ill-
feeling, and she has not left Driffield. Besides, even
a strong young woman could never have given such a
blow. So we are driven to think it must have been
done by the man whom Blind John took to North
Rode; especially as he did not take the train there, but
must have walked along the line to Riverton or Burne,
and that looks queer to me—looks as though he wished
to leave no trace behind him. He must have been
strong, too, to strike Mr. Ralph down like that, for
he was as tall as you, sir, only a bit slimmer. I have
sent one of our men to Driffield to make inquiries.
Mr. Ralph was backwards and forwards there a good
deal.”
“He had a shooting-box on the moors,” said Quen-
tin.
“So I have understood, sir. We may hear some-
thing there,” doubtfully.
Here Elkanah Fleming came out of the dining-room
with two slips of paper.
“One each,” he said, giving them to his nephew and
the inspector. “The fellow who crossed the moor
must be known to somebody who'll not be likely to
keep his mouth shut when he hears he can get five
hundred pounds, and perhaps twice that, by opening
it.”
“There are men who would not speak even for a
thousand,” said Quentin, folding up the paper and
pocketing it.


42 Wildersmoor
It was an expectant sea of faces that looked up at
Quentin as he stood on the steps of the principal door-
way, the light from within streaming out upon him
into the night, his height and breadth looking almost
gigantic in the confused mingling of brilliancy and
gloom. Below, the light fell brightly here and there
on the mass of men. Beyond it they stood in deep
shadow, save where a flickering gaslight by the gate
shed a feeble glimmer. There was a vague idea among
the hands that Fleming intended to make a formal an-
nouncement of his cousin's death, accompanying it,
probably, with a few moral reflections, and as much
good as could be said of the dead man without calling
up feelings of sardonic mirth in the listeners. “An'
that'll not be mooch, neyther!” commented one burly
fellow.
Then the various conjectures were hushed into
silence as Quentin opened the slip of paper.
“You have all heard of my cousin's sad death,” he
said. “There is no need for me to tell you anything
of that. Mr. Fleming has decided to offer a reward
for the discovery of the murderer. To-morrow you
will see the placards respecting it. Meanwhile, my
uncle wishes me to read the notice to you.”
Quentin's voice was one that carried well. Clear,
yet soft, with a penetrating quality that travelled far
without jarring the ears on which it struck, overcom-
ing without difficulty the noisy rattle of the street be-
yond the silent yard where the men stood listening to
the few brief sentences.
“That is all.” He refolded the paper, looking down
on the upturned faces. “That is all. But I am sure
that without any inducement whatever, each one of


Wildersmoor 43
you would—if possible—hand over the murderer to
the doom—” he paused a moment— “which he
deserves.”
Another silence followed, a silence quite different to
the stillness in which they had hearkened to Elkanah's
message and Quentin's words. That silence had been
alert, this was meditative—nay, to a sensitive spirit
there was even in it a faint suggestion of dissent.
“'Tis natural Mr. Fleming should take on about
Mr. Ralph, being his son,” tentatively observed the
engineer, a strong, thickset fellow with a short black
beard; “an’ murder's a bad job, o' course, an' we're
all main sorry for Mr. Fleming.”
Here the speaker stopped, as not wishing to commit
himself by expressing any decided opinion respecting
the reward, and a murmur of approval went through
the crowd.
“Mr. Fleming will be glad to have your sympathy.
He will tell you so himself. Good-night!”
“Good-night, sir,” echoed the men, as Quentin came
down the steps, and, passing through the yard, went
his way along the noisy street to the station, and so
back to the hush of Wildersmoor and the mocking
companionship of the dead man in the library.
Freed from the restraint of Quentin's presence, the
Atlas hands commented freely upon the offered reward
as they poured out of the yard.
“Five hundred pound—an' happen a thousand—
isna bad. It 'ud set up a chap fur loife, an' owd
Elkanah 'ud pay up sharp, too. If it wurna blood-
money! Folks say it allus brings bad luck, but I think
I’d risk it if I’d th’ chance.”
“I mout if I know’d who th’ chap wur, an’ what he


44 Wildersmoor
did it fur,” opined another. “I dunnot say as I’d hond
o'er a Woffendale mon to th’ police, seeing what Mr.
Ralph wur. Happen it's a stranger.”
“I reckon we needna worrit oursen wi' thinkin' on't,
lads,” broke in the voice of the engineer, “fur it isna
likely th’ felly 'll tell o' hissen, an' how else can he be
found out? Who's going to worrit a chap wi' nowt
against him but Blind John's recollecting his voice?
He's getten off scot free—that's about it. An’, since
somebody wur to be murdered, it's summat to be thank-
ful fur as it wur Mr. Ralph—theer!”


Wildersmoor 47
That same afternoon, when Ralph Fleming had been
carried back to his father's house and the old Hall
was free from the shadow of death, the Hall's master
turned out of the gates and struck across the moor
with long swift strides. There had been so much to
attend to, so many people coming and going, that
this—the end of the third day—was, as it were, the
first breathing-space Fleming had had since Vose and
his companions halted with their grim burden beneath
the pines.
The December twilight was already closing in. A
little chill wind rustled the withered fern and dry
sedges by the frozen pools, and died away seaward
in faint eerie sighs. Every leaf and twig and stem
of the tawny fronds of the dead bracken, and the
copper-coloured brambles was edged with powdery
rime, that shook off in tiny crystals when the wind
swayed the stiff branches to and fro over the shrivelled
herbage and deep dark moss. A desolate scene, per-
haps, to a stranger, but to Quentin the moor was as
the face of a familiar friend, changing in expression
—unchanging in feeling. So still and lonely, so grey
and dim; waking up into flame now and then beneath
the light of dawn or glow of sunset—only for a brief
space, long enough to show what a flush and glory of
colour there was on that dusky moorland. Then re-
suming its sad-hued garments of mist and shadow
and grey cloud, as though it were dreeing its weird
in silent endurance. Little wonder the Lancashire folk
are such fatalists. There nature itself teaches them.
Even the moaning wind coming up over the sandhills
from the restless sea seems to whisper the resistless-
ness of fate. The great extent of moor made it soli-


48 Wildersmoor
tary. Its scanty population was not much given to
walking, and the dwellers on the outlying farms pre-
ferred taking their holiday jaunts further afield. So
it was possible to wander about for hours without
meeting any human being, without even catching a
glimpse of a distant figure making its way across the
dusky expanse.
Fleming walked on in the gathering gloom, the dark-
ening sky overhead, the steel-like gleam of the frozen
pools beside him. He was almost as familiar with the
moor as was Blind John, having wandered over it at
all times and seasons; in the white dawn—at sunset—
at dead of night; in warmth of summer and in winter
snow: so that his feet mechanically led him whither
he would go.
He was, perhaps, two miles from the Hall, when a
figure came slowly from behind a clump of willows
and into the path—an old woman with snow-white
hair and piercing black eyes. She wore a long dark
blue cloak, the hood drawn over her head. Quentin's
hand involuntarily sought his pocket. It was winter,
and Granny Darlow was poor, and, what is worse,
old. For poverty may be remedied in a moment, but
none can cure age save the magician Death. Granny
was accounted a wise woman by the neighbourhood,
but among the strange herbs she gathered on Wilders-
moor there was none to lift the weight of years.
So being himself young and strong, and kindly dis-
posed towards all living things, it was natural that
Fleming should feel compassion for the old woman,
giving her not only money—which may be thrown by
anyone—but also the laughing sympathetic friendship
which was Quentin's characteristic and the reason of


Wildersmoor 49
his popularity. He stood high in Granny Darlow's
good opinion, higher than he was aware.
“He wur summat loike a mon—soul an' body,” she
would say to the Wildersmoor folk. “Most chaps has
neither, as fur as I con make out!”
“Theer's Mr. Ralph, his cousin, nigh as big, if it's
th' bigness as takes thy fancy,” Blind John had once
said.
“Dost tha take me fur siccan a fool as thysen P”
Granny had responded.
John, however, had merely spoken for the sake of
annoying the old woman. He himself had a great
admiration for Quentin and Quentin's donations, so
he protested hastily and truthfully “that he never
thowt well o' Mr. Ralph—not he.”
“Tha needna fear I'll tell on thee,” replied Granny,
disdainfully. “Tha says it to cross me. I know thee
reet well. I con believe tha dunnot like Mr. Ralph,
fur tha never gets owt from him, neither speech nor
brass. An' tha likes Mr. Quentin three parts fur what
tha gets an' th' remainder fur hissen—theer!”
Granny Darlow's regard was not in the slightest de-
gree tinged with any mercenary feeling. She would
have been equally devoted to Fleming had he never
possessed a penny. What she admired was the young
man's overflowing vitality, his good looks and sunny
temper, his honourable simplicity of character. These
last few days, during the general excitement caused
by Ralph Fleming's mysterious death, Granny Darlow
alone had made no comment whatever except that
“theer wur a mort o' noise being made o'er a chap
as wur better out o' the world than in it.” For the
rest, she went about with her mouth grimly shut,
y


5o Wildersmoor
giving no reply to the numerous indirect inquiries
made about her absent grand-daughter, Rossela.
Now, meeting Quentin in the pale snowlit twilight
on Wildersmoor, her black eyes encountered his dark
grey ones with an inscrutable look in their depths, the
look of one who sees the lifeboat disappearing in
turmoil of wind and wave. It may return the same
gallant boat; or it may return shattered, disabled; or
—not at all.
“Cold for the New Year, Granny,” said Fleming,
lightly. “Here is something to buy a gown with,”
dropping a coin into the withered hand.
“Ay, to be sure, ’tis th’ New Year to-morrow,” with
a little curtsey. “I wish thee good luck through it,
Mr. Quentin, an’ through every year after.”
He nodded smiling, and passed on. Then a sudden
recollection of the old woman's history shot through
his mind, and an equally sudden feeling of compre-
hension. There were strange tales on Wildersmoor of
Granny Darlow's youth, and Fleming, like everyone
else, had heard them—but unheeding. Her life-story,
true or false, had had no particular interest for him.
Now, however, he recalled those whispered tales, and
wondered if that grim drama had indeed been played,
and if that withered old woman with the brilliant eyes
were sister-spirit to her of Mycenae. He turned and
looked back. Granny Darlow was standing where he
had left her, gazing after him. The discovery gave
Quentin a slight shock. Why should she gaze at him
- thus earnestly 2 He did not remember her ever doing
so before. But then he had never noticed. Was there
some subtle change in him that was perceived by the
swift intuition of the old woman? A moment later


Wildersmoor 51
he told himself this idea was but the reflex of the fan-
tastic colouring that his thoughts had taken concern-
ing her. Besides, what did it matter? What did any-
thing matter now?
He walked on rapidly, careless whither he went, and
the night closed round him—a still, glittering winter
night; the grey-white earth beneath, the starry blue-
black sky overhead. In the distance the lights of a
farmhouse shone warmly. Fleming turned his back
upon them, going in an opposite direction. After a
while he stopped, turned again and struck into a path
that led westward to the sea. A mile out of the little
fishing village of North Rode stood an old farmhouse,
a plantation of larches sheltering it from the north-
east. It had been added to by Dr. Aveland, and was
now a quaint comfortable residence. In front the
garden sloped to the high road that skirted the beach,
where the dim sea rolled up with its ceaseless thunder.
A few yards from the gate Fleming stood still. There
were lights in the windows, warm lights of home that
shone through the drawn curtains into the eyes of the
man outside and down into his heart. Just so had they
shone four days ago, but then he had not lingered
without as now. When anything cleaves a life in
twain, sets a gulf between past and present, sense of
time is lost. There is no time to us, and each day is
as a thousand years. One counts one's life not by the
dates in the almanack, but by one's own changes of
thought and feeling. “When I thought that; when I
felt thus; ” these are the only dates, written on the
human spirit like the changing characters on the demon
Sabres, the last writing permanent.
Therefore to Quentin those lights shone with a


52 Wildersmoor
strange familiarity, as though he had been long, long
absent. He had not intended to come here to-night,
yet he had come. He was not going in. By-and-by
he would; not to-night. By-and-by, when the Ave-
lands returned. They were going up to London to-
morrow, to stay two months. Dr. Aveland had said
so in a note of polite regret that he had sent to
Quentin on hearing of Ralph Fleming's death. By-
and-by he would go there again—as a friend. A ques-
tion had come into Fleming's life, and he was pre-
pared to solve it in the characteristically masculine
fashion of running away. All men, even the best and
noblest, believe that the gravest problems of life can
be satisfactorily settled by flight of one kind or an-
other. If a man fails in his business he cuts his
throat; believing that he thereby makes things more
comfortable for his penniless wife and children. If
some unexpected obstacle arises to his union with the
woman he loves, and he has already spoken to her of
marriage, he will write her a letter of farewell, and
run away. If he has not so spoken, he will congratu-
late himself that the solution of the question is thus
rendered easier, and will run away in effect; letting
his changed manner—and that only—tell her of his
changed thought. It never occurs to him that she has
as much interest in the matter as he, and has a right,
at least, to know the reason of a change that affects
her so vitally. Flight seldom settles any question: it
still remains unanswered. But flight is easy; and the
man who will unconcernedly face shot and shell sick-
ness and death, turns coward before a moral difficulty,
and runs away.
Therefore Quentin Fleming, being confronted with


Wildersmoor 53
a terrible knot in his thread of life, and having never
perceived that, the Fates being women, their intricate
weaving is best understood by a woman, determined,
in masculine fashion to run away from the woman
who could untie the knot for him, could answer the
question which to him was unanswerable. Only four
days since he had crossed that threshold with such
high hopes and bounding pulses. Only four days
since he had said to himself that the next time—the
next time! Well, here was the next time. Southward
over the roof glittered Orion. Vaguely as one thinks
in dull pain, Fleming recalled some far-off dreadful
fancy linked with the familiar constellation and fraught
with new significance. Was there not in the great
nebula of Orion the star-jewelled phantom of that
grisly shape that “wore the likeness of a kingly
crown?” A phantom that for Quentin had no terrors
so long as he lived his life alone, but that stood be-
tween him and happiness. Invisible was that grim
shape, hidden in the constellation that became its out-
ward visible sign; so that Orion, lifting his starry
splendour above the low roof of Sandhayes, his sword
pointing downwards over Wildersmoor, stood as a
warning angel barring the way lest that which was
hidden should be revealed.
The stars in their courses move swiftly. Even as
Quentin looked, the Hunter's noiseless stride took him
higher—higher. Would those stars in their courses
fight for or against him? Still Orion marched on, and
the sea sang its song. The tide was high, the white
foam glimmering in the starlight as it rushed over
the shingle. How long he stood there Fleming never
knew. At last he turned away. We always have to


54 Wildersmoor
turn away from everything, no matter what. There
is never any pause save the briefest. Whether the
path lies over thorns or on softest grass, we may not
linger. If we creep into a thicket to give a moment's
rest to our stiff and bleeding limbs, Time and Neces-
sity, our task-masters, find us out, crack their whips
in our ears, and we get up and stagger on. And,
what is worse, we may not shelter others, not even
help them. Our sufferings do not alleviate theirs. If
we fall for very weariness we may not lie there and
die. We must rise and be driven once more—driven
—driven—till our feet touch the cool blessed shadowy
waters of Death, and then the whip-cracking ceases—
so far as we know.


CHAPTER V
HE fishing-village of North Rode possessed an
ivy-clad church, a lych-gate, and a churchyard
wherein the gravestones leant all ways and every way,
as though the strong sea-winds had made the little
plot of ground their chiefest wrestling-place. There
was the Vicarage, a red-brick house with the date,
1710, cut on a small stone slab let in over the front
door; the station, the solitary shop, which was also
the post-office; and the smithy. The cottages of the
fisher-folk ran for a short distance in two parallel lines
from the church, thus forming the one street. Then,
apparently becoming weary of monotony, they
straggled aimlessly about, finally flinging themselves
recklessly anywhere on beach and moor.
Sandhayes, where the Avelands lived, was about a
mile from the village. It had once been a farm-house,
the property of an energetic maiden lady who carried
on the farm. She was a cousin of Mrs. Aveland, and
so Frances spent most of her childhood here, her par-
ents being glad that the child should have the pure
air and free life impossible in London. When the old
lady died, she left the farm to Frances. Mrs. Ave-
land had been dead many years, and Dr. Aveland re-
solved to leave town and spend on Wildersmoor what
remained to him of life. His health had latterly failed
seriously, the winters on that part of the coast are
usually mild, and his old friend, Nicholas Fleming,
55


56 Wildersmoor
Quentin's father, lived only seven miles away at Wil-
dersmoor Hall. Frances returned to the moor with
delight; the place where one has spent one's childhood
is generally the place one loves best. This was three
years ago. During those three years Nicholas Fleming
had died, and Quentin reigned at Wildersmoor. The
Vicar of North Rode, too, had passed away—an old
man—and his successor, the Rev. Cyril Paton, had
married a friend of Frances Aveland.
This bright, frosty morning in February Mrs. Paton
turned out of the village along the beach-road to Sand-
hayes. Despite the chill of the air, there was in it
a faint suggestion as of a coming thaw. The rime-
laden trees did not hold themselves so stiffly; the
sandy ground had lost its iron ring; the frozen grass
glistened wetly in the sunshine; a subtle change had
passed even over the far-sparkling green of the sea
—a film, a gossamer haze. But Nina Paton cared for
none of these things. For her there was no beauty in
those low sand-hills melting into the dusky expanse
of Wildersmoor. It needed a different cast of mind
to love that soft bare grey coast, full of tones of deli-
cate yellow, and dusky brown, and deep dark emerald,
and no brighter colour save at glow of sunset or sun-
burst after storm.
So Nina walked on, eyes and ears alike unheeding.
From the village came sounds of homely human life.
The ring of the blacksmith's hammer on the anvil, the
clatter of clogs on the round stones of the village
street, the shout of a fisherman to a comrade on the
beach, the whistle of a train at North Rode station:
sounds that grew fainter till only the murmur of the
sea broke the stillness.


Wildersmoor 57
How desolate the moorlands looked, she thought,
outstretched beneath the pale blue sky; a wide undu-
lating plain of warm deep colouring, umbers, and sien-
nas, and faded wallflower tints, with here and there
a touch of orange, and here and there a touch of
scarlet, where the sunshine caught a vivid frond of
withered bracken or tattered bramble; and, over all,
the glittering greyness of the melting rime. The red
roof of Sandhayes nestled cosily enough by the pro-
tecting larch wood, the trees forming a rampart to
north and east, but leaving the old farm-house open to
west and south—to sun and sea. It was a low irregular
building, with a big old-fashioned porch and a wide
path from door to gate, on either side of which stood
a closely-clipped yew, that on the right being trimmed
into the shape of a gigantic teapot, that on the left
into a fair-sized boat. Perhaps the original clipper,
inspired by the neighbouring village, wished to sym-
bolize the fisherman's life at home and abroad. Be as
that may, the oldest man in North Rode could not
recall the time when “boart an’ teapot” had not stood
at the gate of Sandhayes. And they were likely to
remain, for Frances Aveland greatly delighted in them.
What she liked her father also liked, and so all things
were at peace.
Mrs. Paton's face assumed a more cheerful ex-
pression as her eyes rested on Sandhayes. They were
pretty eyes, of a soft grey-blue, and the face was
pretty, too; the features irregular, but the colouring
bright; and the fair curls that clustered thickly be-
neath her hat—and, indeed, all over her head, for
Nina Paton wore her hair short—were no dull flaxen
tint, but shining yellow. Yet more smiling became


58 Wildersmoor
the grey-blue eyes when a small terrier bounded out
of the white gate, and, recognizing a friend, rushed
towards her with effusive welcome. Following the
dog came a girl of stately beauty and slow grace of
movement; black-haired, with straight black brows
over eyes that were not black nor brown, as might
have been expected, but grey—the grey of clear lake-
water before dawn; eyes that might have been those of
a Nixe, that suggested some far northern ancestry.
Signy's soul might have looked out upon the world
through just such grey windows. The face was a
delicate oval, the mouth and chin firmly modelled, the
complexion almond-white, with carnations, the head
nobly poised. Small wonder that Quentim Fleming
saw that face ever before him; drawing him across
Wildersmoor early and late, in storm and shine; un-
consciously urging him to sacrifice himself, lest the
threatening shadow ahead should darken life for her;
now, when that shadow seemed to his calmer mind
less distinct, raising his hopes once more, drawing
him again to Sandhayes over those seven wild miles.
The Avelands had been in London for nearly two
months; a time of dolour for Nina Paton, who was
as a lost soul in the absence of her friend.
“Oh, it is good to have you back again, Frances!”
she said, fervently. “Six weeks and more of solid
parish, without the relief of your society, is rather
much. Observe my haste to welcome you home.”
“I do observe it, and am grateful. I also was com-
ing to you.”
“But not so quickly. Who is it that says the feet
of Love are never so swift as those of Hate? Your
affection for me does not waft you to North Rode


Wildersmoor 59
with the celerity that my rage with parochial triviali-
ties wafts me to Sandhayes.”
Frances laughed softly.
“It may be so. Certainly people do not take so much
trouble to make their friends happy as they do to make
their enemies uncomfortable. Yet if you wanted me,
Nina, I think I should not be long on the way.”
“I know you would not. There is a ferocious in-
tegrity about you that would compel you to come to
and stand by a friend to the uttermost, so long as that
friend demanded it of you, even if the said friend
did not amuse you. That,” continued Mrs. Paton, re-
flectively, “I consider the highest point of human
virtue—to exert yourself on behalf of a person who
does not amuse you.”
“Is it the parish that does not amuse you just
now P or is it Mr. Paton P”
“Oh, I am not so unreasonable as to expect amuse-
ment from a man who has undertaken to spend his
life in setting an example to others. As for the parish,
did I not say it was solid—too solid P. With you, and
your father, and Quentin Fleming, all away, I have
almost ceased to be human. Is not laughter the dis-
tinguishing characteristic of humanity?”
“Why did you not send for Dr. McKie?”
“I would have done so, but he and Cyril always
fight. The Prayer Book versus the Shorter Cate-
chism. Esmé Rusholme came over several times—
not to see me. Twice we went to the palace. Once
the Bishop came to us. We have been to three dinners
and a concert. I don't know which was the worst.”
“Who were at the dinners? The usual people, I
suppose?”


Wildersmoor 61
“I am sure I do not know where we are going. Will
this path lead to the Moss Farm?”
“Certainly. It passes the gate.”
“That will do. I have to take a parcel there for
Cyril, a pastoral parcel, you understand, and I hoped
you would come with me. The moor is so creepy, and
Ralph Fleming's murder makes it worse than ever—
more ghostly, I mean. People have talked about noth-
ing else ever since.”
“The moor is usually so safe that such a thing
happening upon it naturally excites the whole country.
Then, too, the Flemings being so well known makes
the interest greater. And the circumstances were very
strange,” concluded Frances, thoughtfully.
“There speaks that ferocious integrity I have noticed
in you. It will not suffer you to express regret for
such a worthless fellow as Ralph Fleming.”
“When I spoke I was not thinking especially of
Ralph Fleming, but of the manner of his death. Still,
you are so far right that I cannot see why a lot of
untruthful sentiment should be expressed immediately
such a man is dead. If there is nothing good to be
said, then say nothing at all. One can always keep
silence.”
“Can one? I daresay it is easy to you because you
have chiefly lived here, and Wildersmoor seems to be
perpetually laying an invisible finger on one's lips.
Never was there a better background for queer misty
horrors—like this murder, for instance. There was
nothing particularly horrid in the manner of it, the
strangeness lies in the sequel: the blind man guiding
the murderer through the fog, then finding the body.


62 Wildersmoor
All that could have happened nowhere else save in
this wild desolation, among these grim people with
their noisy clogs. As you are not a native I permit
myself these observations,” added Nina, apologetically.
Frances laughed. She was used to these outbursts
of Nina Paton's.
“If you had lived on Wildersmoor as a child you
would not feel the place desolate, nor the people grim,
and the clang of the wooden shoon would be as pleas-
ant to your ears as the swish of the rain.”
“It is,” assented Nina, drily. “I detest both.”
“The people,” Frances continued, “are like tiger-
moths—silent, with black wings. Presently the black
wings lift and you see other wings underneath—the
colour of flame.”
“It may be so. Perhaps I have not tried to see the
under wings. Perhaps they are never shown to the
Vicar's wife, whose mental horizon is bounded on three
sides by the parish and on the fourth by heaven.”
“Your horizon, Nina, seems to me considerably
wider than your description of it.”
“Perhaps it has six sides, the extra two being the
World and the Bottomless Pit; to which latter Cyril
would assuredly believe me bound if he could hear
me.” -
“Does he not hear you?”
“Never. Is it likely? Am I not married to him?
Is it not always the man one marries who knows least
about one? A husband is not a friend.”
“Oh,” said Frances, tentatively.
“No, he is not,” persisted Nina. “That is a de-
lusion of the unmarried. Everyone has two sides, a
pretty side and an ugly one. You only exhibit your


Wildersmoor 63
pretty side to your husband; your friend sees both.
That is the difference. Cyril thinks me a well-inten-
tioned amiable woman, fairly sensible, and anxious to
do her best. You know me as a biting, scratching, in-
quisitive, and discontented animal, and what a comfort
that is You may laugh, but it is true. One must
sometimes appear without one's powder and curling-
irons. Therein lies the blessedness of friendship.
Ugliness, whether moral or physical, does not drive
away a friend. Nothing drives away a friend but
treachery.”
“I see your meaning. Peter is pitied and pardoned;
Judas goes to his own place.”
“Precisely. And serve him right,” said Mrs. Paton,
with energy.
“Yet I perceive no reason why marriage should not
be the highest friendship.”
“Neither do I, except the eternal reason that is
always confounding all other reasons—because it isn't
so. How did we arrive at this discussion, Frances?”
“It branched off from the Bishop's dinners, I think.
Or the concert. I really forget. Do not all roads lead
to Rome? All conversation, if long enough continued,
ends either in marriage or death.”
Mrs. Paton reflected.
“I do not see how you make that out.”
“Well, I will put it another way. All conversation,
if given time, ends in scandal or religion.”
“I believe it does!” cried Nina, with a burst of
laughter. “And I never noticed that. You solemn
people are the observant ones.”
“Am I solemn 2 Anyway, I am right in this.
Whether the speakers are men or women, or men and


64 Wildersmoor
women, makes no difference. Sooner or later they
will drift towards one or the other of these topics. It
is natural. Marriage and death are the two serious
facts of life, and people's thoughts circle round them.”
“I suppose so,” gloomily. “They might be called
the twin shadows of life. They loom ahead from one's
earliest childhood. “You must marry—you must die.’
To every fatherless woman the formula is slightly
altered, ‘You must marry or die.” Civilization and
savagery alike say—‘marry or starve.’ Society and
relatives alike cry—‘live with a man or be pushed into
a corner and drudge.’ There are a few women who
do neither of these things; only a few, and they are
wealthy. Therefore for them the position is reversed.”
“The world is changing,” said Frances.
“It is. But it has not yet changed enough to give
us freedom. If I had had twopence a year of my
own I would have put on trews and tramped the earth.
To wander—that had always a fascination for me.
To get out of the dreadful rut of ordinary life, to be
rid of the ridiculous clockwork of regular meals and
weekly washing, and the awful weariness of one's
clothes and one's servants. A man, even though he
be the biggest fool upon earth, can follow his natural
bent. A woman cannot, as yet. As I did not care
to drudge I married, and in that I have done well.
Cyril is a good man, and I am teaching myself to for-
get how ‘life runs large on the Long Trail.’ I hope I
make him a good wife. I am not so unreasonable as
to bully him because circumstances married me to him.
I look after his house well, see that he has good
dinners, agree with him when I can and often pretend
to when I cannot. What more could man desire?


Wildersmoor 65
The combined housekeeper and echo has been the mas-
culine ideal for centuries. Every man likes his wife
to be the boy who follows the quack, beating a drum
and crying—‘My master is the wisest man in the
world!” People were better off in the old days. They
had pilgrimages for their safety valves. When utter
boredom seized them they could leave house, husband,
children, and wander away with a party of strangers
to our Lady of This or That, returning home healed
and restored.”
“There are modern pilgrimages, and they are called
Cook's Tours,” remarked Frances.
“Ah, not the same thing. A Cook's tourist goes
about with a telegraph-wire hitched to her belt, and
public opinion waiting for her at home, seeking whom
it may devour. Just now I am feeling life a burden.
Suppose I suddenly took ship for Jaffa 2 What would
happen? No sooner do I arrive than a telegram finds
me—‘Come home. Clothing Club wants you.’ When
I obey the summons, people do not flock to venerate
me and hear my adventures, but criticise my forsak-
ing my duties. And rightly, too, for that matter.
One must be free to be a pilgrim now-a-days.”
“You mean that you recognize your responsibilities,
but object that you were in a measure compelled to as-
sume them. Is that it?”
“That is it precisely. I desired a celibate life and
was not free to choose it. Could I have followed my
natural bent, I should have been content. However, I
am conscientiously trying to imitate the Indian dev-
otees who hold up an arm till it stiffens. Their re-
ligious ideas command it; and so do mine. It is my
duty to stiffen my mind; to swathe it with gowns, and


66 Wildersmoor
servants, and society aims. Perhaps when Cyril is an
aged Bishop, and I an aged Bishopess, I may be per-
mitted a little wandering if I still care for it. Prob-
ably I shall not. No doubt by that time I shall re-
gard a big dinner as of far greater importance than
the ruins of Baalbec.”
Frances Aveland looked a moment at her friend,
then turned her gaze over the moorland; where south-
ward the Pike, clad in pale mist like a Viking in his
grey wolfskins, towered over the wide land, keeping
watch and guard.
In her mind rose the bitter words of a great writer
of another land—a northern land wherein may be
found a singular affinity of thought to that on Wil-
dersmoor:-
“But all things die, even our memories; and our
good and noble feelings die also, and in their place
comes reason.”
And when that age of reason sets in; when the eyes
at last turn away from the Vision of the Delectable
Mountains to the very tangible and ever-ready muck-
rake, great is the rejoicing among the affectionate
relatives of the reasonable one—for of such is the
Kingdom of Hell. Would Nina settle finally into the
swathed mummy, the capable fashionable housewife?
Her varying moods, her restlessness that—like the fer-
ment in the wine—tended to better things, all vanished
utterly; together with the light mocking gaiety, the
quick sympathy and generous admiration of others
that made up the personality of Nina Paton? There
is no angel more beneficent, no spectre more terrible,
than change.


Wildersmoor 69
possibly compass it. No, poor dear devoted Travis is
not the reason of Esmé's coming to teach in our Sun-
day School. The reason is simply Quentin Fleming.
Esmé means to marry a rich man, and Ralph was
ready to hand. Now he is gone, but his cousin re-
mains. Esmé does not waste time in useless lament-
ing.”
Nina shot a side glance at her companion as she
said this. She wished to observe what effect it would
have. A flash of colour came and went on Frances
Aveland's face as suddenly as the Northern Lights.
She said nothing, and Nina continued:
“It is perfectly absurd, of course. But Esmé
Rusholme is one of those people who are not capable
of seeing absurdity in anything that they do them-
selves.” Here Nina added in her own mind, “and
for that very reason they often succeed.” Then aloud:
“It bores me dreadfully to have her perpetually
dropping in on Sundays; though she has not been here
for the last fortnight. Tired, I suppose, as Mr. Flem-
ing did not appear. We have not seen him in the
school since Christmas. You know how he often used
to help us with the boys on Sunday afternoons.”
Frances did know. Quentin used to walk over from
the Hall after lunch, rejoice the Vicar's soul by ap-
pearing in the schoolroom, and reducing the most un-
ruly boys to quiet behaviour; and then by way of
rewarding himself would finish the day by dining
with the Avelands at Sandhayes. Neither Frances
nor her father undertook instruction of youth. They
were of that select company who decline to concern
themselves with occupations for which nature has not
fitted them.


7o Wildersmoor
“Are you short of teachers, Nina? because,” smil-
ing serenely, “I am afraid you will never get any help
from Sandhayes.”
“I am truly thankful we do not. Think how ter-
rible it would be if we all talked ‘shop' on Sunday
evenings, which we should inevitably do if you and
Dr. Aveland spent Sunday afternoons in the school-
room. As things are now, your house gives us a
fresh atmosphere. We are in no need of teachers.
There are always Cyril, and myself, and Travis Cros-
ier, and I daresay Mr. Fleming will help us again.
Esmé is simply a disturbing element. She teaches
well, there is no denying that; but she exasperates me.
I dislike the type of girl, smooth-faced and treacher-
ous, and, oh! so lucky—always so lucky! I wish you
would help me to marry her to Travis Crosier.”
Mrs. Paton spoke with intention. She could not
perceive the delicate tones in the dusky northern land-
scape, nor the subtle harmonies in the hearts of its
people; but she could see—and clearly—the drift of
human lives, and the present state of affairs between
Sandhayes and the Hall appealed both to her sym-
pathies and her self-interest. If Frances Aveland mar-
ried Quentin Fleming, his influence would give Cyril
Paton an upward lift. The Vicar of North Rode had
usually been lucky in getting preferment, and Nina
had no mind to spend her life in parish work and
obscurity. Also, she was sincerely attached to her
friend, and Quentin Fleming was really the very nicest
fellow, and such a good match.
Perhaps marrying an old playmate is a somewhat
matter of fact proceeding, but Nina hoped Frances
would not look at it in this light. Quentin was such


Wildersmoor 71
an exceptional old playmate, the marriage would be
so suitable, and so useful. A little while ago every-
thing seemed to be going smoothly. Now here was
Esmé, scheming, cautious, determined. Mrs. Paton
knew well how often men have been induced to marry
one woman even while preferring another. “She will
flatter him,” thought Nina. “She will be always on
the spot. She will more than hint she adores him,
and then he will marry her out of compassion, and
because he does not know whether Frances cares or
not. How tiresome it all is How I wish I could in-
duce her to take a reasonable everyday view of things
and do a little scheming on her own account. But
she never will. She will give a rival every possible
chance from sheer pride.” And Nina fell into gloomy
reverie, picturing the future in colours as sombre as
Woffendale. Dr. Aveland dead, Frances gone—for it
seemed hardly probable that she would remain at Sand-
hayes after her father's death; Esmé reigning at the
Hall and studiously ignoring North Rode; Quentin
Fleming grown morose—Nina felt sure he would
grow morose if he married the wrong woman. What
a prospect for herself, Ninal Her friend's voice broke
in upon these melancholy forebodings.
“Do not look so wretched, dear. Such an expres-
sion of countenance would best befit the unhappy man
on whom you propose to confer such a doubtful benefit
as Esmé Rusholme.”
“You are mistaken. Mr. Crosier would be per-
fectly happy with her, and she would make him an
excellent wife. The only way to render an obnoxious
woman harmless is to marry her to a man who will
neither sink nor rise. Sinking would exasperate her;


72 Wildersmoor
rising would give her too much power. Reasonable
comfort is the great paralyzer. She does not like
either you or me, and that sort of person is apt to
cause annoyance in a country place, therefore, I shall
help Travis Crosier all I can. By-and-by he will get
a living, and away they will go.”
Frances Aveland's black brows went up into her
hair.
“Is it worth while, Nina P”
“I think so. To me it is. I know what you mean.
You do not care for these counter moves. You take
no heed of an enemy, if you have one. You walk on
serenely through the scrimmage of life. If you were
hit you would walk on just the same. Now, I see
the attack coming, and do my best to avert it. Fail-
ing that, I hit back.”
“But it does not appear to me that there is any
attack to speak of.”
“Not to speak of, perhaps,” replied Mrs. Paton,
slowly. Then, after a pause, she asked, “Do you ever
think of the future, Frances?”
“Very often, and to very little purpose. How can
one say one will do this or that or the other? Of all
things one's own life is least under one's own control,
because it so depends upon the lives of others.”
“Not more than their lives depend upon us. For
instance, you, Frances, influence other lives more than
they do yours. There is Jack Ulyett. He was solidly
in love with you. So much so that it made him clear-
sighted enough to perceive what a miserable idiot he
was, and gave him strength to keep his useless feel-
ings to himself. I do not care for scamps, as a rule.


Wildersmoor 75
adversity were a magic crucible; you throw in base
metal and it comes out gold. Nothing of the sort.
The base metal remains base metal. The men and
women who have passed through that crucible and
come out gold were gold before they fell in. The
furnace is just so much wear and tear. That is all.”
“Ah, that is not so certain. The gold may have been
obscured by much dross before it arrived at the cru-
cible. Perhaps evil has its uses. Perhaps, by its
clashing with good it helps to develop such fine char-
acters out of the chaos, as the unrest of the sea keeps
it sweet.”
. Mrs. Paton shook her head.
“How about the drowned and the maimed 2 No
—no, you will never persuade me to ‘beckit to the
deil' in that fashion. That is the way people justify
all kinds of iniquity, by saying it is wholesome for
somebody or other. They seem to suppose that sort
of argument ends the matter. Nobody inquires
whether it is wholesome for the victims. They have
no rights. But I am like Sydney Smith, I always want
to hear the lion's version of the story. Therefore,
Frances, I hope you will have a life free from evil
and trouble. How I wish you would choose someone
near,” this was the nearest approach Nina dared make
to the name of Quentin Fleming. “Of course, it is
all pure selfishness on my part. What would become
of me if I were left alone at North Rode? Do think
of what I say though I have no right to say it. Don't
waste your life either in feeding the pigs at Sandhayes,
or in throwing it away on someone unworthy.”
“Most people are wasted,” said Frances.
“They are,” gloomily, “when there is anything in


Wildersmoor 77
urged her not to marry Quentin Fleming. Then the
perversity of human nature would have fixed her mind
firmly upon him. Most likely she will snub him now,
and he will have to go on all fours to soften her. And
suppose he doesn't! I wish I had said nothing about
Esmé. However, I will marry her to Travis Crosier,
that I am determined to do. I wonder if there is any-
body about here who has a distant living in his gift.
I have a great mind to-" Here the heavy farm-
house door was opened by a buxom woman, comely
and smiling, with the fresh colour characteristic of
the natives of that mild damp coast; and Mrs. Paton's
thoughts turned into a ministering channel.


Wildersmoor 79 ,
tance. She could not look towards the Pike without
being reminded of him and his goings to and fro. For
Quentin came and went continually between the Hall
and Sandhayes, walking or riding over at any hour,
and—like a true Lancashire man—in any weather.
Did the familiar rain fall in a persistent drizzle, or
did an Atlantic gale sweep wet-winged over the sand-
hills and across the moor, then it was tolerably certain
that as twilight deepened a gust of rain and wind
would, as it were, blow Fleming into the hall at Sand-
hayes; laughing, shaking the water-drops off his
great-coat, bringing in with him the breath of the
strong sea-wind that sang without in the night.
This abounding vitality, born of the outdoor life
lived by himself and his fathers, and accompanied—as
it often is—by an honourable simplicity of character,
made Quentin's a very attractive personality. There
is a sense of rest—of exhilaration, in meeting one who
has dwelt near enough to Mother Nature to have drunk
of the wine of her joyous steadfastness. Therefore
the master of Wildersmoor was welcome at Sandhayes.
Just now, however, there was a shadow on Frances
Aveland's face as her glance fell on the grey hill that
marked Quentin's home. Attached though she was to
Nina, she yet wished that some subjects—Fleming be-
ing one—might be left to silence. Nina meant well,
excellently well; and the result was the usual result
of meaning well. Frances turned her eyes westward,
where no misty hill rose above the horizon; only the
grey level line of the sea ended the wide stretch of
undulating moor. There was the dark larch wood be-
hind Sandhayes, hiding the homestead from sight,
and further to the right, the village and the square


8o Wildersmoor
tower of the church. The girl's gaze dwelt on these
lovingly—half-unconsciously, while her mind recalled
Nina's attempts at advice. Over Esmé, Frances com-
pelled her thoughts to pass lightly. Nina always had
theories of what this or that person intended. In any
case, pride forbade Frances either to acknowledge a
rival or to take any steps to defeat her.
The incessant social plotting by which so many men
and women gain the prizes of this world, was impos-
sible to this girl reared between moor and sea. It
is true that numberless human creatures are reared
under very similar conditions, who are no more influ-
enced by the earth and sky around them than if they
had been bred in one of the gigantic dustbins that men
call cities.
But Frances was of a silent reflective nature, and the
spirit of Wildersmoor sank deeply into her mind as
the peat tinges the burn. And the very spirit of that
strip of grey north-west coast is an absence of little-
ness. In that the moor is like Death. For after wan-
dering on it awhile, one's thoughts of one's friends and
acquaintances insensibly change. Their images come
before the mental vision as those of beings very far
removed; having sloughed away their earthly gar-
ments of error, of senseless brutal strivings; appear-
ing only in very pitiful guise, as penitent spirits need-
ing pardon. On Wildersmoor there may be tragedies,
there cannot be trivialities; the sombre genius of the
place forbids them. One may see the pillar of fire
in the wilderness; for piping and dancing one needs
the market-place. Therefore, as Frances Aveland
looked on the familiar moorland, her slight resentment
melted away, melted into bird voices and coming of


Wildersmoor 8I
spring, as the snow was dissolving in the warmer air.
Nina Paton was a loyal friend; sometimes even the
most loyal friends make mistakes when they try, in
all good faith, to order our lives. Their mistakes may
be forgotten when the loyalty is so steadfast. For
Esmé Rusholme—Frances had never liked Esmé.
When one is conscious of insuperable antagonism to-
wards an individual, it is wisdom to avoid that indi-
vidual; to walk—if you both can—on parallel paths
of life. For if those paths converge the result will be
collision, and unfortunately the coarser nature gen-
erally gets the best of it. Frances had instinctively
tried to walk parallel with Esmé; had also tried to
ignore the warning of her own intuitions. Now she
set herself a further task: to forget Nina's opinions,
to forget the question presented to her by Mrs. Paton.
If Esmé chose to come often to North Rode, it was
not for Frances to analyze her reasons—still less to
take any action in consequence. There is a certain
degradation in being dragged into the whirlpool of
petty scheming that exists in every town, big or little.
From this Aveland's daughter turned resolutely away;
perhaps with the greater ease because an inward voice
whispered that whatever thoughts might dwell in Esmé
Rusholme's mind they were not likely to find an echo
in Quentin Fleming's.
The moments drifted by unheeded. It is only man
who makes time—like all else—a worry and a burden,
and doles it out threateningly by minutes. Away from
humanity there is always plenty of time. On Wilders-
moor one was only conscious of Nature's gracious
divisions of morning, noon, and night, each melting
imperceptibly into the other; not marked by infuriat-


82 Wildersmoor
ing ticking and clangour of the pit, but by gradual
changes of light and soothing voices of earth and sea:
for, say the old philosophers, the pulse of the world
is sleep; the rhythm of the world as the sphere swings
onward in its orbit, is sleep; and thus comes the heal-
ing gift of open-air solitude: it is the rocking of the
cradle, the lullaby of the ancient Nurse.
Presently a figure appeared in the distance, sea-
ward; a woman, bent, and carrying a basket: Granny
Darlow, surely. She sometimes came to gather cockles
on North Rode beach when a friendly farmer gave
her a lift in his cart thither. As Frances watched the
old woman moving slowly along, the click of the farm
gate announced Mrs. Paton's return.
“Have I been long?” she asked. “I am ashamed
that you should wait for me, but I am grateful. Who
is that old creature? I have seen her two or three
times about here.”
“That is Granny Darlow. She lives near the Hall,
next door to Blind John. I daresay she has been
cockle-gathering. Now she will walk home, seven
miles.”
And Frances drew out her purse.
“Are you going to bestow a trifle on her to make
her walk easier? I would give her something, too,
but I have not my purse with me. Never expected to
want it in these wilds.”
“This will do. It is such a satisfaction to me that
Granny never wears a bonnet. If she did, I should
experience a shock. A bonnet is prosaic and amen-
able to ordinary laws, whereas Granny is neither pro-
saic nor amenable. I rejoice to see that she has suffi-
cient sense of the fitness of things to cover her head


Wildersmoor 83
with the hood of that blue cloak. It is a picturesque
garment. Do you not think so, Nina?”
Mrs. Paton eyed the bent old figure, now quite near.
“Decidedly witch-like. Does she come to church in
that hooded cloak 2 I do not remember to have seen
her there.”
People with flexible brows have usually a sense of
humour, and the brows express it. Just now Frances
Aveland's brows expressed a good deal.
“I am afraid, dear, that Granny Darlow's religious
views are fashioned like the gargoyles—to remain
outside.”
“Are Granny's views so startling? I should
like—”
Nina checked herself. They were close to the old
woman, who calmly surveyed them, her keen black
eyes resting longest on Frances. She took the gift
of money with thanks, and observed that she had in-
quired in the village after Dr. Aveland's health.
“My father is rather better,” said Frances.
“Ay, so I heerd. That's as it should be.”
Then Nina spoke.
“You Wildersmoor people are very weather-wise.
There seems to be a wind rising. Shall we have rain,
do you think?”
Granny looked, not at the sky and the distant sea,
but at the speaker.
“I mind thy face right well,” she said; “thou art
th’ parson's wife. Earth weather's nowt to worrit
o'er. It's th’ weather o' folks lives as matters. I’ve
known toimes when I couldna ha’ told whether it wur
storm or shine, night or day. But tha'll never know
toimes like those.” A slight smile flickered over the


84 Wildersmoor
wrinkled visage. “Never,” she repeated, emphati-
cally; “tha'll allus be able to tell whether it's wet or
dry, hot or cold.”
“Have you had much trouble in your life? Would
you like Mr. Paton to call on you?”
Nina spoke partly from a sense of duty, wifely and
clerical; partly because it was politic to conciliate
everyone, high or low; partly, also, from real interest
in this bent old crone with those strange bright eyes
gleaming under the withered brow with its crown of
thick white hair. Yet, as Nina uttered the words, she
felt an intuitive sense of incongruity, and Granny's
black eyes met hers with a subtle derision in their
depths.
“Th’ parson 2 ” she said, and the subtle derision of
her glance was echoed in her voice. “I reckon I could
teach him summat, if so be as he'd th’ sense to learn.
What con men-folk teach women, I'd loike to know?
An' what ha' men-folk to do wi' women's troubles,
barrin' th' making on 'em? That's th’ men's job, th’
tangling o' th' skein fur th’ woman to unravel. Never
a mon has th' wit nor patience to undo it hissen; he
just casts it down, an’ runs away. Then parson cooms
an' tells th' woman it's a' her doing. That's the men'
—I know ‘em.”
She paused, leaning both hands on her stick. Mrs.
Paton, taken aback, glanced at Frances for assistance,
and, receiving none, said, rather vaguely:
“I thought, perhaps, you needed consolation.”
“Nay, I dunnot. Tha means well, but what dost
thou think I want consoling fur? Nowt, barrin' owd
age, an' theer's no consoling fur that. Eh, if I'd my
toime to coom o'er again, I'd make th’ most on it—


86 Wildersmoor
more. I dunnot know wheer he went to. I never
heard.”
“And the fisherman P”
Granny Darlow shut her mouth tightly.
“Nay, that's neither here nor theer.”
She turned with a swift bird-like movement to
Frances, who had been a silent observant listener.
“Lass, I wish thee good luck in life, but wishes
dunnot allus make it coom. See here, if ever owt
troubles thee, if ever theer's a tangle as tha conna
undo, tha con either fetch me or coom to me—which
ever tha likes—an' I'll fettle it. I’m nigh on eighty,
but theer's many a year o' life in me yet. When tha
wants me I'll be theer.”
Granny was old and poor, white-haired, bent, and
shrivelled; all the vitality in her seeming concentrated
in the glittering black eyes. Yet her words conveyed
a sense of power, of capacity to carry out that which
she professed. One felt that if she could not openly
slay her Philistines, she would certainly contrive to
pull the roof about their ears, even at the risk of in-
volving herself in the common ruin. She inspired
belief in her steadfastness; equally responsive, to the
utmost of her capacity, to a demand made now or ten
years hence.
Nina drew back a little; Granny's daemonic influ-
ence disturbed her. There was something uncanny
about this old woman.
“Thank you,” said Frances. “I will remember.”
And Granny appeared content with the manner in
which her offer was received.
“Tha con depend on me,” she said, pulling the hood
of her cloak more over her face. “Good-day.”


Wildersmoor 87
“Good-day,” said Frances, and Granny hobbled
away more actively than one would have thought pos-
sible for her years.
“My dear!” ejaculated Nina, turning to look after
the retreating figure, “that Wildersmoor product is
the most alarming of any. Did you notice what she
said of me? She is right. I am not a Woman; I am
an Intelligence. Just that and nothing more. But
Granny is the only individual who has had the sense
to perceive that. Tell me her story. Why did her hus-
band leave her? And what about the fisherman P”
“The moor people tell strange tales of her. Shall
you repeat them to Mr. Paton P Because,” with a half-
laughing glance, “I should be sorry to bring ecclesi-
astical censure on poor Granny. Besides, the stories
may not be true.”
“You may feel quite secure about your pet witch.
The greater the sinner the more I should strive to
conceal from Cyril that sinner's peccadilloes, lest he
should rake up some obsolete form of church discipline
and thereby make a spectacle of himself. Also, as
sinners form the majority, it is best to be on friendly
terms with them.”
“Well, the story goes that Granny's husband never
ran away. People say that she incited the fisherman
to murder him and hide him in one of the moor pools.”
“What!” Mrs. Paton stopped, fairly aghast. “Do
you think it is true? I don't believe it.”
“Such is the depravity of human nature,” Frances
replied, “that I am afraid I should be rather disap-
pointed if it were not true. While one believes it—I
am strongly inclined to believe it—Granny Darlow is
an interesting book into which one has had only a


88 Wildersmoor
peep and of which one wishes to read more. Whereas,
if the story is mere idle gossip, Granny Darlow be-
comes decidedly more estimable, but decidedly less
picturesque.”
“I do not know,” murmured Nina, doubtfully. Not-
withstanding her general freedom of opinion, this
amazing tale of Granny Darlow's youth had really
shocked her.
Frances looked at her friend, smiled, and said:
“Now here is a strange thing. How differently the
same things affect people. I see you are quite horror-
stricken at poor Granny, while she interests me.”
“Dreadful old creature!” with another backward
glance at the little bent figure still visible among the
dead bracken. “If it is true she ought to be taken up
by the police.”
“It is a long, long while ago, Nina; and there is so
much dry stunted vegetation in the human forest that
when one comes across a burning bush one must needs
stand and wonder.”
“Burning with very unholy fire,” said Nina.
“I am not sure that the flame of Granny Darlow's
spirit is unholy in itself,” persisted Frances. “It may,
by reason of ignorance, have lent itself to base pur-
poses; but it seems to me too fierce, too enduring a
flame to be wholly evil. Not the flame of Hell, but
the flame of Purgatory, which, you know, Dante puts
at white heat.”
“Your favourite, Hawthorne, says that rampant un-
restraint is the characteristic of wickedness.”
“But was Granny's unrestraint rampant? Haw-
thorne would have rejoiced in her. She would have
been another portrait in that weird gallery of his.”


Wildersmoor 89
“I am surprised that the old woman should ever
allude to her past,” continued Mrs. Paton, musingly.
“Doubtless she was very silent when there was need
for silence. Now she is so old that nothing she says
matters.”
The grey clouds covered the sky, yet the air was
distinctly warmer. The faint wind was waxing in
strength, and blowing in fitful little gusts. Nina
looked at the glistening pools and shuddered. In
which of them whitened the bones of the murdered
man?
“I suppose,” she said, “Granny was like the man
who believed he had bought an Amati, and smashed
it when he found it was only a common fiddle—one of
a dozen made by John Smith. Yet how could the
fiddle help it? These questions are too much for me;
but if Granny's story is true, it proves the truth of all
I say of Wildersmoor. Where else could you find such
a murderous old witch?’”
“In AEschylus, perhaps; or the Icelandic Sagas.
There is a combined simplicity, and terribleness about
the people here that often reminds me of those old
tragedies. Their fatalism completes the resemblance.”
“The whole place is a nightmare,” Nina declared,
emphatically, as the clipped yews and red roof of
Sandhayes came in sight. “It is a nightmare, and the
people dance to the tune of Tartini's dream.”
Frances laughed.
“Tartini's dream interests me,” she said.


Wildersmoor 9 I
this between lunch and the first drops of the threaten-
ing rain.
They walked slowly, stopping now and then,
heralded by the terrier Malise and escorted by Ptolemy,
a stately cat with coat of glossy black and lustrous
aquamarine eyes, who, according to feline custom,
followed his mistress everywhere about Sandhayes,
but not beyond; daintily sniffing at the crocuses border-
ing the path and regarding the gyrations of Malise
with serene contempt.
Presently the little procession arrived at a walled
enclosure originally intended for a cow-yard, but now
containing some thirty black Berkshire pigs content-
edly running about. Aveland leant his arms on the
gate and contemplated them with much satisfaction.
He prided himself on his Berkshires.
“They look well,” he observed. “McKie said so
this morning.”
“Was Dr. McKie here this morning? I am sorry
I was out.”
“He inquired after you. I asked him to dine with
us, as he said he had to see a patient on the moor this
evening.”
Dr. Aveland was a short man with broad shoulders,
and a grave reflective expression, the same expression
that was echoed in his daughter's face. There was a
strong resemblance between them. Both had the same
black hair—poppy-heart black, in Aveland's case
thickly streaked with grey; the same straight black
brows and finely-cut features, but Aveland's eyes were
as dark as his hair, not the clear grey that shone so
unexpectedly beneath his child's black lashes.
“Perhaps Nina and Mr. Paton may come in later,”


92 Wildersmoor
said Frances. “They are going to Riverton this
afternoon and will not be home till eight.”
“Missionary meeting, isn't it? Paton said some-
thing about it. He came with McKie and we had a
look round. Not that Paton is interested in the farm.
There's where he fails as a country parson. He has
no eye for the weight of a pig or the state of the crops.
He would do better in a town. Not a bad sort of
fellow.”
Frances contemplated the Berkshires in silence for
a moment Or two.
“I really must try to convert Nina to the beauties
of pig-keeping,” she said. “It has the double merit
of antiquity and ease. Father, do you think a placid
life the best?”
When Aveland felt amused, two or three horizontal
wrinkles showed themselves in his forehead. They
were visible now as he raised himself from his leaning
attitude and regarded his daughter.
“Does your question refer to the pigs or to Mrs.
Paton P”
“To neither. It refers to people generally.”
Frances was recalling Nina Paton's words of the
morning. Her father, however, had no clue to what
was passing in her mind, and he tried painfully to
guess the reason of her question. Knowing his own
days were numbered, he earnestly desired a fair haven
for his child, in which her life's barque might ride
out in safety this world's storms. Such a haven he
saw, or thought he saw, in a marriage with his old
friend's son, Quentin Fleming. The young man's
feelings Aveland had long ago discerned clearly
enough, but his daughter was more complex. What


Wildersmoor 93
did she mean by a placid life? A life of ease and
wealth passed with Quentin at the old Hall overlook-
ing the familiar moor? Aveland shaped his reply
accordingly.
“I think a placid life is usually the happiest,” he
said as they turned back to the house. “What does
Verga say of the sweetness of the old familiar place,
‘where even the very stones are one's friends, and
where at night the lights shine out from the rooms
where one has known all those one loves best.' Yes,
my dear, to me a placid life seems most to be desired.
It gives time for thought, for study, for enjoyment of
earth and sky, for many things that are lost in
turmoil.”
“Yet turmoil brings out many good things that
would otherwise be lost.” Frances spoke meditatively,
looking through the leafless trees at the faint sea-
line.
“That is true. As the sea-gull grows strong-winged
and the fisherman stout-hearted. But to my ears the
hum of bees and the twitter of the goldfinch are sweeter
than the sea-gull's scream; and while the fisherman's
heart is being strengthened his wife's face is pale and
his children cry.” Aveland paused a moment, then
resumed: “My dear, I can give you no better advice
than Thoreau's, “follow the bent of your genius
closely.’ Be yourself, not a weak imitation of some-
one else. If you are sure that your wing is as untir-
ing as the sea-gull's, well and good. But it seems to
me that peace is infinitely better than strength gained
by battling with the storm. Of course,” he added,
with a smile, “I am speaking as one who has faced
the tempest and grown weary. Perhaps had I never


94. Wildersmoor
done so I might feel differently, though I do not be-
lieve I should. Do you feel this place monotonous,
my dear?”
“I? Oh, no. Not in the least.” Frances spoke with
real surprise. The idea of monotony had never oc-
curred to her in connection with Wildersmoor. “Not
in the least,” she repeated, turning luminous grey eyes
upon her father—eyes that echoed the smile that was
curving her lips. “Other places are apt to become
dull. This never.”
She did not, however, explain why she had brought
up the question of a placid life, and Aveland walked
on thoughtfully, his hands clasped loosely behind his
back.
“I am glad you are content here,” he said. Then
a memory came over him of the South; the blue sky,
the heat, the white dust, the scent of pink hyacinths,
a row of yellow hives on a whitewashed bench, daz-
zling in the sun. All that he liked better—far better
than this sombre moor, and when illness seized him he
would have returned to that village of his childhood
had not his daughter existed. For her sake he spent
his last years at Sandhayes, for what can a young life
do cooped up in a country village with none but village
folk around? Must it wither uselessly, all its possibili-
ties wasted as the trodden grass by the roadside? Or
must it rush friendless into the great world? When
Aveland spoke of the exceeding good of a placid life
he did not mean a stifled one. On Wildersmoor there
was no stifling. There is ever a wide outlook in the
north, and it is better to be free under a grey sky than
a prisoner under a blue.
These thoughts passed, as they often did, vaguely


Wildersmoor 95
through Aveland's mind, and his daughter's next
words oddly echoed them.
“I like the sense of freedom that Wildersmoor
gives,” she said. “There is no walling in. Here the
moorland ends with the sea, and there in a hundred
roads that flow away into the country. Elsewhere I
feel cramped. Evidently I have a natural leaning to-
wards the desert and the steppe, and anything that re-
motely resembles them.”
Her father nodded.
“I understand. I should be well pleased if I could
know you would always live on this moorland. But
no man can control events when he is gone.”
“Do not say that, father,” slipping a firm round arm
within his.
He looked at her with regretful tenderness.
“It must come some day, Frances. There must
come a time when I shall be no longer here to advise
or to modify the course of events. I earnestly hope
your life may be a serene one, for you seem to me a
plant that will thrive best in a still atmosphere. But
we are talking so seriously that we have forgotten to
visit the fowls.”
Aveland looked pale and weary, so that his daugh-
ter took alarm, and, refusing to interview the fowls,
swept him indoors and into a deep arm-chair that
stood by the seaward window in the dining-room. For
the Sandhayes dining-room was not the melancholy
modern feeding-room with its chill air of disuse: it
was a light and cheerful apartment in tones of tawny
yellow and brown, and with two windows, one looking
across the sandhills to where the sea, the great grey
cat of Northern legend, stretched white paws of foam


96 Wildersmoor
over the pebbles, clawing, gathering, with soft mur-
muring purr and slumberous growl; the other window
was by the fireplace, and commanded a wide view of
the moor southward, with the Pike in the far distance.
Through this window in the winter one could see
Orion rise night after night with glittering belt and
shield, unchanged as when he shone over Chaldea and
was called Nimrod. The far end of the room was
taken up by bookshelves. At Sandhayes there were
books everywhere. “Why do you wish to set apart
one room as a library?” Aveland would say, “Your
whole house ought to be your library.” For the rest,
there were cosy corners and comfortable chairs, a
carved oak settle by the large fireplace—all old fire-
places are large in the north; a few bronzes, two tall
lamps with scarlet shades, and the general air of home
that only comes to a room when it is constantly in-
habited. Across the stone-flagged hall there was, in-
deed, a little drawing-room, all pink and crimson like
a Rosamond paeony; and also with a seaward window;
but in the long dining-room most of the day was
passed, and, accordingly, it wore always an aspect of
comfort and welcome.”
“Ptolemy wants his cream,” said Frances, stroking
the cat's black head as he sat expectantly on his own
particular cushion in the deep window-seat. “I shall
not give you any tea, father, I will bring you some
wine instead.”
Aveland assented and leant back, watching his
daughter's soft movements hither and thither.
“It is pleasant to be among one's belongings again,”
he said, glancing round the room. “The chief delight
*


Wildersmoor 97
of going away is the coming home. Curious how one
becomes attached to one's impedimenta.”
Frances laughed.
“Nina once confided to me that she had a violent
desire to throw all the Vicarage chairs out of the win-
dow. It seemed so terrible to her that she might pos-
sibly sit in those same chairs for twenty years.”
“I can understand her. Once I too felt like that.
Mrs. Paton is an amusing woman. I like her ex-
tremely. She appears to me to be one who would not
fail in emergency, nor forsake in poverty, as most
people do.”
“I am sure Nina would not forsake a friend because
that friend was poor,” said Frances, slowly, minister-
ing the while to the patient bright-eyed spirits on either
side of her: a saucer of cream for Ptolemy, a sweet
biscuit for Malise. “Also, she would permit poverty
to retain its individuality.”
“That is a subtle distinction, and one which I should
not have expected you to hit upon.”
“Why not? I have noticed that everyone tries to
destroy individuality in others, and poverty offers such
a good chance for trampling it out, or trying to tram-
ple it out. But Nina is too original herself to wish
to destroy originality in others.”
“One’s children are singular echoes sometimes,”
Aveland said, reflectively, “echoes of one's own long-
past feelings and aspirations. You often utter
thoughts, Frances, that I have brooded over as a
younger man. I could imagine strange unconscious
vengeance coming that way. A parent—father or
mother—oppressed and too helpless to retort, and the


98 Wildersmoor
fierce suppressed bitterness blazing out long years after
in the child who is the destined avenger.”
A little silence, save for the cheerful babble of the
fire and the rush and roar of the sea. That rush
sounded more clearly now, for the tide had turned and
a westerly wind was helping it, so that the white foam-
paws of the grey sea-cat ran swiftly round and over
the sandhills in terrible resistless playfulness. How
our Viking ancestors loved that same grey cat! As
mighty hunters were laid in their tombs with favourite
dog and horse, so the old sea-kings must needs have
sea burial; that ever those soft white paws might
guard their whitening bones, and the murmuring purr
and savage growl be their ceaseless requiem.
Ptolemy, the mere flesh and blood feline, having
finished his saucer of cream by licking it round in neat
and workmanlike fashion, humped his back, sat down,
washed his face, then sprang lightly as thistledown
on the arm of Aveland's chair, where he crouched and
watched with half-shut eyes Malise begging for more
sugar and biscuits. Darker masses of cloud came
rolling up from the west, and the leafless honeysuckle
on the porch stretched out long brown fingers, tapping
on the window as the rising wind tossed its tangled
stems. A few heavy drops of rain fell. The wind
changed its character and came in gusts. A strong
gale was blowing up.
“Do you hear wheels, father?”
Aveland listened a moment.
“I think so,” he said. “Very likely it is Quentin.”
It was Quentin. In a few minutes he stood in the
doorway, a tall and stately figure, like young Tamlin
in the old ballad, bringing with him into the warm


Wildersmoor 99
flower-scented atmosphere a breath of the wet fresh-
ness of moor and sea. -
“A regular thaw, is it not?” he said, shaking hands.
“How did you get home last night? Not too tired
by the journey? Hullo, Malise, old fellow !” He
patted the terrier, and softly pulled Ptolemy's left
ear, who acknowledged the attention by a little gurgle
—animals instinctively appreciated Fleming.
“Father is tired, though he will not acknowledge
it,” said Frances. “How is it that we hear wheels,
and yet you arrive on foot? And where is your fa-
miliar P”
“My familiar has muddy paws, so I have left him
outside. I walked from the village and sent the dog-
cart on. I rather imagine, Dr. Aveland, that it has
taken shelter in your barn.” -
Aveland rang the bell.
“I’ll have the horse taken out. You will stay and
dine with us, Quentin?”
“Thank you. I shall be very glad. I don't whoop
for joy when I sit down to my solitary meal.”
“Bran is invited also. Where did you leave him?”
Frances inquired. She was fond of the great deer-
hound who followed Quentin up and down the coun-
try. “Muddy paw-marks on the carpet are evidences
of human sympathy with canine difficulties, and there-
fore not objected to. I must go and look for him.”
Fleming jumped up.
“No-no. I will fetch him. I have no doubt he
has already ventured indoors.”
He returned in a minute or two with the dog, and
remarked on a pair of antlers he had noticed in the
hall: -
81972B


IOO Wildersmoor
“New, are they not? I don't recollect seeing them
before.”
“Melville sent them to me while we were away,”
Aveland replied. “I unpacked them this morning.
A well-meant, yet barbarous precent. Why should I
wish to adorn my home with portions of my fellow-
creatures? One might as well hang up a man's ears
on the walls, or utilize them as bell-pulls.”
“They are grand antlers, though,” said Fleming.
“Where shall you put them up?”
“Must I put them up? The Dyaks hang strings of
their enemies' heads across their apartments. It ap-
pears to me that the Dyak has a better excuse than I.
At least the heads of those of aggressive enemies.
Your pardon, Quentin, I had forgotten your trophies
at the Hall.”
“Oh, you are quite right, Dr. Aveland. I acknowl-
edge myself a civilized Dyak. Doubtless, I am revert-
ing to some wolf-hunting ancestor when I rejoice over
my ibex horns; and the wolf-hunter had the better
reason—he needed the skins for clothing.”
“Ah, our ancestors!” said Frances. “I rejoice
greatly in being a nineteenth-century ghost. One can
live in and sympathize with every century and the
actors therein. I mean, one can throw oneself back
to some ancestral artist-soul, and see the colours of
the world; to a musician, and hear the wonders of
sound; or to a sculptor, and see the forms of things;
to an alchemist, and linger over a crucible; or to some
sea-rover, and set sail again as he did; and enjoy the
swing of the seas all the more because the artist-soul
has transmitted his eye for the green of the waves,
and the sculptor his eye for their form, and the musi-


Wildersmoor IOI
cian his ear for the dash of the surf and the whistle
of the wind. Yes, it is well to be the latest-born of
time. The one man I sincerely pity is Adam. I am
afraid, father, you must submit to having the antlers
hung somewhere within sight, otherwise poor Mr.
Melville's feelings will be so hurt if he chances to
come.”
“And my feelings?” inquired Aveland, with a hu-
morous glance. “Well, I give in. For a short time,
I pocket my convictions. I only stipulate that these
remnants of my brother the stag be not flourished too
conspicuously before my eyes.”
Quentin turned to Frances.
“Suppose we hang them up now?” he suggested.
“How about that dark corner by the hall-door? I
could get them up there for you in no time. This is
the sort of day to make oneself useful indoors.”
It certainly was not a day to make oneself useful
out of doors. The whistle of the wind had risen to a
scream, and the rain beat fiercely against the windows,
and through the gathering dusk one could see the white
flash of foam as the waves rolled in and broke thunder-
ously on the beach.
Wild weather makes indoor comfort the more ex-
quisite and the more picturesque. The stone-flagged
hall at Sandhayes was rather large, having originally
been the common living-room of the old farm-house,
for which reason it possessed a noble fireplace. This
stormy afternoon the firelight glinted merrily on stone
and rafter, precisely as it had ever done since the first
fire roared up the great chimney. For the Avelands
had made no attempt to modernize this part of the
house. They left the stone floor, dark wainscoting,


IO2 Wildersmoor
and whitewashed walls as they had found them, merely
adding a few black oak chairs with straight carved
backs and a sideboard of the same. A fluffy white rug
lay in front of the fire, giving another tone of white
to be flushed by the ruddy light; and here and there
stood large pots—the ordinary red garden flower-pots
—full of lilies of the valley. In some subtle fashion
this entrance-hall so harmonized with the country
without that it seemed a part of it; so bare, so simple,
yet so individual that, once seen, it could not be for-
gotten. It was essentially northern. Othere, the old
sea-captain,
“With a kind of laugh in his speech,
Like the sea-tide on a beach,”
might have walked in from the gale, and sat and
warmed himself before the great fireplace without any
sense of incongruity; while the leaping flames threw
his shadow up among the rafters among other dancing
shadows, and the scent of the lilies of the valley re-
minded him of the brief northern summer long ago,
when, perhaps, he gathered them for some fair-haired
Thora or Dagmar.
By the time Fleming had got the antlers into the
middle of the floor, and a stolid stable-boy had brought
a pair of steps, and Frances had found hammer and
nails, there was not much daylight in the hall, so dark
was the sky and so narrow the one long window by
the door. But the fire made noble amends, blazing
more fiercely for the draughts that whistled through
the keyhole, and swept under the massive door.
“Your lilies are sweet,” said Quentin, mounting


Wildersmoor Io3
the steps, hammer in hand. “They are fine ones, too
—better than mine. Where did you get them?”
Frances was standing on the white rug, stirring the
coals to yet brighter flames.
“At Aston's,” she replied, naming a Woffendale
nurseryman. “Was it not contemptible of us to buy
instead of growing them ourselves?”
“No, I think it very reasonable. You get all the
beauty without the trouble, and help a man to live
besides.”
“I feel convinced that to be always buying and
never making is a loss somehow. I am a firm believer
in planting one's own vine and one's own fig-tree, and
eating of the fruit thereof. It is not the same thing
to eat of the fruit of another man's vine and fig.”
“No, but it's a good deal easier,” said Quentin.
Whereupon they both laughed, and their laughter
came pleasantly to Aveland's ears through the half-
open door of the dining-room where he sat thinking
of many things, as those do who are dying and know
it. For, being himself a medical man, Aveland knew
the hopelessness of his own case, and could trace his
own failing strength day by day. How infinitely
easier it would be to part with life if he could leave
Frances the wife of his old friend's son; for himself
being gone, who could tell what might happen. He
knew well the wide clear-sightedness and instinctive
nobility of his child's mind; but he also knew that there
is no clear-sightedness in respect of marriage, and
noble instincts are no safeguards against the irrepar-
able mistake of an unhappy union. If Frances did
not marry Quentin Fleming, whom would she choose?


IO4 Wildersmoor
It was possible that she might not marry at all, but
the solitary position in which she would be left made
her marriage more probable. And why should she
not be happy with some other man? There were many
good fellows in the world besides Fleming. Yet Ave-
land, whose soul was wrapped up in his daughter,
tormented himself with the fear that she would per-
haps choose one not of these: one despicable, worth-
less, intolerable. Her father imagined himself a
powerless spirit on the farther side of death, enduring
the hell of beholding that beloved daughter in misery
for want of his protecting presence. Harassed by these
thoughts, that beat upon his mind incessantly, as the
long surf beat upon the sandhills beyond his windows,
the sick man watched the life around him with pathetic
earnestness, secretly counting the fast diminishing
months of the span allotted to him, ever hoping events
might so happen that when he departed, it would be
in peace. Thus he listened, well-pleased, to the young
folks' voices and laughter. Then came the sound of
hammering. Quentin was driving in a nail.
“That will do for one,” he said, stepping down and
hunting in the tool-box. “Now for another.” He
took out a long nail and contemplated it; the firelight
throwing his magnified shadow against the white wall,
like a phantom of Thor, hammer in hand.
“I do not much believe in the beauty of work.
There is too much of the busy bee in these days. One
thinks of butterflies with positive relief.”
“‘Those souls which the ancients call bees,’
Frances, quoting Porphyry.
“Yes, but the butterfly is a soul too, and it flies
higher. It is time somebody preached the beauty of
3 *
said


Wildersmoor Io;
idleness. I told Paton so this afternoon, but he didn't
seem to see it.” :
“The remark arose out of what?”
“Out of Old Will Elliot's refusal to bow down be-
fore the modern idol Sanitation.”
“Oh,” cried Frances, laughter sparkling in her
eyes, “is the dear old man as dirty as ever? I have
not heard any of the village news yet.”
“He is down with lumbago, and Paton wishes to
have the cottage cleaned—also Will himself. Will
objects. Says he has never been washed since he was
a baby, and doesn't consider it wholesome, and quotes
himself, and our grandfathers generally as proofs of
the wholesomeness of dirt. I confess he makes out a
strong case. As I am his landlord, Paton appealed to
me, and we three argued the matter this afternoon—
with no result whatever. It seems that when McKie
went to see the old man this morning, Paton was there
to explain his views, and McKie quite agreed as to
the dirty cottage; but thought the cleaning of it should
be left till Will was better, and that Will himself should
be left in unwashed peace.”
“I think Dr. McKie is right,” said Frances. She
was sitting on an oak bench by the fire, her hands
loosely clasped in her lap, and Fleming's dog—who
had followed his master out of the dining-room—
crouched at her feet, his head on his paws. Quentin
had pulled up a low stool. As for the antlers, there
was plenty of time for them. It was more pleasant
just now to sit and talk to Frances Aveland about old
Will Elliot's idiosyncrasies.
“So do I,” he said in reply, “but of course McKie
was certain to back up Will against Paton. You know


Ioé Wildersmoor
Paton and McKie never hit it off. Besides, Elliot is
a Border man, and naturally to both McKie and Will,
Paton is “just Southron.' It is not in human nature
for a canny Scot to foregather with a Southron against
one so near akin as a Borderer. Paton tells me that
McKie says that “Elliot shows a grand steadfastness:
it is a real pity he is not a Presbyterian.’ Which is
pure aggravation on McKie's part.” -
Frances laughed again.
“And of course to you as well as to Dr. McKie and
old Will, Mr. Paton is “just a Southron,' and you are
preparing to back the north.”
“And are not you?”
“Yes, but it is rather hard on Mr. Paton.”
“Everything is hard on somebody,” returned Flem-
ing philosophically.
“Certainly, it would be hardest for old Will to be
compelled to cleanliness. I should consider that a vio-
lation of the liberty of the subject.”
“A good many modern laws are violations of the
liberty of the subject,” said Fleming. “In fact, there
is very little liberty left. In this case, however, the
subject will not be harried, because I could make
things unpleasant for the harriers. There are wheels
within wheels, you see. When there are not, it is bad
for those whom the outside wheels are grinding.”
“Mr. Paton believes in doctors, all and sundry,”
said Frances. “He even believes in the modern dis-
tinguished fashionable doctor, who wishes to regulate
existence—that is, other people's existence—according
to his whim of the moment. We must have no re-
ligion, because that is distinctly a sign of brain-dis-
ease. We must neither eat nor drink but by order.


Wildersmoor Io'7
No food or medicine to be sold unless prescribed by
family physician. Patients also compelled by law to
swallow said prescription whether they wish to do so
or not. Scene in court: John Smith, charged with
refusing to take his physic—fourteen days without
option of fine. Mary Brown, similar charge with ag-
gravated circumstances of throwing her medicine out
of the window—twenty-one days.”
“It is evident,” said Quentin, “that under such a
régime you would be a fellow-martyr with Mary
Brown.”
“Of course. In fact, I should get six months, as
I should probably assault the physician. If,” con-
tinued Frances, musingly, “old Will were doing some-
thing outrageous it would be different.”
“Such as tanning hides in his front garden for in-
stance. As it is, there is nothing much to complain of.
In these matters it is best to keep a middle course. No
use either tipping the cart over the precipice or jam-
ming it against the rock. I pointed this out to Paton
when he spoke of the good of the community.”
“Witches were burnt for the good of the community
not so very long ago,” said Frances. “I should re-
spect the rights of the individual more than the good
of the community. For one thing, it is so difficult to
tell what is the good of the community. I am sure
it would not be for its good to be perpetually coerced
or to behold coercion. That sort of thing makes slaves
and tyrants. There are so many questions arising.
Old Will is dirty, but happy. Is it better to be dirty
and happy, or clean and miserable?”
“I should say be dirty and happy.”
“I am not certain of that, except in Will's case.”


Io8 Wildersmoor
“You would let him alone?” *
“I would adopt Dr. McKie's compromise and clean
the cottage only.”
“Very well. That is settled.”
Fleming rose, picking up an antler, laughed sud-
denly, and resumed:
“You have no idea how the old man worries Paton.
He—Will, I mean—having plenty of time on his hands,
solemnly spells through such books as chance sends
him. Chance once sent a short history of the Christian
Fathers, who, as you know, were not renowned for
devotion to the tub. Old Will now quotes them with
delight and says, “Ah, parson, them wur sensible fel-
lows ' ' '’
Frances laughed too.
“Tell me when the scrubbing of the cottage is to
take place, and I will present Will with some of his
favourite ‘baccy, to console him for the affliction of a
clean house.”
“Well, as the frost has broken up, to-morrow may
be mild. If so, I shall come over in the morning and
superintend the cleaning. It will go more smoothly if
I am there. Paton generously offers to supply soap
and charwomen.”
“Does he? I wonder what Nina will say if he requi-
sitions her best scrubbing-brushes | I think I had better
send up some old ones. Also a hoe. I am sure the
floor will need a hoe.”
“I daresay it will, and we shall be grateful for the
brushes. Come and look at the performance, will you
not? The old man admires you greatly.”
“I know he does. That is why I give him “baccy.’”
“Do you always know a man's thought?” Fleming


Wildersmoor Io9
was putting up the second antler. He turned his head
as he spoke, looking across the hall to where Frances
sat with Bran at her feet.
“That depends on the man,” she said. “For in-
stance, I can generally guess Dr. McKie's.”
“Oh, McKie!—” with good-humoured impatience,
“I meant—”
“So you have got the antlers up,” said Aveland,
coming out of the dining-room, and Quentin's mean-
ing remained unexplained. He stepped down and criti-
cally surveyed his work.
“Do you like them there, Dr. Aveland?”
“I like them nowhere, my dear boy, but they are
better in that corner than anywhere else, because not
so obtrusive.”
“They suit the place, I think,” said Frances. “There
is a barbaric simplicity about our hall that harmonizes
with antlers and weapons, only we have none of the
latter.”
“Say poetic simplicity,” replied her father. “You
picture the old-time hunter feathering his arrows by
the firelight. Why not the old-time poet seeing dreams
in the burning logs while the storm wars outside?—
>
“For, the dreamer lives for ever,
While the toiler dies in a day.’”
The deerhound lifted his head and growled, and
Malise barked shrilly, but apparently they both rec-
ognized the approaching footsteps, for Bran laid his
head down again on his paws, while the terrier ran
to the door expectantly.


Wildersmoor III
“Ah,” taking the seat indicated, “the verra invita-
tion tells of those forty years too many. Ye would
not smile on me like that and ask me to sit next ye if
I were twenty-four instead of sixty-four. But it's
verra gratifying; like the scent of the rose by the auld
man's path when his time for roses is o'er.”
“Why, doctor, I had no idea you were a poet,” said
Fleming.
“It’s just the occasion, lad. The man—auld or
young—who would not become a poet when Miss
Frances smiles on him, is a worthless loon. Weel,”
settling himself in his chair, “there's an auld-world
cosiness about your hall, Aveland, that cheers a man's
soul. Just the fireside circle, nae light but the fire's
own, and the doggies at one's feet.” -
It was Aveland's custom in winter thus to sit in the
firelit hall as twilight fell, waiting as it were for any
guest, chance or expected; while about the house began
that pleasant stir which heralds dinner.
“Ay,” repeated McKie, “it cheers a man's soul.
And there's the lily-scent coming out of the shadows
as it does on a May night.”
In McKie's voice was a tone of faraway regret and
vain longing, the backward longing of a man for his
youth and the blossoming thereof.
“No time like the Maytime, eh, McKie?” responded
his host, “ and it never returns. I doubt whether
Eternity itself can restore that sense of irresponsible
gladness which is ours for so short a time.”
“Man l’” said McKie, emphatically, “if I could but
get rid of this stiffness in my bones, and pit ma curls
again o'er my bald head, I’d feel that same irresponsible
gladness as strongly as éver. It's just sickening to


Wildersmoor II.3
often not one. Long ago there were three schoolfel-
lows; two of them men of action, the third a dreamer.
Of the two first, one rose to be a great Minister and
was murdered by order of the second, who had become
the Sheik of the Assassins. The third lived to be a
Singer, singing of life and love, and of the roses
scattered by the north wind. Now, centuries later,
what remains of the Minister's measures or the Assas-
sin's deeds? But to-day we read the songs of Omar
Khayyam.”
“I am a great admirer of literature,” said McKie,
sturdily, “but I have always regarded the thoughts
of great men as incentives to worthy action, not per-
suasions to sit by the roadside lamenting.”
“I was not lamenting,” Fleming protested. “I was
uttering most cheerful sentiments.”
“And I think the Lincolnshire man was extremely
sensible,” said Frances.
McKie looked from one to the other.
“I’ll not argue with ye. A man of my wisdom knows
better than to argue with young people. It's just
waste of time and breath. And Aveland backing ye
up, too ! If ye were all bald-headed like me, ye’d
agree with every word I say. See a knot of bald-
headed men talking together and ye’ll find their opin-
ions are in harmony. It's the baldness that brings
wisdom by sweeping the soul of personal vanity.
Speaking of baldness reminds me, Quentin, that I met
Rusholme this afternoon, and he told me your uncle
intended increasing the reward offered. Is that so?”
“There has been some thought of it.”
“Whether increased or not, I should doubt the re-
ward finding the man,” said Aveland. “The act was


II.4. Wildersmoor
either private revenge or an attempt at robbery; prob-
ably the latter. If the latter, the chances of discover-
ing the fellow are considerably lessened. He gained
nothing, so there is nothing to track him by. Blind
John's recognition of a stranger's voice could hardly
be relied upon, at least that is my impression. Also,
"even if John did find the man whom he guided, the
fact of that man crossing Wildersmoor by no means
proves him to have been the murderer.”
“It was verra suspicious,” McKie shook his head
as he said this, feeling sorely oppressed by his promise
to Quentin not to mention Ulyett's name. Daily the
Scotchman had groaned in spirit over the burning of
that letter. He had not liked Ralph, but neither did
he like Ulyett. Therefore, as a matter of abstract
justice, he considered the latter ought not to escape.
Ulyett's guilt McKie held clearly proven.
“It was suspicious,” assented Aveland, “but many
innocent acts have excited grave suspicion in similar
cases.”
“If the man is innocent,” persisted McKie, “why
can he not come forward and state fairly that he crossed
the moor with Blind John? He must have seen the
whole affair in the papers.”
“That can hardly be expected,” said Quentin, and
Frances noticed the earnestness of his tone. “He may
have a dozen reasons—innocent, strong, private rea-
sons—for not wishing to own he was on Wildersmoor
that night. Or he may keep quiet from the simple
fear of being suspected—which he is.”
Aveland put a question.
“Had your cousin any expectation of being attacked
by anyone?”


Wildersmoor II 5
“Oh, no. Not to my knowledge at least. I do not
think Ralph was under the slightest apprehension of
that sort.”
“He was big enough to defend himself,” observed
McKie. “It is hard to understand how he could be
struck down as he was, and with his own stick, too.
Whoever did it had a strong arm, as I said at the
time. It just puzzles me. Blind John is positive the
man he guided was tall, but not so tall as you and your
cousin, Quentin.”
“When did John say that?”
“To-day. I met him on the moor, and had a talk
with him.”
“How can he judge of anyone's height?” this from
Frances.
“By the way the voice reached his ears. He says
it came level with the top of his own head.”
“I daresay he is right,” remarked Aveland. “A
man who has lost one of his senses is difficult to de-
ceive; he is so uncommonly sharp with the others.”
McKie continued in his slow exact manner:
“Altogether, we know from John that the man he
guided was educated, young, active, tall, and an Eng-
lishman; for a man born north of the Tweed would
have had mair sense than to give five shillings when
one would have amply satisfied.”
Aveland laughed outright: “No one will contradict
you there, McKie.”
“The way ye fling money about is just awful,” went
on McKie, warming to the subject. “One wad think
sixpences grew like blackberries' I'm no wishing to
find fault with ye, but there's no denying ye are a
wasteful nation.”


I 16 Wildersmoor
He proceeded to give various instances of Southron
waste, a change of conversation that was a relief to
Fleming. He knew the Scotchman would keep his
promise respecting the letter, yet whenever keen wits
circled round that unknown companion of the blind
man, Quentin felt as though any moment might bring
up Ulyett's name in connection with that journey. He
drew a sigh of relief when “saxpences" became the
staple of McKie's discourse. “At any rate, that was
over for the present,” he thought, as he turned to
speak to Frances. She was sitting beside him, medi-
tatively stroking Ptolemy's silky coat. That sociable
feline had no mind to remain in the dining-room with-
out the society of his human friends. He had followed
Aveland into the hall and jumped on his mistress's
lap, where he purred contentedly. Firelight is a be-
coming illumination. It softens wrinkles, throws grey
hair into shade, warms the haggard cheeks of starva-
tion with the glow of health; and when the illumined
face is young and beautiful, when the ruddy flames
tantalize with their glancing light, revealing here a
delicately-moulded chin, and leaving the mouth in
shadow—there deep shining eyes and all else dimly
outlined. Thus the firelight played about Frances as
she sat, and Quentin looked, and thought her fairer
than ever. A spirit of recklessness came over him.
If Ulyett were suspected? well, there must be some
if's in life. A man could not creep along like one
palsied, no matter what “if” barred the way. It is
“the timid who anticipate that which may never be.”
By what delicate influences is thought transmitted?
Ulyett's name had not been mentioned, but McKie had
thought of him, and Fleming's mind tumultuously cir-


Wildersmoor 117
cled round him; and now Frances, still stroking the
purring Ptolemy, said softly:
“Did you know that poor Jack Ulyett came to see
us before he sailed?”
“No, I had not heard. When was it?”
“It was the night of the fog.” She would not say
“the night of the murder.” The word had an ugly
sound, and the dead man was Quentin's cousin. Be-
sides, she had noticed that he did not like McKie's
handling of the subject.
“We wondered how he had found his way,” Frances
continued. “He said he had come from the station.
The road is tolerably straight, you know, and the
frozen ruts guided his feet. He confessed, however,
that he had used up a whole box of matches in looking
for the gate, and finally ran into the teapot. It was
rather late when he came, past ten, and he apologised
for the hour and for any damage he might have done
to the yew. He seemed rather downhearted. I sup-
pose the West Coast is not a very cheerful place to
live in. He said he had been bidding good-bye to
everyone. We were the last. I think he would have
gone on to the Vicarage, but I told him they were
away. Nina was sorry to have missed him. He is
rather a favourite of hers.”
“Ulyett gets on well with most people. He is an
easy-going good-tempered sort of fellow. By the way,
his cousin Isabel is engaged to young Haslam. That
is the first news I heard in Woffendale this morning.”
Fleming talked on, feeling a wholly unreasonable
anger against poor Jack for “making calls in the
middle of the night,” as he mentally phrased it. Here
was another danger, a proof that Ulyett was on the


I 18 Wildersmoor
moor that fatal evening. The visit was not only known
to the Avelands, but also to the Sandhayes servants;
and possibly to some of the villagers to whom he
might have applied for guidance in the fog. He must
have lost his way again and wandered about for three
hours or so, for Blind John left him in front of North
Rode station before seven o'clock, and he did not
appear at Sandhayes till past ten. Perhaps he had
gone to some other house on the moor? A chance
word uttered by anyone, a little discussion of this and
that, and Ulyett would be identified with the traveller
whom public opinion regarded as Ralph's murderer.
At this point of his meditations Fleming pitchforked,
as it were, his reflections to the back of his mind, there
to wait till retalled. His northern fatalism came to his
aid and buoyed him up, as undoubtedly it does. His
spirits rose again, his anger vanished. McKie was
still busy reproving the wastefulness of the English
nation, Aveland listening with a half-smile. Frances
had inherited that gift for listening, and Fleming found
himself, as usual, telling her all that he had heard in
Woffendale that morning, all that was going on at the
Works, and his various plans respecting the Wilders-
moor property; while the rain, driven by the gale, beat
against the long narrow window like a hunted thing
striving to enter that warm quiet hall. Now and then
a heavy drop fell down the wide chimney and hissed
in the red heart of the fire. However, to three of those
who sat by the great fireplace the beating rain brought
no saddening thoughts. Only Aveland, born and
cradled in southern sunshine, felt its depressing influ-
ence. To McKie it was “just saft weather,” no more.
To Frances and Quentin the rush of the wind's wet


Wildersmoor - I 19
wings was one of the natural sounds of Wildersmoor.
Whether the rain spread a soft veiling drizzle over
sandhills and moor, filling the air with freshness, or
whether, as now, it swept from seawards in pale sheets
of solid water, it never seemed—probably because the
climate was so equable—to cause any inconvenience
to the natives.
On Wildersmoor that same grey rain was a familiar
presence. Its soft swish mingled with their dreams
and greeted them on waking. Sunshine was linked in
their minds with glittering waterdrops and floating
mist; with moist warm air drawn upward from deep
moss and grassy hollows, where hemlock and shining
marsh marigold grew tall and rank, and feathery
meadowsweet shook its scented plumes. Hence, with
whatever murmuring breath or strong crying the west
wind might wail over shore and sea, its song always
seemed, in the ears of those who listened, to be the
song they loved most. Did any despair? Then the
rushing wings were those of the Angel of the Lord,
the Swordbearer, beneath whose shadow is the peace
of Death. Did any hope? Did any love? Then the
wild gale was the breath of Life, the fulness of Life—
jubilant, immortal. “By Wind and Sword,” swore
the Scythians; by Life and Death. And these two are
One.


CHAPTER X
INNER was over at Sandhayes. Though
Frances's little rose-pink drawing-room was
warm and brightly lit, they had all drifted back to the
long dining-room, which was Aveland's favourite
room. It always looked absolutely comfortable, and
particularly so on a winter evening like this, when the
firelight helped the tall scarlet-shaded lamps to throw
a ruddy glow on its yellow-brown tones, making an
autumn harmony.
“Our fathers' fashions are best for country life,”
Aveland was wont to say. “Town customs imply
hurry and the presence of strangers. Here we have
neither.”
Therefore the eye rested gratefully on the dark,
shining surface of the table, whereon stood wine, and
fruit, and coffee, the black polished oak reflecting little
sparkles and gleams from glass and silver. Fleming
was sitting at the piano. He had been singing—pos-
sessing a fine voice, as became his Norse ancestry.
Frances had moved to the sea-window, and drawn
aside the curtain to look out into the night. The rain
did not beat so loudly now against the house. The
crying voice without was dying away in gusty sob-
bings, as though exhausted by fruitless effort, and
minded to flee away seaward, there to rest with all
forgotten things, whether bones or jewels. This being
so, it was possible that Nina Paton and her husband
I2O


Wildersmoor I2 I
might come in on their way home from Riverton. Ave-
land and McKie were by the fireplace in a deep dis-
cussion and two armchairs.
“Ye are wrong about the Meigle stones,” said Mc-
Kie. -
“You see, Quentin,” said Aveland, “we are still
throwing stones at each other.”
“But if you cannot agree, what is the use of argu-
ing?” This practical inquiry came from Frances.
“That observation, my dear, is full of the deepest
wisdom. Unhappily, the less chance there is of men
agreeing, the more they wrangle.” -
“It is verra certain that Arthur's kingdom should
be placed much farther north than it usually is,” said
McKie earnestly.
“No use looking to me for assistance, doctor,” said
Fleming, rising; “I’d rather leave Arthur down south,
considering the character given him in the ballad:—
“‘When good King Arthur ruled this land,
He was a goodly king:
He stole three pecks of barley-meal,
To make a bag-pudding !’”
“There's another proof l’ cried McKie, triumph-
antly. “The auld ballad preserves tradition. Nae
doubt the pudding was haggis' I'll forgive ye for
laughing; laughter canna alter facts. The pudding
was haggis' Mercy on us! What's that? Is it yon
parson?”
“That ” was a loud double knock at the front door,
and, as McKie surmised, it heralded Cyril Paton and
his wife.
“This is truly noble of you, Nina,” said Frances,
assisting her friend out of a cloud of wrappings.


Wildersmoor I23
most interesting account of missionary work in West
Africa,” he observed to the world in general, after
warmly greeting Fleming, who, as a good Churchman,
a large landowner with the Atlas Works at his back,
and a young man, was precious indeed—and rightly
so—in the Vicar's eyes.
“Well, Cyril, it seems to me that these missions ex- -
pend a quite terrible amount of toil with almost in-
finitesimal results. I am inclined to think that one
reason of the comparative failure is the want of ener-
getic spinsters to go among the women. The poor
wives of the missionaries have enough to do in that
climate to look after their own and their husbands'
health. Also, the natives are not sufficiently impressed.
It is my belief that if Maskelyne and Cooke were sent
out with a detachment of suitable spins, they would
convert more of Africa in six months than all the mis-
sions in twenty years. Their tricks would beat the
Voodoo doctors all to nothing.”
“That is a grand idea, Mrs. Paton,” said McKie.
“It's a real pity it canna be tried. It would be fighting
the Evil One with his ain weapons.”
The Vicar drew himself up, and stroked his beard
while he meditated reproof. He was annoyed both
with his wife and with McKie; more particularly with
McKie, whose aggressive independence of thought
and speech jarred every fibre of Paton's being. Natur-
ally, he held that upon matters connected with his pro-
fession no outsider had any right to express an opinion.
This is a mental attitude shared by the other pro-
fessions. Ninety-five doctors out of every hundred
deny the right of any being to have ideas respecting
maladies or treatment of maladies, even his own, or


I 24 Wildersmoor
upon any question connected with their guild. As for
law, observe to a lawyer that most law is in direct
antagonism to common sense and common justice, and
he will reply, “It is the law,” much as an old Greek
might have said, “Yonder shadow in the path is the
great god, Pan—horns, hoofs, and all. Worship
him.” It is useless to point out that neither Pan nor
the law was ever anything but a fancy, an opinion of
this or that generation. It is the god Pan. That is
enough; there is no more to be said. In short, neither
our souls nor our bodies are any concern of ours, and
as for our minds, we have no right to use them.
So the argumentative combative turn of McKie's
mind was not agreeable to Paton. But the North
Briton was as prickly to handle as his national emblem,
therefore the Vicar preferred to administer a reproof
obliquely.
“My dear Nina, jesting on these subjects
Here Aveland struck in-
“Never mind, Paton, Sandhayes gives sanctuary to
all erratic opinions, as the Church gave it to those in-
dividuals who disturbed their neighbours' minds, either
by reason of the refugees' just rights or their inherent
crookedness.”
“Sanctuary was not extended to scoffers,” said
Paton.
McKie rushed to battle with a snort.
“The Church was verra hospitable. She never
grudged a good fire wherewith to warm the scoffer.”
“Now, doctor,” interposed Quentin, seeing wrath in
the Vicar's eye, “you know very well that the little
failing to which you so unkindly allude is merely an
* >


Wildersmoor 125
unfortunate weakness of human nature. Everybody
burns, or would like to burn, those who do not agree
with them. Nobody likes to be contradicted. Nero
burnt the Christians; then the Christians burnt each
other. The Puritans set up a howl about the persecu-
tions they suffered—and whipped Quakers when they
got out to New England. Our modern unbelievers
would burn us believers if they could. No one can
doubt that who observes their rabid bitterness against
the Christian faith. Human nature, McKie, not the
Church. One can hardly help persecuting a man for
his religious or non-religious opinions; they are so
annoying.”
“Quentin, if ye had lived in earlier times ye’d have
been a Crusader, harrying other folks' homes in the
name of the Lord.”
“And what would you have been 2" retorted Flem-
ing. “A Border chieftain, lifting your neighbours'
cattle in the name of Buccleugh.”
McKie's rugged features relaxed into a smile.
“I’ll no contradict ye. Those must have been grand
times | *
Frances raised her straight black brows. “Hear
him!—Dr. McKie regretting that he cannot plunder
the fowl-house and empty the stables!”
“Dr. McKie must permit me,” said the Vicar, who
had recovered his good-humour, “to protest against
his assertion that the Church of England is a persecut-
ing church. Errors of judgment must occur in every-
thing worked by man, but tolerance has always been
her distinguishing characteristic. It is her reasonable-
ness that continually excites animosity. Men complain


126 Wildersmoor
she is not sufficiently this or that, forgetting that she
is the Church of the Nation, not of any one particular
sect in it.”
“That is true,” Aveland agreed. “I think there
is more liberty of private thought and action in our
Church than in any other religious community.”
“Weel, I am willing to acknowledge that it's better
to be priest-ridden than doctor-ridden, and ye stand
mair chance of the latter now-a-days. It is not the
Church I am so set against as–putting yourself and
a few others aside, Mr. Paton—her loons o' ministers.
However, I'll say nae mair just now, save that ye are
mistaken when ye call me a scoffer, for that I am not.”
“Nor I,” said Nina. “Really, Cyril, I was not
scoffing. I was seriously reflecting on the blacks' wel-
fare. Now I will restrict my remarks to the whites.
How fearfully heavy the Rusholmes are One never
knows what to say to the girls. They were both at the
Riverton meeting to-night. Isabel fortunately absorbed
in her fiancé. But the other one, Esmé, persisted in
sitting close beside me and telling me how fond she
was of North Rode, and how she used to stay at the
Vicarage in the old Vicar's time. On my other side,
Mrs. Holt chimed in as a sort of echo. Esmé ap-
peared to be more with Mrs. Holt than with her own
people.”
“I daresay they came together,” said Quentin.
“Mrs. Holt is fond of Esmé. She is a good deal at
my uncle’s.”
“Well, finally, Mr. Crosier took her away to look
at an assegai, or antbear, or something of that sort.
Then my last state was worse than my first, for I fell
into Mrs. Holt's clutches without hope of rescue.


Wildersmoor 127
What a depressing woman she is l I hope I do not
hurt your feelings, Mr. Fleming? She is not a rela-
tive of yours, I believe.” -
“Oh, no. None whatever. Mrs. Holt is simply my
uncle's sister-in-law, his late wife's sister.”
“So I understood. Well, every time I have met her
she has impressed upon me her desire to depart to an-
other and better world; yet from all I have seen of
her I am convinced she would feel horridly uncom-
fortable in any other country, to say nothing of an-
other world.”
“Ah,” said Aveland, who had just finished a three-
cornered discussion with McKie and the Vicar, “Mrs.
Holt is a wise woman. To be happy one must either
be intensely moral or entirely without morals. Either
extreme brings peace. Mrs. Holt has attained to the
first-mentioned Nirvana.”
Paton looked grave.
“Mrs. Holt is an excellent woman,” said he.
“Precisely. And nothing else. Are my observa-
tions too riotous for you, Paton? If so, I apologise,
We will have some more music. It is supposed to be
soothing. I have always felt it exactly the reverse.”
“Do you mean you dislike it?”
“No. Quite the contrary. My complaint is that it
brings too vividly before one the eternal unrest and
disappointment of life. You may soar on ‘Song's
bright pinions,’ and you do. But you come back to
earth with a thud that leaves your bones aching. The
human voice is no anodyne, Paton. It may be heaven.
It more often is hell. But it is never sleep. Fleming
was singing a fine Russian thing before you came in.
Perhaps he will repeat it.”


I 28 Wildersmoor
It was a melody of the steppes, a love-song, wherein
the lover's words are ever and anon swept from his
lips by the icy wind as the sleigh rushes over the frozen
snow beneath the stars. Fleming sang the song well,
as though feeling the exhilaration of the swift rush
through the keen wind, the holding in of the tearing
horses, the wild loneliness of the desolate plain, the
intoxicating companionship of the muffled figure be-
side him.
“Ye sing it like some auld Viking on the edge of
a fight,” said McKie, approvingly, as the last chords
were struck. “I can hear the whicker o’ the sword
through the notes. It is just amazing how love-
making and fighting go together. The one always re-
minds of the other.”
“Very good—very,” observed the Vicar, placidly.
“Now-a-days there is a great demand for these—er—
folk-songs. They are certainly impressive.”
“Because they are elemental,” said Aveland. “No
music appeals so powerfully to mankind as the ballads
wherein the mighty trinity—Love, Life, and Death—
call to the world to listen.”
“There are better ballads in Scotland,” said McKie.
Quentin laughed.
“That's right, doctor. Stand up for the North.”
Frances took up her violin.
“I will not ask you to sing, Nina. I know your
ideas of entertainment are Oriental.”
“They are,” assented Mrs. Paton. “I always sym-
pathize with that Rajah who asked the cricketers why
they did not hire somebody to do the running. I am
very grateful to anyone who will do the running.
What are you going to play?”


Wildersmoor 129
“Anything you like.’
“Why not these Hungarian Dances?” suggested
Quentin, turning over a pile of music. “They remind
me a little of those Slavonic things Sarasate played
that day we heard him. Do you remember?”
“As if I could forget what Sarasate played Yes, I
remember. The notes flew out like sparks. He is a
magician; he is the Pied Piper. We heard him twice,
Nina.”
“Did you all three go? I wish I had been with
you.”
“I only ran up to town in time for the last concert,”
said Quentin.
The Vicar looked mildly surprised.
“I thought, Miss Aveland, that you did not care
for concerts.”
“Quite right, Mr. Paton, I do not. I agree with
the gipsies, who believe music should only be heard
out of doors. But when the Pied Piper plays, one
would thankfully listen to him in a coal-cellar, or at
a greater depth. I have no doubt he would play Cer-
berus asleep, and ‘that grim Ferryman whom poets
speak of ' would row him across without demanding
the customary obolus.”
Paton turned to his wife.
“We must really hear this violinist the next time
we are in town, Nina.”
“Yes, dear,” Nina responded, with unusual meek-
ness. She did not dare to confess that when they had
last gone up to London, she had excused herself from
accompanying her husband to a dismal entertainment
at the house of a relative, hastening, instead, to dream
under the spell of the enchanter for two brief hours.


Wildersmoor I33
put you up at the Hall. Mrs. Paton, I will drive you
and the Vicar home, if you will permit me.”
“It is too good of you, Mr. Fleming. I should be
truly thankful. But shall we not cause Dr. McKie to
miss his train?”
But McKie had become reckless.
“Never mind me, Mrs. Paton. I’ll be snug enough
at the Hall.”
“We will take care of him if you forget to call for
him on your way back,” said Frances.
“Ye can forget me, Quentin,” McKie called promptly
after Fleming, as he went out laughingly replying that
he was not very likely to forget to call at Sandhayes.
Nina had not much chance of conversing with Quen-
tin as she sat beside him in the dog-cart, for the rain
was now falling in quiet steady sheets, and her mind
was chiefly occupied with keeping her umbrella well
over herself, Fleming having refused any portion of
it, saying he was as accustomed to a wetting as a
sea-gull.
“This weather is positively awful,” she exclaimed,
as they rattled up the silent village street and the rain
took a fresh innings and poured down more pitilessly
than ever. -
“Capital for the land,” said Quentin, with a land-
owner's instinct. “I hope you are not getting very
wet, Mrs. Paton P”
“Not at all, thanks. I hear my husband asking your
groom where he goes to church.”
“Do you? I am afraid Smith does not go any-
where. The metropolitan splendours of Woffendale
generally attract him on Sundays.”
“Do you go there every day?”


134 Wildersmoor
“To Woffendale? Yes, but I get home early as a
rule, generally to lunch. To-morrow I shall be dining
with my uncle. Here we are. Let me help you
down.”


CHAPTER XI
RS. PATON drew off her gloves slowly and
thoughtfully as she stood before the fire in the
Vicarage drawing-room, while the sound of the re-
treating dog-cart died away.
“Extremely lucky for us that Fleming happened to
be at Sandhayes,” observed her husband, warming his
hands. “By the way, you were rather uncharitable
in the way you spoke of the Rusholmes, and they are
old friends of his.”
“I assure you, Cyril, he did not mind in the least,
and I wished to put before him the impression that
odious girl Esmé makes upon a civilized individual
like myself.” -
“She may simply desire to be more friendly with
you.”
“She simply desires to marry Quentin Fleming.
She meant to marry Ralph, but he was killed. Now
she is turning her attention to his cousin.”
“Well,” said Paton, with serene obtuseness, “she
would make him a good wife.”
“My dear Cyril! she would make him perfectly
wretched. The man has a thousand aspirations with
which Esmé Rusholme's diminutive soul and illiterate
mind could never sympathize. He would sink into a
morose disappointed creature. He is too good for
that. She only wants the money and position he could
give her.”
I35


Wildersmoor 137
enced towards views such as Dr. McKie's, for in-
stance.”
Nina paused a moment before she replied,
“I am sure that both Dr. Aveland and Dr. McKie
are sincerely religious men, Cyril. I do not see that
they have any lax notions. What makes you think
So?”
“I mean that I consider them both opposed to au-
thority; self-opinionated, in fact.”
“So were those old prophets who retired into the
desert and thought for themselves, and »y
Here the Vicar interrupted.
“Nowadays every man imagines himself a prophet.
If he can hardly spell his own name, he can at least
kick the parson.”
Under provocation—in this instance it was the lin-
gering remembrance of McKie's provocation—Paton
occasionally developed a lay freedom of speech and a
swift hitting of the nail on the head, that made one's
heart warm towards him. Nina looked at her hus-
band with approving eyes. She liked him best in his
lay moods.
“I am sure, dear, nobody at Sandhayes wishes to
kick the parson. If Frances marries Mr. Fleming,
as I hope she will, you will find him inclined to do
more, not less, on the Church's behalf. When a man
is happy, he is disposed to be generous, and Frances
would not check him. She does not interfere in any-
thing unless she has some serious reason for so doing.
Besides, she and I have always been good friends.
Whereas Esmé Rusholme would take good care that
not a moment of Mr. Fleming's time, or a penny of
his money was bestowed upon anything that she did


138 Wildersmoor
not superintend, or upon anybody who did not defer
to her in all things. She has the soul of a petty tyrant,
cringing when down, insupportable when up. It would
be quite a misfortune for us if she were Mrs. Flem-
ing. There are a thousand ways in which she could
make things disagreeable for us in Woffendale, and I
am positive she would. She is civil to me now be-
cause she wishes to visit North Rode and hopes I
shall invite her, which I shall, though not for her
reason. But she is one of those wonen who dislike
other women, and who let them know it if ever they
get the upper hand.”
The Vicar shook his head. He did not agree with
his wife's opinion of Esmé Rusholme, which he ascribed
to prejudice. But when Nina spoke of the friendship
between herself and Frances, and of the antagonism be-
tween herself and Esmé, then he did listen to his wife's
remarks. Hitherto he had not paid much attention to
the friendly feeling existing between Nina and Sand-
hayes. Now it began to assume importance. If Nina
could agree with Frances Aveland, and was resolved
not to agree with Esmé Rusholme—the Vicar pro-
fessed utter disbelief in natural aversions, though he
himself had as many as an average Christian could
comfortably manage—why, under these circumstances
it would be obviously better that Mrs. Fleming's name
should be Aveland rather than Rusholme. Possibili-
ties began to dawn on Paton's mind. His brow cleared
as he reflected that Nina would probably have more
influence over Frances when the latter's father was
dead; and possibly that unpleasant North Briton, Mc-
Kie, might not be so perpetually at the Hall when
its master was married. It is but just to the Vicar to


Wildersmoor I39
state that his anxiety to keep Fleming in the steady
church-going habits of his forbears was not wholly
for any advantage to himself. He depended upon
Quentin's co-operation for the carrying out of several
excellent schemes in the parish. Also, he hoped for
more work in the future. There was little to do among
the quiet fisher-folk of North Rode and the neighbour-
ing farmers. There was much to do in noisy smoky
Woffendale. If Paton could not comprehend and
sympathize with those whose views differed from his
own, that is a defect common to most people; he had
at least the merit of being thoroughly in earnest and
devoted to his work. It was but natural that he should
picture himself—backed by Quentin Fleming—trans-
ferred to a Woffendale living, becoming better known,
well spoken of by those whose speech is considered
by their fellows, till—well, Cyril Paton rarely ac-
knowledged his ambitions even to himself, but why
should not a man hope for the prizes in his profession?
Why is a parson expected to scorn all advancement
for himself? If he really does so, he becomes an
enthusiast, and is a burning and a shining light, or
a Will-o'-the-wisp, as the case may be. There was
no enthusiasm about the Vicar of North Rode; but he
possessed a certain pig-headed goodness that won him
respect, and a settled conviction of his own wisdom
that would prove extremely serviceable to him when
he reached the episcopal dignity.
“You say Crosier admires Esmé Rusholme,” said
Paton, after some minutes' silence. “Well, her money
would be a help to him. She is sure to have some. It
is growing late, my dear. Is the house shut up?”
So Nina knew that her words had made an impres-


I4O Wildersmoor
sion. She was right in her judgment of Esmé Rush-
olme. For Esmé was dangerous by reason of her
narrow sympathies, her small vindictive soul. Happily
Providence had not bestowed upon her much mental
capacity, therefore she was less harmful than she
might have been. Yet no evil thing, however stupid,
is powerless for evil. Many years, much labour, strong
thought and deep feeling, go to the building of one
cathedral. And the biggest fool upon earth can put
a torch to it.
Sandhayes was the centre of several people's
thoughts that night.
“Quentin,” said McKie, as the dog-cart turned into
a wide moorland track, whitish grey through the dark-
ness and sweeping rain, and the lights of the old
farmhouse disappeared from sight, “Quentin, Aveland
is fairly cheerful, but he'll no last long. That's a
bonny lass for a father to leave alone in the world.
Mercy on us!” as a small rivulet dashed down the
nape of his neck, “I’m thinking I'll accept your offer,
lad, and stay at the Hall to-night. I’m in no mind
for a railway journey after this.”
“All right, doctor. How about your patients? No-
body will know where you are.”
“I am a clever man, Quentin, so they'll do verra
well without me. Haven't ye heard that there is a
great difference between a good and a bad doctor, but
verra little between a good doctor and none at all?”
Quentin laughed.
“And where is your big doggie?” continued Mc-
Kie. “It’s an ill night for the poor beastie to be
running ahint.”
“He’s tucked up on the back seat with Smith. I


Wildersmoor 14 I
thought he might be tumbling into a moor-pool if I
let him run in all this.”
“That's weel. I was about to counsel ye to leave
him at Sandhayes.”
They drove on through the storm. Quentin's
thoughts back in the ruddy-lighted room at Sandhayes,
and the thoughts were fair and pleasant ones. None
could regret Dr. Aveland's ill-health more than the
son of his old friend. Fleming had a very great re-
spect and personal liking for Frances' father inde-
pendently of the fact that he was her father. But
when a man has been ailing for a long time, his most
intimate friends seldom realise the approach of the end.
True, McKie's opinion was a valuable one. Yet he
might be mistaken. Aveland might live some years
longer. And Fleming had shadows of his own to face,
grim phantoms that might at any time take form and
shape worse than honourable death. So that when the
reaction had taken place, and from gloom his spirits
had risen to their former level, it was only natural
that he should not pay much attention to McKie's
melancholy prophecy. So he laughed as he drove on,
thinking of happiness; and far off, on the hot dank
West Coast, Jack Ulyett looked towards the north-
west and saw and heard—not the dry dusty palms, the
bare squalor, the monotonous maddening beating of
the tom-toms—but the rime-laden quaintly-clipped
yews at the gate of Sandhayes, the chill whiteblanketof
the mist, the roll and swish of the strong cold Irish
Sea.


CHAPTER XII
SABEL RUSHOLME had resolved upon speaking
to her sister upon various matters. Accordingly,
about the time that Fleming and McKie left Sand-
hayes, she knocked at her sister's door.
A half-impatient “come in " answered her. Esmé
was sitting before the fire, pondering many things.
For instance, whether it would not be possible to keep
Travis Crosier a meek adorer until she had definitely
captured Quentin Fleming, so that if Quentin did
escape, there would still remain the curate.
Isabel drew a chair up to the other side of the fire,
and sat down, putting her feet up on the fender, and
surveying her sister with a scrutinizing air.
They were much alike: the same rippleless dark-
brown hair, the same smooth complexion—not Frances
Aveland's peach-like bloom, but an unchanging col-
ouring that reminded one of the waxen rosiness of
the prickly pear. Their heads were small, very small,
too small to hold any brains; and, as usual with people
possessing these heads, the Rusholme girls regarded
their diminutive size as a beauty. For the rest, Isabel's
grey eyes had an ordinary straightforward blankness,
not Esmé's sinister sidelong glance; her nose was
small, and her lips rather coarse; whereas her sister's
mouth was a cruel slit, and her nose thin and aquiline.
That which in Isabel was merely good-natured stu-
I42


I44 Wildersmoor
“What is the good of that?” she asked. “You
will not be invited to Sandhayes when Quentin is
there; you may be sure of that. And if you were, you
would not get on well there. You know you would
not. Oh, yes,” observing the expression of Esmé's
face, “I know all you are going to say. But you
scheme too much, Esmé. You would do better if
you left some things to chance. You tried to prevent
Harry and me becoming engaged—you know you did.
Well, it was no use; we are engaged.” Here Isabel
took another survey of the diamond hoop, twisting it
this way and that. “Anybody but Harry would be
offended with you, only he is so good-tempered he does
not mind anything now, and is quite ready to be a
brother to you.”
“I am much obliged to Mr. Haslam,” Esmé inter-
rupted.
“You need not be sarcastic,” Isabel continued, with
stolid serenity. “It will not make any difference one
way or another. We shall soon be married, and you
can do as you please when I have left home. I am
telling you all this out of kindness. You are only
wasting your time over Quentin. Harry is quite cer-
tain about Frances Aveland. Of course, it is a pity,”
judicially, “for I suppose he-Quentin, I mean—will
have all Ralph's money as well as his own. But it
cannot be helped. I daresay you could have married
Ralph. Harry thinks so, though he says he considers
you have had a blessed escape, for Ralph was very queer.
There were all sorts of tales about him and Jack. He
was a deal worse than Jack. They used to gamble,
and he won a lot of money from him.”
“Jack had none to lose,” said Esmé, with contempt.


Wildersmoor I45
“Not much, but listen. Jack won it back just be-
fore he left, and Ralph would not pay, so Jack came
to Woffendale to try to make him. You recollect
Jack coming? It was that very evening that Ralph
was murdered.”
“I remember Jack coming in to say good-bye, and
sneaking off before father got home.”
“He did not sneak off—he never sneaks,” said
Isabel, indignantly. “You are always saying disagree-
able things of Jack. He was in a hurry. Harry met
him in the road, and Jack told him he had been to old
Mr. Fleming's, and to the Works, and nobody knew
where Ralph had gone. Harry says Jack seemed in
an awful state of mind about the money, and he offered
to lend him fifty pounds—Harry is so good-hearted.
Jack thanked him, and said it was no good; he must
have a clear thousand, or blow his brains out—his
own brains,” explained Isabel. “Then he asked if
Quentin was at home at the Hall, but Harry did not
know. Then Jack went off. Harry thinks he bor-
rowed the money from Quentin.”
“Quentin would not pay Ralph's gambling debts,
I am sure.”
“No, but he might lend it out of pity for Jack. I
think he rather liked Jack. Harry believes,” here Isa-
bel lowered her voice, “that Jack was in such a fright
about the money because he wanted to restore it before
he sailed.”
“Restore it?” repeated Esmé. “If he had won it
back it was his own.”
“Don’t you see?” impatiently. “He had lost to
Ralph and paid him. Then he won it back and Ralph
would not pay: for spite, I suppose; or meanness. He


146 Wildersmoor
had plenty of money. Jack could no. openly complain,
because there would have been such a fuss about the
gambling; which would not have mattered to Ralph,
but would have ruined Jack. And he wanted the
money back so badly because,” here Isabel lowered her
voice again, “it had never been his to lose to Ralph.
He had taken it to play with.”
“Do you mean he had stolen it from the firm P”
Isabel nodded.
“That is a nice thing for Harry Haslam to say
of one of our family,” observed Esmé, with cold
anger.
“Harry is going to be one of our family, so I do not
see why he should not talk about us. George, too,
thinks there was something queer about the money,
for where did Jack get it to pay Ralph, in the first
instance?”
“I daresay he never paid Ralph at all. He would
naturally want Ralph to pay him because he was al-
ways hard up.”
Isabel reflected a moment or two. This was a new
view of the situation, and one that might possibly be
COrrect.
“Were the accounts all right at the Marstons'?”
asked Esmé.
“Oh, yes, quite right. If Jack did help himself, he
managed to put it all back again, with Quentin's help.
Esmé, I think you are wrong. I believe he did take
the money, for if not, why did he talk of blowing his
brains out?” -
“He was silly to say that. It arouses suspicion. I
never liked Jack, and you see I was right. He never
had any principles.”


Wildersmoor I47
“Neither had Ralph, and yet you liked him, or
seemed to,” retorted Isabel. “But Ralph was rich,
and so he could be as wicked as he pleased without
getting into difficulties. I think it was horrid of him
to win money from Jack when he knew Jack had only
that wretched salary. And you should hear what
George says about the way Ralph was living in Drif-
field !” and Isabel pursed up her lips.
“Jack got as much as he deserved.”
“No, I don't think so, and I think father might
have found him something to do in the mill. Then
he could have come here in the evenings instead of
getting into all sorts of scrapes. George asked father
to do so, but he would not.”
“I know,” composedly. “I told mother to advise
father against it, for you were continually talking
about Jack, and he would not have been at all a desir-
able match for you.”
Certainly there is something peculiarly irritating
about persons of the type of Esmé Rusholme. Their
calm assumption that you have thought this and that,
have intended so and so, and need to be turned from
these imaginary paths by petty underhand household
scheming; all this obtuseness of perception and house-
spider weaving of dirty webs, is at once intolerable
and perfectly hopeless to contend with.
Isabel at first looked astonished, then angry.
“So all this is your doing, Esmé! All Jack's gam-
bling, and his taking the money, if he did take it, and
his going to that unhealthy place—all owing to your
ridiculous ideas. As if I had ever thought of Jack!—
and I am sure he never thought of me. How could
you be so foolish? I hope this will be a warning to


Wildersmoor I49
“Not that I believe it was really Esmé's reason, for, .
of course, dear Jack, she knew quite well that Harry
and I understood each other, and you never thought
of me. Perhaps it was just ill-nature. I send you a
paper with the account of Ralph Fleming's death. It
is a pity Esmé had not married him before he was
murdered. She still goes constantly to old Mr. Flem-
ing's, who is very much broken up. Harry says Quen-
tin Fleming is always at Sandhayes. We suppose he
is going to marry Frances Aveland. You had better
burn this letter, because I am so cross with Esmé I
don’t know what I have said.”
Which letter was perused by Ulyett with great at-
tention and considerable amusement. He laughed as
he folded it up. Then his face grew grave. He got
up, stretching his arms, looked seaward through the
dusty haze, and said softly, -
“God bless them ”
But he did not mean his cousin Isabel and his friend
Haslam.
That conversation between the Rusholme girls led
to stranger results than either dreamt. For, months
later, Esmé wrote Ulyett a letter which would have
never been written had Isabel not come into her room
that February night, and told her of things she did
not know. She had not known of that visit of Ulyett's
to Wildersmoor. After her sister had left her, she sat
long brooding over it. To neither of them did it occur
that Ulyett might be the stranger who crossed the
moor with Blind John: they had not heard of his visit
to Sandhayes. If he went to see Quentin, of course
he would return by train to Woffendale from Wilders-
1110Or.


I 5o Wildersmoor
Esmé pondered deeply over this news of Isabel's,
coming at length to the conclusion that the story about
the money was true. She also came to another con-
clusion, entirely erroneous, but natural to one like
Esmé; for she had no belief in friendship that was not
reasonable. Reasonable friendship meant to lend
when you were sure of repayment, either in actual
cash or services required. Had Ulyett only needed—
say, a hundred; well, there would have been nothing
astonishing in Quentin letting him have it. Jack
could repay it out of his salary. But a thousand!
When, if ever, would Jack be able to return a thou-
sand? Therefore, argued Esmé, what induced Quen-
tin Fleming, a good man of business, to do such a
remarkably unbusinesslike thing as to lend a thousand
pounds to worthless Jack Ulyett? What motive had
he for thus befriending a man.so useless; a man with
no connections save the Rusholmes, who kept him at
arm's length, speaking of him as “poor Jack”—a
man who would never do anything but sink more and
more—a man who drifted naturally towards the
depths; why had Quentin done this thing? Esmé
answered the question herself and smiled as she did
so, for Jack would be another weapon in her hand if
need be; Jack with his knowledge of what happened
that foggy night on Wildersmoor. Quentin had
bought his silence. Of this Esmé felt sure; and he
must buy hers—at a higher price. How fate was play-
ing into her hands! Esmé did not say Fate. She
said Providence. Esmé was always on the best of
terms with Providence—or she thought so. She
meant to marry Quentin for his money and position,
but she did not put it that way to herself. She would


Wildersmoor I 5 I
marry him to save him from the consequences of his
sin, both here and hereafter. What motive could be
higher? Had her profane cousin Jack been able to
see Esmé's careful arrangement of her own mind, he
would promptly have offered himself as a more fitting
subject for such devotion, his sins being numerous and
varied; thus affording scope for different treatment of
each, and a greater anxiety as to his final destination.
But then Ulyett was a scoffer. Of all men, Esmé dis-
liked her cousin most. He had a trick of reading her
thoughts, of seeing through her artifices, that had de-
termined her to keep him as much out of Woffendale
as possible. Hence chiefly her successful opposition
to her brother's proposal to have him in the mill. Now
he should be useful to her. He was in her power. She
could make him do as she pleased; use him, if neces-
sary, as a lever to compel Quentin to her will.
Were they not both in her power? She smiled again
as she thought this. Ulyett fancied himself safe. He
had restored the money and knew that Fleming would
not betray him. Whatever George Rusholme and
Harry Haslam might guess, they would not speak:
George, because Jack was his cousin; Harry, because
he was engaged to marry Isabel. And Fleming fan-
cied himself safe. Ulyett would be silent. He had
every possible reason for being silent. The two would
keep each other's secrets well. It was their mutual
interest so to do. But she, Esmé, knew all—all, and
her silence should only be purchased by marriage.
Once Quentin understood that, he would not be very
likely to risk the grim alternative. If he showed any
hesitation—denied the secret she had guessed, why,
there was Jack to bring forward—Jack who knew and


I 52 Wildersmoor
who could be coerced into taking her part by her
knowledge of the stolen money.
Of course, Esmé reflected, it would be optional with
Quentin to threaten Jack as she did, but it was hardly
probable that he would do so. To ruin Jack would
not save himself if she-Esmé—chose to speak. No,
Jack was safe enough from Fleming, and she could
make him her accomplice. In short both men were in
her power, and she meant to use that power. That
Quentin might possibly feel resentment at his future
being thus arranged by others did not trouble Esmé
in the least. Once married to him, things would go
smoothly. She knew him well enough to be sure that
he would not visit his resentment upon her, and for
his feelings she cared nothing. That such coercion—
if it succeeded—would be likely to affect Quentin's
character injuriously by sapping his self-respect and
disappointing all his hopes, simply never occurred to
her. Nor would she have believed this had anyone
pointed it out. To Esmé, things not tangible were
non-existent. She was born a scientist; unscrupulous,
and blind by reason of that unscrupulousness.


CHAPTER XIII
LL that night the rain swept from westward.
Towards morning the gale subsided, and a thick
warm mist brooded over the land till the sun rose.
Then the mist rose too, gathering—curling—floating
away; catching here and there in the willows—linger-
ing above the pools—melting into the hazy gold of the
February sunshine.
It was one of those sudden atmospheric changes not
uncommon on the western coast. A rapid thaw, a
storm of rain, a quick rise of temperature, and the air
is like moist warm velvet; one positively notices the
velvety texture as one breathes. It is scented too—
this moist warm velvet; scents of moss and peat and
fern pressed out by the sea-mists—fumes of earth and
sea that exhilarate as they mount to the brain. One
breathes the very substance of the earth—nay, one is
the earth; a handful of chemicals in the hand of the
Creator, “and, lo! from the clod a spirit rises; ” from
moss and peat, from sea and sky—one lives and
moves and has one's being.
Fleming did not go to Woffendale that morning.
He wished to see one or two of his tenants on the out-
lying farms, and who on such a day would walk on
stony pavement and listen to rattle of machinery when
he could ride over miles of turf and hear the
plover's whistle and the rush of the tide? McKie,
I53


I 54 Wildersmoor
who had remained the night at the Hall, bemoaned
himself as Quentin saw him off at Wildersmoor
station.
“It's mornings like this that make a man feel the
hardships of civilization. What wad I not give to be
just a barelegged Hieland cateran breasting Ben
Nevis!”
But he declined Fleming's invitation to stay and try
whether the moor would not do as a substitute for
Ben Nevis.
“I’ll no deny that maist o' the sick folk wad do
just as weel without me, but it wadna pay to let 'em
find it out,” he observed as he clambered into a third-
class carriage; McKie never wasted siller on luxurious
travelling. And Quentin, left alone, rode northward
across the moor.
To be in sound health, on a good horse, riding over
Wildersmoor on a fine spring morning, is to experi-
ence a riotous delight in mere existence. “We need
pray for no higher heaven than the pure senses can
furnish,” says Thoreau; and seeing that Christianity
is a belief in the resurrection of the body, there is
much to be said for this view. It is the soul of a
churl that will not thank God when its earthly garment
respires in an atmosphere that suits it, for then simply
to go on breathing is a foretaste of Paradise—a return
to the wild exhilaration of the Morning of the world,
when the Sons of God shouted for joy.
By the time Quentin had reached the first farm he
had forgotten all shadows, both that which pursued
and that which might meet him. The shadow that
pursued? his horse's hoofs beating on the soft mossy
turf had left it far behind, lingering by the spot where


Wildersmoor I 55
the blind had found the dead. The shadow—a yet
grimmer phantom this—that might meet him, it had
vanished, melted into the blue distance. The year was
at the spring; and so was Quentin's spirit.
The second farm he visited lay westward, towards
North Rode. He meant to ride on to Sandhayes pres-
ently. In the country one calls on one's friends at any
hour that may chance to be convenient. No need to
wait till afternoon before one can knock at a familiar
door. The time was barely eleven, he would be there
by twelve, thought Fleming, as he drew rein at the
farm gate, where the farmer stood talking to a
labourer.
Farmer Blackshaw greeted his landlord after the
fashion of Surturbrand—as a free Dane his leader;
and proceeded to explain the contention between the
man and himself.
“Would yo' believe it?” he said, appealing to Quen-
tin as sure of sympathy. “I sent this chap o'er to
Woffendale wi' a cartload o' this an’ that, an' a few
sacks o' potatoes, an' he's lossen a sack on th’ road.
Lossen a sack o' potatoes an’ conna tell wheer it fell
off nor owt about it!”
“Ay, thot's it. I conna tell owt,” acquiesced the
culprit; not sulkily nor carelessly, but simply as stat-
ing a fact.
Fleming was amused.
“When did you first miss the sack?”
“Eh, sir, not till I wur i' Woffendale market. Then
I looked i' th' cart an' th' sack wur gone!”
The farmer eyed his man half-humorously.
“Lad, art tha in love?”
“Nay, I amna,” with a sheepish grin.


I 56 Wildersmoor
“Then,” said Blackshaw, impressively, “tha mun
be a fool!”
Quentin laughed consumedly. In his light-hearted
frame of mind the situation appealed to him. He sym-
pathized fully with the farmer's standpoint of thought.
A man in love may reasonably be excused even such
an error as losing a sack of potatoes; the distracting
nature of his meditations pleads for him. But when
he cannot urge this excuse, what then is to be said
for him? Clearly he is a fool.
Neither did the potato-loser by any means resent
the epithet, but, perceiving its reasonableness, joined
in with an appreciative guffaw, and advanced to hold
Fleming's horse.
“Oh, never mind! He will follow me,” said the
latter, dismounting. “I see you are ploughing up
there, Blackshaw. You lose no time,” glancing to-
wards a near sweep of upland where, dark against the
hazy blue of the sky, plough, ploughman, and horses
paused a moment at the end of a furrow.
“Oh, ay, it's no good to stond an’ whistle, an’ theer
couldna be a better day for turning o'er the ground.
I wur going up theer. Will you coom, too, sir? You
was a rare one for ploughing when you was a boy.”
“I believe I could drive a tolerably straight furrow
now,” said Quentin, as he and Blackshaw walked up
the narrow path, Fleming's horse following close be-
hind its master like a dog.
There is a singular fascination in this February
ploughing: to lean against the old weather-beaten stile
and watch the slow, heavy tread of the intelligent
brutes as they pace onward; the hiss and gleam of the
steel cleaving the earth as a prow the sea; the waves


Wildersmoor 157
of rich brown earth rising—falling over as the plough
passes on, steadied by the labourer, his slow step like
that of the Clydesdale, his whole bearing—the slight
backward poise of the body as his hard hands grasp
the handles—having a sort of clumsy grace, the beauty
of perfect harmony.
There is about it all an idea of a good beginning, a
sturdy, wholesome foundation for life to come. The
horses are strong; the man is strong; the plough is
good steel made by strong arms; underneath are the
slow waves of the strong clean earth; birds twitter
joyfully in the furrows; in the leafless trees the sap is
rushing bravely upward; the clear pale February sky
is overhead; the chill sweetness of the February air
all round—a good beginning of bread for the life of
man. One pauses by the stile and lazily wonders
what noble thoughts, what saintly lives yonder brown
field will feed. Truly, it may feed thoughts and lives
neither noble nor saintly; but, somehow, one does not
think of that as the long furrow is driven and turned.
The spell woven by the February ploughing is the spell
of contentment. All is well—all must be well; since
as long as the earth remaineth, seed-time and harvest
shall not cease.
Fleming and Blackshaw talked of barns and silos,
and watched the rising and falling waves of soft brown
earth. The ploughman was a black-haired, strongly-
built young fellow, who had often helped Quentin to
drive a furrow when it had pleased the young master
in his boyhood to try his hand at ploughing—both
lads hanging on to the plough-handles, a handle each.
He now halted and pointed out the off horse to
Quentin.


158 Wildersmoor
“Owd Jenny, sir. You mind her?”
“Of course I do,” patting the creature, who turned
large soft eyes upon him. “I remember how she used
to look round reproachfully at us when we could not
hold the plough steady.”
Farmer Blackshaw chuckled.
“I reckon Jenny could ha’ driven a straighter
furrow than either o' you i' those days.”
“I have not a doubt about it. Well, Blackshaw,
I'll see about those silos.”
The field was wide and sloping, with a footpath
down the middle. The lower end of the path opened
directly on the moor; the upper led through more
fields, and thence into a moorland track leading to
North Rode. Blackshaw was expressing his thanks,
the plough had turned the furrow, and Quentin was
re-mounting, when he caught sight of a figure he knew
well standing by the far gate; the cinnamon-brown of
her garments so blending with the russet tones of the
leafless hedge that, till now, he had not seen her.
“Is that gate locked 2 ” he asked, withdrawing his
foot from the stirrup.
“No, sir. You can get through on to th’ moor.”
Frances held out her hand with a smile as Quentin
approached. -
“Have you been discussing farming? I saw you
and Marigold when you first came up,” stroking the
horse's velvet muzzle. The creature was following
close behind Fleming's shoulder, stepping daintily
along the narrow path.
“Did you! I only caught a glimpse of you a mo-
ment ago. Your dress is the same colour as the
brambles.”


Wildersmoor I 59
“I have been watching the ploughing and trying to
find out why the clank of the slackened chain, as the
plough turns and is lifted, is so pleasing to one's ears.
It is an idyllic sound. When a railway porter un-
couples carriages I do not find the clanking by any
means idyllic, though it is the same. Yet there are
people who maintain that fact is everything.”
“Facts are just what feelings make them; no more
—no less,” said Quentin. “Nothing is real but our-
selves. And everything is beautiful in spring.”
Frances glanced at her old playmate and laughed.
“Are not these sentiments of yours similar to those
which drew on you Dr. McKie's reproof last night?”
“Dear old boy!—it is not often that I shock him.
I am right, though. What causes happiness is good.
The sound of ploughing in spring makes us happy.
Therefore it is good.”
His companion laughed again.
“It is good. But not, I think, for the reason you
have given.”
“Well, since it is good, what matters the reason?
Any reason will do.”
The spring was running in Fleming's veins even as
in the brown tree-trunks. He was bubbling over with
life; his eyes dark and luminous—very little of the
grey iris visible; eyes and lips smiling together, his
step buoyant. He seemed to radiate vitality—the
strong sunny vitality of the awakening earth. This
was Quentin as Frances had always known him—
Quentin with no shadow on his face: joyous, un-
troubled, restful. Her own spirits rose under the ex-
hilarating influence of his presence. This, indeed, was
the secret of his popularity. People were the happier


16o Wildersmoor
for seeing him. The light-hearted unspoken warmth
of sympathy cheered them. For the moment their life-
burdens pressed less heavily. Hitherto life had gone
smoothly with Frances Aveland. She scarcely remem-
bered her mother's death. No sorrow had touched her
till the dark shadow of her father's illness loomed
before her, an illness with no hope of recovery—a slow
wasting. That shadow dimmed the future. When
she was alone—it seemed impossible that she should
ever be alone; go in and out, do this and that in the
silence of solitude, with none to heed or care. Per-
haps one more careless would have pondered less and
so been happier. But Frances, like her father, was of
a grave reflective disposition. She was impelled by
nature to look forward, to wonder what was behind
the mists of to-morrow.
Through those mists, it is true, the face of her old
playmate Quentin often appeared. Yet all was uncer-
tain. Who could tell what might happen? Nina was
mistaken as regarded Esmé Rusholme; but Frances
knew, though she would not acknowledge it even to
herself, that if by any strange chance Esmé married
Quentin, she—Frances Aveland—would probably not
remain very long at Sandhayes. For with her father
dead, with the Patons possibly removed to a better
living, with Wildersmoor Hall closed to her, what
would be left to her save the old farmhouse full of
memories of happier days?
As regards all this, however, she would not look
too closely into her own soul. Too keen scrutiny of
oneself is not always wise, and, moreover, not natural
to Frances Aveland. Reflective she was, but not intro-
spective. That belongs to shallower natures.


Wildersmoor I61
“Why think so much P” continued Quentin, with
shining eyes, as they walked on through the fields,
Marigold stepping gently behind them.
“Because there is so much to think about,” she
responded. “I am like Hokusai—I wish to get at the
bottom of things.”
“Hokusai, if I remember rightly, did not expect to
get to the bottom of things till he was ninety. Where-
fore this haste?”
“Hokusai,” said Frances, “ died at eighty-nine, so
he never got to the bottom of things. Missed it by a
year. Perhaps if he had hurried he might have suc-
ceeded. I regard his fate as a warning.”
“And suppose you succeeded?—what then?”
“Go on to the bottom of more things.”
“Oh, there is no time. And if there were it is not
worth the time. The Lincolnshire fellow was right;
happiness is everything—nothing matters so long as
you're happy. To know all things would not make the
sunshine brighter, the sky bluer, or the song of the
birds sweeter. By the way, they are not singing now,
but quarrelling frightfully. I can tell by the sound of
their twittering.”
“The quarrelling sounds very pretty. I admit that
the sunshine would not be brighter nor the sky bluer,
but the more one knows the more clearly one per-
ceives the brightness and the blueness.”
“You believe that knowledge increases happiness?”
“I am sure that the more women know the happier
they are. I cannot speak for men.”
“Well, I give it up. Doubtless you are right. But
there are times when there seems nothing better than
to revert to the original monkey and bask in the sun.”


162 Wildersmoor
“It appears to me,” observed Frances, reflectively,
“that men are perpetually wailing to revert to the orig-
inal monkey. The monkey itself would know better.
It would not desire to revert to the original jelly-fish.
You possess the treasures of the past ages, all that
which only I call knowledge; and yet you cry to sit in
a cave and eat raw mammoth ! You have the Pillar of
Fire and the Pillar of Cloud; yet you grumble at the
desert and sigh for the whips of Egypt.”
“The desert is really very rough walking now and
then. I wish to linger in the oases. That is all. For
instance, here is a pleasant oasis—this sunny morning.
Let us enjoy it to the utmost and forget there are any
other mornings.”
“Yes, it is a pleasant oasis,” Frances looked round
as she spoke.
There was “a good gigantic smile o'er the brown
old earth; ” perhaps the little puffs of warm air from
the sea were whispering jokes over the tattered bram-
bles and withered fern. Rabbits scuttled gaily about;
birds flew, and chirped, and wrangled excitedly; a
cloudlet of battered gnats rose and fell by the hedge;
through the clear air came the now distant rattle of
the plough-chain; close at her ear the soft tread of
Quentin's horse, keeping close behind his master;
Quentin himself beside her—truly it is wisest to enjoy
the present; who can tell what the mists of to-morrow
may conceal? Her forebodings of the future returned,
This spring might be her father's last—might also be
her last on Wildersmoor.
“Well?” said her companion, inquiringly.
“You are right,” resolutely turning her thoughts
from that chill future. “And yet I think I am right too.”
º


164 Wildersmoor
carried it home, and a travelling bone-setter—by way
of ingratiating himself with the people—had bound
up the creature's hurts. Everybody said “How charm-
ing !” When I heard of it, I said, ‘Who damaged the
dog?' Nobody knew. Nobody had thought of in-
quiring. The compassion of the child was pretty, but
the cause was ugly, so that had remained in oblivion.
But I sought and discovered the original cause in the
village bully—a lad of my own age—and I adminis-
tered to him the worst thrashing he ever had, with a
promise of two more if I ever caught him damaging
any more animals. I intended doubling the punish-
ment each time—a wholesome study in arithmetic.
However, he went to sea not long after and was
drowned in a storm by a happy mistake of Provi-
dence.”
“Why ‘mistake 'P”
“Well, I observe that Providence—or something
else—usually preserves the worthless.”
Frances turned on him eyes full of smiling amuse-
ment.
“Did you not reprove me a few moments ago for
desiring to get to the bottom of things? It seems to
me you are as much in earnest about it as I, and more
practical.” -
“Did I not confess that you were right?” he replied,
laughing too. “I only pleaded for a little rest now
and then.”
For a few moments they walked on in silence, that
contented silence which is the surest test of compan-
ionship. The fields were behind them; the moorland
track sloping westward before them to where the win-
dows of the North Rode cottages glittered in the sun,


Wildersmoor 165
and the little wood that sheltered Sandhayes stood out
darkly against the pale sands and shining sea.
“I intended to speak to you yesterday, about a
scheme of Mr. Paton's, but I quite forgot,” said
Frances, presently. “I think I will mention it now
lest he should get hold of you first.”
“Poor Paton! You know you are hard upon him."
“No, I am not,” she protested. “I really like him
very much. I am so grateful to him for marrying Nina
and bringing her here to North Rode. I only wish to
expand his ideas a little, they are very good ideas.”
“And this particular idea?”
“Is a village library. He wants you to let him have
rent free that empty cottage by the forge. He believes
he can raise enough money by subscription to buy
books and pay a caretaker.”
“And what am I to do?” asked Quentin, as she
paused. “Do you wish me to shake my head over the
cottage?—or present it to him ready furnished?”
“How meek you are All that depends, of course,
on your own opinion of the scheme. But my objection
is that no provision is made for women. That is gener-
ally so. Everything is done to save men, and provide
them with reasonable amusement, but nothing for
women. Then they are blamed when they spend their
time in gossiping, or quarrelling, or devouring penny
dreadfuls of the most ludicrous kind. Here the girls
bring home low-class weekly papers—whole bundles
of them—from Woffendale, and they and their elders
hang over them entranced. Now that cottage has
three rooms on the ground floor, which would give
two reading-rooms, one for women. I do not think a
common reading-room would be liked in such a primi-


I66 Wildersmoor
tive place as this. Of course, the women's room will
never be used so much as the men's, because it is sel-
dom possible for a woman to leave her house for hours.
But the mere fact of the room being there would lead
them to borrow books to read at home. We, father
and I, will give some books if there is a women's room;
not unless. Nina will tell Mr. Paton so, but it oc-
curred to me that the matter was entirely in your
hands. The cottage is needed, so if you make a
Women's Reading Room a condition—why, it is done.”
“I will do so. Anything else?”
Frances laughed.
“Not at present, thank you.”
“May I leave Marigold at Sandhayes while I super-
intend the cleaning of old Will's cottage.”
“I am surprised you think it necessary to ask. Poor
old Will!—I have put up a basket with tobacco and
a few other things to console him.”
“You promised to come and look on.”
“And I am coming, as soon as father is ready. He
is writing letters.”
“Oh, then I will not disturb him. I will take Mari-
gold round to the stables and go straight to the Vicar-
age, where I expect to find Paton ready with his
myrmidons.”
“How many myrmidons?”
“I don't know. I told him it would be as well to
have several women, so that poor old Will's agony
would not be prolonged. It will be a positive circus
for the village.”
It was.


CHAPTER XIV
HEN, an hour later, Aveland and his daughter
strolled up the one straggling street of the
village, they found the whole population, including the
dogs, clustered round Will Elliot's cottage. It was a
little white-washed thatched dwelling, semi-detached,
having two windows to the road, and the door at
the side opening into a narrow slip of garden sur-
rounded by a white paling, and divided by a path down
the middle into flower and kitchen-garden. This slip
of ground was well-kept; the flower half jewelled with
crocuses, the prosaic portion having a goodly show of
winter greens and a noble onion bed. Old Will's gar-
dening afforded him both amusement and support. He
had been a fisherman. Now, in his old age, his wife
dead, his two sons drowned, he lived on his small sav-
ings, supplemented by the produce of his garden, and
by gifts from kindly neighbours and “the better end; ”
i. e., the gentry.
He was rather a picturesque figure as he sat in his
armchair in the porch, eyeing his scattered lares and
penates. For the furniture had been carried out of the
cottage to facilitate cleaning, and was filling the gar-
den path, and overflowing into the road—an amazing
assortment of pots, and pans, and kettles, old fishing-
nets, planks, torn sails that had weathered many a
storm, rickety stools, pails fit for the Danaides, piles
of rags that had afforded snug lodgings to generations
167


I68 Wildersmoor
of mice; in short, the accumulations of years, for the
old man never threw anything away.
“It'll coom in handy,” he would say; and, certainly,
he contrived uses for much apparently useless rubbish.
Did not two dilapidated pails, filled with scarlet gerani-
ums, stand every summer one on each side of the porch,
the holes in the pails affording efficient drainage, and
the vivid flame of the flowers leading the eye away
from their battered receptacles?
To a man of such resources, the compulsory over-
hauling of his household gods was sacrilege. Marius
at Carthage could hardly have worn a more tragic
aspect than Will Elliot that sunny morning, notwith-
standing Fleming's sympathising presence, and the
reassuring observations of Paton and the interested
crowd.
“You will be much more comfortable, Elliot,” urged
the Vicar, cheerfully.
“Nay, I shanna.”
“You will not know your own house,” pursued Pa-
ton, still more cheerfully.
“Loike enow!” sardonically. “Here!” as a strong-
armed woman came out, carrying a pail of dirty water,
“wheer art tha taking that to, tha wasteful besom?
Teem it to th’ cabbages, dost tha hear? If tha mun
be slopping soapsuds about, put 'em wheer they'll do
some good.” -
“That is a brilliant idea, Will,” and Quentin, taking
the pail from the woman's hands, distributed its con-
tents among the cabbages with great dexterity and im-
partiality. “Now, are there any more soap-suds?”
Another pail appeared, and was similarly disposed
of, Elliot looking on with approval.


17o Wildersmoor
own! I wonder every decent mon doesna emigrate,
an’ leave 'em th’ riff-raff as wouldna moind—riff-raff
never moinds owt!”
At this point the Avelands came up, followed by a
stable-boy carrying a well-filled basket designed for old
Will's consolation. There is none quicker to discern
any rare gift of mind or character than the Northerner.
Thus it happened that Dr. Aveland, despite his south-
ern birth, was a favourite with Elliot. The old Bor-
derer inquired after Aveland's health with real solici-
tude, and then unbosomed himself regarding cleanli-
ness generally.
“A-messing an' slopping,” he said, “as if theer
wurna water enow on Wildersmoor wi'out lugging it
indoors | When th' Lord let th' flood loose He told
Noah to build the ark so as to keep th’ water out. If
a mon built an ark i' these days, he'd ha’ a round
dozen o’ doctors an' parsons a-smelling round a-telling
him th’ proper way to let th' water in. Eh, I shouldna
fret if the flood coom again l’”
“A good many people are of your opinion, Elliot.”
“I dunnot doubt it. Here's th’ parson talking o'
laws fur folks to be clean; but ye know,” significantly,
“law's law just so long as ye let it be law.”
“That is so.” Aveland's slow smile rippled up into
his sombre eyes. This last observation of Will's was
one thoroughly after his own heart.
“Will ye sit, Aveland?” Will hospitably waved a
hand towards a kitchen-chair, and the doctor sat down.
“I wur about to say theer's a mort o' fools making
laws fur their betters.”
He paused and looked at Frances talking to Quen-
tin by the gate. Elliot's natural delicacy forbade him


172 Wildersmoor
But Elliot preferred to stay outside till his house-
hold goods were carried within, lest any of them should
be taken away as “rubbish.” The fishing-nets, the
old pails, the rusty anchor, the geranium cuttings in
worn-out pans, the ends of rope and broken stools, all
were duly carried back by Quentin and the Vicar, aided
by the two char-women and the Avelands' stable-boy.
Lastly, Frances arranged the contents of the Sand-
hayes' basket in the little cupboard by the fireplace,
that served as the old man's pantry, and settled old
Will himself comfortably in front of the fire. He was
expressing his thanks for the “baccy;”—it would
“help to take off th' smell o' th' soap,” he said—when
Nina walked in.
“I am sorry I am so late. I intended to have
helped to put the cottage in order. However, here is
my small contribution.”
She unrolled a bundle which proved to be a warm
hearthrug.
“This is for your feet, Will.”
Elliot looked politely dubious.
“Thank ye kindly, Mrs. Paton, but I loike to speak
my moind to th’ Vicar, so I conna well take it, being
his'n, yo' see.”
“Oh, I consider this quite my own,” she replied.
“My godmother gave it to me when I was married.
It is a little shabby now, and Mr. Paton does not like
it, but it is still good and warm.”
“It’s a rare nice un, an’ I’ll be glad on it, an’ thank
ye,” said Elliot, with an instant change of manner. The
distinction between goods brought into the house by
the wife, and those purchased by the husband was al-
ways clear to the mind of the northern peasant, though


Wildersmoor 173
he might choose to ignore it for his own convenience
now and then.
The rug was Nina's, therefore Will could take it
and yet preserve his independent attitude towards “th'
parson.” Though in truth the old man did not actively
dislike Paton, he merely wished to enter a vigorous
protest against the principle of interference which
Paton represented in the matter of cleansing the cot-
tage. So the hearthrug, a fluffy crimson one, was laid
down over the stone floor in front of the fire, and
Elliot's house-friend, a large grey cat, curled herself
round on it, with much satisfaction.
“Hoo's a good judge,” said Will, pointing to the
creature, “an' so am I. What wi' this,”—looking at
the rug and Nina, “and th’ meats,”—looking at the
cupboard and Frances, “I’ll be snug enow.”
They left the old man thus mollified. The little
crowd that had gathered with so much interest round
old Will's abode had broken into scattered groups, com-
menting upon the scene they had just witnessed. Most
of them were of opinion that it was very right and
proper; not because they really thought so, but because
it is always pleasant to see someone else worried.
Outside the gate Aveland proposed that the Patons
should walk back to Sandhayes and lunch there.
“Fleming is coming,” he said. “Five is a happy
number. Do not reduce it to three.”
“I am afraid we must,” replied the Vicar, “we have
a trick of lingering at your house, and I am due in
Riverton early this afternoon.”
“But you, Nina,” inquired Frances. “Will you not
make number four?”
Mrs. Paton shook her head. º


Wildersmoor I75
fectly. A gleam of amusement shone in Nina's eyes—
a gleam of content in Aveland's.
“Most generous,” repeated the Vicar. “I feared
the fittings would be rather a heavy expense, and in
a parish like this one cannot hope to obtain any con-
siderable sum. And there are the books to buy.”
“Well,” said Aveland, “do not try to fill your read-
ers' heads with a smattering of useless ephemeral learn-
ing, that will give them no subject for thought, but
merely cause for wrangling. The people here are a
fine race, with plenty of imagination. Cultivate that.
Give them heroic figures to contemplate, and noble
thoughts to float in their minds. That is education.
Nothing else is. And in pursuance of this my belief,
I will give you Shakespeare, and twenty novels—
chiefly historical. It is the fashion to decry that sort
of thing on the plea of inaccuracy, but most serious
histories seem to me quite as inaccurate and consid-
erably duller.”
“And what does it matter anyway?” said Quentin,
cheerfully. “Nobody wants to be at school all his life.
Let us walk in Arcadia, or Arden, and converse with
Touchstone. We shall be infinitely more agreeable
companions than if we pored over dry facts till old
age, like Faust. Moral: see how Faust ended !”
Three of his hearers laughed and agreed with him.
The Vicar pondered a moment, then smiled, and said,
“There is a great deal in your view. I myself think
the wish to hear a story is natural to all mankind.”
“I am sure of it,” said Nina. “Mr. Fleming is
right. Faust lost his soul through not reading fiction.
He wasted his life over what he fancied were the
only important facts, and then suddenly awoke to the


176 Wildersmoor
knowledge that there were a good many other facts
much more important. And, knowing nothing of the
relative value of things, he sold his soul to be the cheap
hero of a penny dreadful—the villain of a Surrey melo-
drama. Poetic fiction would have given him higher
ideals.”
“People who are always searching in the valley of
dry bones are certainly very awful,” Frances observed.
“Last year father and I stayed at a friend's house
with a man of that sort. Historical dry bones were his
specialty, and I could not have believed that history
could be so stupid as that man made it. He was like
a phonograph. You turned him on and he ground
out just what you expected. He never uttered any-
thing original. How could he? He had had no time
to think. All that he knew was put into him, and he
simply rolled it out mechanically when wanted. He was
positively inhuman, Mr. Paton. I will give the library
the principal works of ten modern women authors; and
also three of Clark Russell's sea stories, as I believe
this sea-going population will appreciate them as I do.
I think that in the “Death Ship' we have the finest
conception of the ‘Flying Dutchman –a real human
Vanderdecken; with his tender thoughts of his wife
and children, his pathetic oblivion of time, his fright-
ful temper, his reckless cruelty. Then the weird old
ship—the dull, terrible crew, who ought to be dead
men but are not.”
“There are a good many of Vanderdecken's crew to
be met with up and down the world,” commented Ave-
land, drily.
“On stormy days,” continued Frances, “when the
sea is rushing over the sandhills, I often picture the
.


Wildersmoor 177
‘Braave' sweeping on with her sails shining in the
sun, like yellow satin—so old they are. Or at night,
with the phosphorescence creeping like glow-worms
about her worn timbers.”
Paton looked his surprise.
“I have not read the book. I must do so. But I
should not have thought sea stories particularly at-
tractive to ladies.”
“Now, my dear Cyril,” cried his wife, “how can
you or any man possibly know what attracts this or
that woman? I don't know why we should be sup-
posed to delight in the twaddle and sugar-candy litera-
ture so anxiously recommended to us by you men.
It is affliction enough to mend stockings at all, without
reading how the lovely Lavinia not only mended the
family socks, but also those of the pew-opener, the
bachelor churchwarden, and the village agitator; even
though the last-mentioned was at that moment advo-
cating the nationalization of glebe land, and a free
hand with respect to other people's larders. Neither
do I understand why, if one scoffs at this sort of
thing, one is expected to apply oneself either to mathe-
matics or blasphemy as the sole alternative. One may
have a natural affinity for something which is neither
twaddle, nor mathematics, nor blasphemy. Now my
particular delight is in wild adventure, not at sea, but
on land. Plenty of fighting and tumbling over preci-
pices. I had a quiet home and needed something more
stirring. So I found it in a top garret and Mayne
Reid, and wished myself on the banks of the Rio
Grande.”
“Mrs. Paton, that is not sentimental.”
“It is not, Dr. Aveland. I was never sentimental,


178 Wildersmoor
That all women are sentimental is another masculine
delusion.”
“Not my delusion,” said Aveland, with his own
peculiar air of suppressed entertainment mingled with
profound melancholy.
They had reached Sandhayes now, and were stand-
ing by the gate, between the clipped yews.
“It is to be hoped,” said Quentin, “that the flood of
knowledge about to be let loose in North Rode will
not lead to breaches of the peace. Not long ago two
of our fellows at the Works read a life of William
Wallace, and argued so hotly as to whether we were
justified in hanging him, that ordinary human language
failed, and they took to the only true Volapuk—blows.
Finally, one student of Scottish history was carried to
the hospital and the other marched off to the police
station.”
“Is that really true?” asked Paton, incredulously.
“Really. It happened last autumn.”
This mention of the Works put another idea into the
Vicar's head.
“Do you think your uncle would assist us? Of
course North Rode is not Woffendale, but as his
son Here it occurred to the speaker that Ralph
Fleming's mysterious death on Wildersmoor was not
exactly calculated to endear the locality to his father.
“I mean,” hastily changing the sentence, “that pos-
sibly as a sort of memorial, you know 2 ”
“I will ask him. I am dining with him to-night.”
A slight shadow passed over Fleming's face as he
spoke. Nina noticed it.
“Now that we have quite settled the affairs of the
village, let us depart, Cyril. Dr. Aveland will be thank-
>


Wildersmoor 179
ful to get rid of us, for his lunch must be ready. I
suppose newspapers will be allowed at the library?—
a pity. Who was the man who said if it had not been
for newspapers he might have known something?
Doing good is very wearisome. Nowadays one is so
worried about it, that one longs to set sail for some
blessed spot—if such exists—where there are no poli-
tics, no proletariat, no public meetings.”


CHAPTER XV
HEN Quentin entered his uncle's drawing-room
in Woffendale that evening—a drawing-room
in which the upholsterer had done everything and the
inhabitants nothing—he found Esmé Rusholme sitting
there alone. She was wearing a simple grey frock
with black ornaments; a frock that would harmonize
with the mourning of her hostess, and convey a deli-
cate sense of sympathy with the family grief. Quen-
tin noticed the gown, and fancied it might be truly
worn for Ralph. Certainly Ralph had behaved ex-
tremely ill to their old playmate. His attentions to
Esmé had been very marked, and then—had dropped.
Perhaps she had been fond of him? And thinking of
all this, Quentin's manner, as he greeted her, had a
softened gentleness that struck her with surprise.
“What did it mean?” she wondered. He was always
friendly and brotherly, but this was new. Was he
afraid that her cousin, Jack Ulyett, might write to
her?—might make damaging admissions? Well, if
Quentin thought this, so much the better, and it was
with great inward cheerfulness that Esmé opened the
attack.
“Mrs. Holt is talking to a poor woman in the
library,” she said, in answer to his inquiries, “and I
think Mr. Fleming is dressing. It is a long time since
we have seen you, Quentin.”
People brought up in the same neighbourhood gen-
180


Wildersmoor 18 I
erally address each other by their Christian names, and
Esmé was careful to keep up this custom of bygone
childhood.
“Surely it is not very long,” he said; “but so much
has happened since, that perhaps the time seems longer.
I am sorry, Esmé.”
He intended to convey his regret and sympathy for
all the annoyances she might have experienced through
his cousin. His listener took it merely as a nervous
apology.
“We shall be pleased to see you at any time. We
are your old friends—your best friends. I should have
thought that every consideration would have led you
to us, Quentin. But I hear you are taking Ralph's
place at Sandhayes.”
Fleming's face darkened.
“Ralph was never welcome at Sandhayes,” he said,
briefly.
“And you are?—is that it? Am I to conclude
you are engaged to Frances Aveland?”
“No, I am not.” There was a lingering in the tones
of his voice that Esmé noted with the cold, inward
displeasure which was her form of anger. He added,
after a moment's pause—
“Yet I hope I am welcome.”
He was more obstinate than she had expected. He
must be made to see that silence is not freely given;
a price must be paid for every good thing in this
world.
“It is natural that Dr. Aveland should wish his
daughter to marry well. Though poor Ralph is gone,
you remain.”
Quentin glanced at her in astonished anger. There


Wildersmoor 183
“You are safe with me. We are old playmates, and
an old playmate will be silent and extend forgiveness
where strangers ”—with an emphasis on the word—
“would shrink away.”
She watched him closely as she said this, but Quen-
tin gave no sign that there was any serious meaning
in her words. If she had expected him to be startled,
or in any way disturbed, then was she utterly mis-
taken. The strong hand pulling his moustache was
steady as ever, the bronzed skin neither pale nor
flushed, his eyes—well, she could not see his eyes. He
was sitting in a low chair, leaning forward with an
elbow on his knee, and apparently still studying the
sombre colours of the carpet. Her words were vague,
they might mean much—or nothing. What he would
have replied he himself never knew, for while he de-
liberated the door opened and Mrs. Holt entered. Be-
hind her came Elkanah Fleming, and following him,
the anouncement of dinner.
“You see, Quentin,” said his uncle, “we know bet-
ter than to invite you to spend the evening with two
old fogies.”
Which remark was not agreeable to Mrs. Holt.
“I am sure, Elkanah,” she observed, frigidly, “your
nephew is always quite as willing to come when we
are by ourselves. But recently, since poor Ralph's
loss, I have felt great comfort in Esmé's society.”
“And I am so glad to be of any use, dear Mrs.
Holt,” murmured Esmé, slipping modestly into her
chair, opposite Quentin.
“That's right,” rejoined Elkanah. “It is something
for us to have youth in the house now and then.” He
sighed and frowned; then added, “Not but what Quen-


184 Wildersmoor
tin comes often enough. I'm not finding fault. Still,
Maria, it stands to reason that we are not much com-
pany for him.”
“Happily Mrs. Holt does not believe that,” said
Quentin, “ or I should be in well-deserved disgrace.”
“I never believe any of my brother-in-law's jokes,”
she replied with a severe air and a softened tone: the
air being for the elder, the tone for the younger—
Fleming.
Elkanah snorted, then turned to his nephew.
“You’re a regular hermit, lad, in that old place by
yourself. Not but what I like the old Hall well enough,
if it could be picked up and set down in a cheerful
neighbourhood instead of on that God-forgotten moor.”
And the old man's hand shook slightly as he lifted his
glass.
Quentin said nothing. Usually he was an enthusi-
astic defender of his native moorland, now he sat silent.
What could he say? It was surely natural that the
old man should thus speak of the place where his son
had died. But was Wildersmoor God-forgotten?—
the wide undulating land with the breath of the sea
stealing over it. It was easier to picture the Lord God
walking there in the cool of the day than in the stifling
clamorous streets of Woffendale; where the hot black
smoke obscured His heaven, so that men saw never
the blue consoling depths nor the glitter of Orion's
sword; and when there is neither hope nor fear, what
is left but to wallow 2
“The Hall is certainly dreary for a solitary person.”
Mrs. Holt said this with a prim little smile. She
had expected Esmé and Ralph to marry, and it was
entirely in accordance with Mrs. Holt's ideas of what


Wildersmoor 185
-
was becoming that Esmé should—on Ralph's death—
transfer her affections to his cousin. “A truly modest
girl,” Mrs. Holt had once been heard to say, “has
no preferences. It is proper to seek a husband, but
most improper to wish for any particular one.” In
her eyes all enthusiasm was the result of neglected
education combined with original sin. Like the Yankee
captain, she believed in sitting upon the safety-valve.
If an explosion blew the vessel into the air, she was
ready to blame the Divine Builder for faulty construc-
tion rather than her own fashion of managing it.
She was of opinion that Quentin needed a wife like
Esmé. She would clip his fancies and enthusiasms
as the gardener clipped any straggling twigs of the
Sandhayes yews. Mrs. Holt had some faint unac-
knowledged regret that there was not more to clip
about him. Ralph had interested her deeply, because
he presented such a fine field for religious effort.
There was scarcely anything on the two Tables of
Stone that could not be hurled at him with the cer-
tainty of hitting; and the tolerably frequent presence
of such a hardened and impenitent sinner had given a
real zest to the family prayers, at which Mrs. Holt
presided every morning.
Now Ralph was gone, and with him had vanished
that war-dance of the seven deadly—six rather, for
avarice had not been one of Ralph Fleming's vices—
which had wheeled and flickered, advanced and re-
treated before Mrs. Holt's scandalized eyes for the last
seven or eight years; and she missed the excitement
of the perpetual conflicts between Ralph and his at-
tendant devils on the one hand, and his father and her-
self on the other.


186 - Wildersmoor
Therefore she turned to the only amusement just
then available—the arrangement of Quentin's future.
She approved of the idea all the more because she
vaguely felt Esmé Rusholme was not the sort of woman
he would choose if left to himself. Men did not know
what was good for them, but with proper management
they could generally be induced to marry the right
person. She would assist Esmé to the utmost of her
power. Little did Mrs. Holt imagine what small need
that young woman had of assistance—what a weapon
she held in reserve. The duel was a more deadly one
than could enter the extremely circumscribed imagina-
tion of Elkanah Fleming's sister-in-law. She did not
believe in dramatic situations. Tragedies might occur
on the stage, or in books—two things for which she
felt supreme contempt—but in real life there were no
high lights nor deep shadows; in fact, they were not
exactly respectable. Provided you had a well-regu-
lated mind, nothing particular could possibly happen
to you. Mrs. Holt's statement that Wildersmoor Hall
was dreary for a solitary man passed without com-
ment, but it gave Esmé an opportunity for ascertain-
ing Fleming's movements that day.
“Have you come from the Hall just now, Quen-
tin P” - -
“Yes. I've been riding about the moor all day.”
And by the look of contentment that passed across
his face, she knew he had ridden to Sandhayes.
“Been to see Aveland?” asked Elkanah. “Oh–
ah—you were going there last night. Is he better?”
The question surprised Quentin. His uncle and Dr.
Aveland had met now and then at Wildersmoor, but
as the latter's health prevented him going out else-


Wildersmoor 187
where, the two had seen little of each other. Then
Elkanah had been considerably ruffled by the decisive
note found in his son's pocket, so that his inquiring
in tones of friendly interest about Aveland's health
was wholly unexpected amiability, and Quentin won-
dered as he replied:
“He appears to me much as usual, but McKie says
he is no better; in fact, thinks him getting worse.”
“I should have supposed Dr. Aveland would have
resided in the south, as he belongs to that part.”
Mrs. Holt spoke as though the Avelands did her a
personal injury by living at Sandhayes.
“Well, I suppose he knows his own business best,”
said Elkanah. “The air is mild—I daresay it suits
him, and the old farmhouse is snug enough.”
“The Patons were there,” Quentin continued. “He
is getting up a village library. Any contributions
gratefully accepted.”
“Mr. Paton was talking to me about it at River-
ton,” said Esmé. “I think he wished me to ask you
to assist him.”
This was a tolerably solid assumption of proprietor-
ship on Esmé's part.
“Did he? He has summoned up enough courage to
ask me himself.
“Never knew a parson too shy to beg,” growled
Elkanah. “How much P’’
“He did not want cash, but a cottage.”
“You didn't give it to him outright, I hope?”
“No. Only permission to use it rent free.”
Elkanah nodded approval.
“That's right. Always keep things in your own
hands. Nowadays it does not do to give to the Church


I 88 Wildersmoor
when there's a chance of seeing the Pope in the pulpit
one day and an infidel dog the next!”
Mrs. Holt interposed.
“Really, Elkanah, your language is unduly violent.”
“So are the opinions of the rascals I have men-
tioned,” he retorted. “I and my forefathers, Maria,
have always been good Churchmen, and I'll be hanged
if there'll be a Church for Churchmen to go to soon!
Well, Quentin, I don't mind giving the parson a
twenty pound note to buy some books with. I once
intended to give Woffendale a free library at my death,
but now that they have started one on the rates, not
a penny shall they ever get from me. Perhaps I will
do more for this North Rode one by-and-by.”
“Paton will whoop for joy at the sight of twenty
pounds,” said Quentin. “Now, Mrs. Holt, will you
too join the happy band of helpers?”
Mrs. Holt's air was judicial.
“As North Rode is quite another parish I think I
must decline to assist the undertaking, though it has
my sincere sympathy. If you will invite us to tea
some day, Quentin,” with a prim smile, and indicating
Esmé by a sideway nod, “we might drive over from
Wildersmoor and look at the cottage you are lending.”
Mrs. Holt felt this was really a brilliant stroke of
diplomacy on behalf of her favourite.
“That will be delightful, dear Mrs. Holt.”
Esmé's eyes were downcast, but the lashes were
raised an instant to see how Quentin took this pro-
posal, and he caught the look. These furtive glances
of Esmé's always had a repellent effect upon him; they
conveyed a suggestion of treachery, which came now
to his mind with double force as he recalled the con-


Wildersmoor 189
versation before dinner. For this reason Mrs. Holt's
sudden freak annoyed him. He was not desirous of
placing Esmé so conspicuously as regarded his home
and belongings. There was a perceptible second before
he replied.
“The Hall and everything therein is entirely at your
disposal at any time, Mrs. Holt, whether I am at home
or not.” -
It was not the kind of response expected. Mrs. Holt,
whose obtuseness was of an amazing quality, merely
supposed Quentin did not perceive the happiness in-
tended for him. Old Elkanah, looking at his nephew
from under his bushy eyebrows, came nearer percep-
tion of the truth; Esmé, by the light of cold jealousy
and vindictive hate, saw and comprehended perfectly.
Her thin lips tightened as she mentally resolved to deal
him an extra stab for that speech.
“You should give an entertainment, lad,” said his
uncle. “People expect it from a young fellow with a
big house, something smart.”
“So I will. But of what sort? No use venturing
on a garden party till June, and even then I should
put up a tent ready for the rain that is certain to
arrive with the guests. I don't know that common hu-
manity would not also compel me to add hot-water
pipes.” -
“I do not consider this climate so very bad,” this
from Esmé, in a slightly hard tone.
“Well, Woffendale has no climate whatever. Its
atmosphere—winter and summer—is simply that of a
roofed-in railway station open at both ends. Oc-
casionally a breeze blows in at one or the other end
and stirs up the smoke a little. As for the air of Wil-


190 Wildersmoor
dersmoor, it is mild and I like it; but its best friend
could not call it dry.”
“Why not try something musical, say a concert?
There are good choirs in Woffendale to be had.”
“A good idea. I will think of it.”
“Very nice, I am sure,” said Mrs. Holt, “but I
hope, Quentin, you will have really good music; an
oratorio, for instance. However, that will be by-and-
by. Suppose we now fix a day for driving over to
see this library cottage.”
Whereupon Quentin perceived there was no crawl-
ing out of that excursion.
“Any day will suit me,” he replied.
Then glancing at his uncle, invited him also.
The old man shook his head.
“Thank you, lad, but I'll not come. You give the
parson that twenty pound note from me, and he'll like
it a deal better than my company.”
Here Mrs. Holt, after consulting Esmé, announced
that that day week would be most convenient for their
visit to North Rode.
“And we must settle about the entertainment when
you join us,” she added, rising and rustling away, fol-
lowed by Esmé.


CHAPTER XVI
& 4 M*. is settling your affairs for you!” re-
marked Elkanah, as his nephew closed the
door. “Now the women are gone I want to speak
to you about a letter I've had. You recollect that note
from the girl Darlow, found in poor Ralph's pocket?
Well, she writes to me, hinting she could supply in-
formation which might be of use. Of course, she
asks for money. Here's the letter.”
Quentin took the crumpled, ill-written epistle, read
it slowly, and laid it down.
“It is very vague,” he said. “What do you pro-
pose to do?”
“I have sent the money,’
tone.
“Have you?” Quentin was genuinely surprised.
“You see I am getting old and shaky. I can't af-
ford to lose any time. If I die before Ralph's mur-
derer is found, he never will be found. I don't blame
you, lad; you can't be expected to feel in this matter
as I do. I know that after my death time will drift
on, and the murder will become merely another “mys-
terious case,’ and will gradually be forgotten. There-
fore I must leave no chance untried. I have sent the .
sum the woman asks for, and have told her I wish for
a personal interview.”
Quentin took up the letter.
“She does not say that she is coming home.”
y
in a slightly apologetic
I9I


192 Wildersmoor
“No, but she probably will, in the hope of getting
more out of me. Her grandmother lives in one of
those cottages by you, doesn't she? I recollect Mc-
Kie telling me so. I think I'll come over and see
her.”
“Very well. I am sure, however, that Granny Dar-
low knows nothing.”
“She will know whether her granddaughter is re-
turning or not. Don't tell her I am coming. I will
take the old woman by surprise.”
It was not possible for any created being to take
Granny Darlow by surprise, but neither man knew this.
Elkanah Fleming, despite his nephew's assurance of
Granny's ignorance, fancied he had struck on what
might prove a fresh and reliable clue to the identity
of the stranger who had crossed Wildersmoor so
fatally. Over this thought he brooded for some min-
utes with grim satisfaction. During those minutes
Quentin, too, sat silent, pondering painfully. Did
Granny—did Rossela—know that Ulyett was on the
moor that night? How did they know? Had Granny
seen him? Well, Ulyett was safe in Africa, his voice
was not likely to fall on Blind John's ears. Quentin
hated himself as he thought this. But Elkanah's sus-
picions fairly roused, it was open to him to obtain the
young man's recall—the Flemings had interest with
the firm that employed Ulyett—and if sent for he would
return to England unconscious of there being any
charge against him. Here Quentin's imagination be-
gan to work. He pictured the consequences of Ulyett
being publicly accused of Ralph Fleming's murder.
What would Frances Aveland say? What would she
do? Would there be anything left to live for sup-


Wildersmoor I93
posing that life were left? Or would the careless
handling of an unloaded gun prove the best ending to
the play?
What was Esmé Rusholme's half-hinted knowledge?
He began to feel the jar and fret from which the
moorland spring beauty had freed him. All these in-
tangible coils were falling round him like the gossamer
threads in the fairy tale, ghostly—filmy—so impalpable
—scarcely visible, save when the light fell here and
there on the filaments. Would they float away—van-
ish? Or would they—as in the story—suddenly
strengthen, close—change to bonds of steel that crushed
out breath and life? He looked at his uncle. El-
kanah was leaning back in his chair, gazing fixedly
before him, his fingers grasping a wine-glass. Sup-
pose fate granted the old man's wish and hanged
Ralph's murderer? How many of our wishes would
gratify us, if we had them? It is always the thing
we have not that seems so fair—the sparkling water
that flows away from our thirsty lips, the brilliant
fruit that the wind tosses beyond our reach. The re-
venge that seemed fair in Elkanah Fleming's eyes was
Dead Sea apples, indeed!
He roused himself and said:
“Did you speak, lad?”
“No, but I will do whatever you wish in this mat-
ter.”
Quentin said this remorsefully. There was a grow-
ing feebleness about his uncle that was becoming more
perceptible week by week.
“Yes, yes, I know you will. You don't seem to get
on very well with Esmé Rusholme? Maria has an
idea you would suit each other.”


194 Wildersmoor
“Mrs. Holt is mistaken. I do not think either of
us would agree with her.”
“I don't know about that. Miss Esmé seems to
take a good deal of interest in our family, judging by
the way she comes to see Maria. No young woman in
her senses would pester herself with Maria unless she
had her eye on one of the men belonging to her.
Ralph is dead, and I am too old, so it must be you.”
Quentin laughed.
“Quite a mistake. I don't think I am a favourite
with Esmé.”
“Nor she with you? Well, that's your business, of
course. I only wished to know if you were going to
marry her. I suppose Ralph was the man then, as
it isn't you.”
“Surely we may allow her to come and see Mrs.
Holt without any other thought?”
“Pooh! Maria's fool enough to think that. I know
better. It must have been Ralph. He used to go to
the Rusholmes' a good deal. Was friendly with that
scamp of a cousin of theirs—Ulyett, who has gone to
the West Coast. Best place for him. He'll never come
back. Ah, a good deal of Ralph's cash went that way.”
“And Ulyett's too.”
“Ralph took Ulyett's money? I don't believe it.
Besides, the fellow had none, unless he stole it. Quite
capable of that, I don't doubt. I noticed the girl
Darlow mentioned him in that first letter, said he had
called to see Ralph in Driffield. Wanted to borrow
more money, of course.”
“Or to get paid.” Quentin felt impelled to defend
Ulyett, even at the risk of giving his uncle the fatal
clue.


Wildersmoor I95
“Nonsense! Nothing of the kind. You'll not make
me believe that rubbish. But about Esmé Rusholme.
If Ralph was philandering after her, what's the mean-
ing of Aveland's telling him to keep away from Sand-
hayes? Pretty cool, I call that!”
“A man has a right to forbid another his house if
he chooses.”
Elkanah glanced at his nephew, and restrained him-
self. The letter had touched his pride. He had had
time to ponder it since his son's death. Now he would
have flown into one of his rages had he dared; but
the tone of Quentin's voice was ominous, so the elder
Fleming contented himself with saying,
“Oh, ay, Aveland has got a handsome daughter,
and he fancies nobody is good enough for her. That's
about it, I suspect.” He glanced again at his nephew.
“You are often at Sandhayes. I suppose it is Frances
Aveland. Well, I'll make no objection. I’ll overlook
that impudent letter of his. It's time you married,
Quentin.”
“I am not sure that I shall marry,” said Quentin,
slowly. “We will not discuss the question, any-
way.”
“Not marry!” Elkanah fairly gasped in wrathful
astonishment. “Why not, pray? Have you gone
crazy? What the deuce is to become of the money,
I’d like to know? And there's not only the money to
be thought of; we're not sprung up like mushrooms;
we're as old a family as any in the county, and you
are the last. Do you want me to marry again at my
time of life? Take care you don't drive me to it!
But you are independent of me, and so you don't care
what becomes either of me or the money.”


Wildersmoor 197
sense enough to earn it. Did you see them as you
came along?”
“I did not notice.”
“Well, you will as you go home. There is one by
the station.”
Quentin made no reply. He opened the door for his
uncle, observing afresh the shaken look of the old
man. He had aged perceptibly during the last two
months. Where was the use of telling him that his
nephew did not intend to marry? Why contradict
and irritate him needlessly? Quentin was not sure
that he should not marry. It had seemed impossible a
little while ago; it had even seemed wrong. But after
every self-sacrificing resolve there comes, sooner or
later, a mighty reaction in favour of a precisely op-
posite course; and this opposing current had seized
upon Quentin, sweeping him out from the narrow
channel within whose boundaries he had purposed to
remain, into the wide glorious ocean. Ages ago his
Norse ancestors had set sail in spring for fairer lands,
heedless of what the end of the voyage might be.
Better the joyous rush over the sunlit waves, no mat-
ter what breakers ahead, than sitting at home like a
craven monk. To-day had given him a feeling of reck-
less exhilaration; the subtle intoxication of Wilders-
moor, when earth seems to stir like a Titaness in her
sleep, to stretch her mighty limbs, half-roused by the
whisper of Spring—a slow, heavy awaking, like that
of Buonarroti's Dawn: for here is Spring, no dancing
flower-decked maiden. Often it is the more barren
places of earth that wield most enduring influence—
the desert, the steppe, the moorland. These sink into
the human spirit, colouring it with their own hues—


198 Wildersmoor
a deep indelible colouring, as of dark iron. For the
silent expanse possesses, or seems to possess, a force
of repressed life wanting in sunnier spots; as in the
cold marble of the Dawn dwell the sorrow, the de-
spair, the vitality and endurance of the great Floren-
tine himself.
Thus the scents of that rolling moorland—of moss
and peat and freshly turned soil, pressed out and held
in solution as it were by the warm, humid climate—
pass into the blood like rare wine; till at the yearly
resurrection the familiar earth seems to become flesh
and flesh earth, and kindred dust calls unto dust—
not to lie down in death, but—to rise to fuller life
and rejoice greatly.
So it happened inevitably that the penetrating odours
of the wet brown earth—strange fumes arising from
earth's alembic—that he had breathed year after year,
now in the time of their returning—subtle and strong
as ever, for when does Mother Earth grow old?—
swayed Quentin Fleming mightily towards the reac-
tion that had already faintly begun. Between this re-
action and the scent of Wildersmoor running riot in
his veins, Quentin was in no mood to recall his reso-
lutions of two months ago. He was beginning to
suspect that those self-immolating intentions might
possibly repair a well-known pavement. And seeing
that our good intentions may not, after all, be so alto-
gether excellent as our natural conceit would have us
believe, it may be well that most of them find their
ultimate destination in a place where—of course—
we are not likely to meet them again.


CHAPTER XVII
HERE was not much conversation in the draw-
ing-room. Elkanah settled himself in an arm-
chair by the fire, opposite his sister-in-law, who had
taken up her knitting. Esmé, at Mrs. Holt's request,
dragged out of the smart piano a lugubrious wailing,
politely termed “A Poet's Lament; ” after which she
entertained her hostess with anecdotes of the Sunday
School, while Quentin took her place at the piano and
soothed his soul with song.
“Don't stop, lad,” said Elkanah, as the ballad came
to an end. “I recollect your father singing that thing
when we were young fellows. It seems but yester-
day ”—he knitted his grey brows—“yet half the world
has died since then.”
“Surely that is an exaggeration, Elkanah?”
Mrs. Holt never allowed such rampant expressions
to pass unchallenged.
“It’s near enough, Maria,” settling himself to listen
as his nephew's voice rose again.
Esmé did not pay much heed to the singing, she did
not care particularly about it. It was not an accom-
plishment to be encouraged in a husband, as leading
to personal vanity and an undue love of society. She
was accustomed to her father's organ-playing—John
Rusholme had a chamber-organ in which his soul de-
lighted—that was different. The man who playeth,
4.
I99


2OO Wildersmoor
playeth to himself; the man who singeth, desireth an
audience and applause. Esmé resolved that when she
married Quentin, he should settle down to more sober
tastes than music.
The song ceased. Not so the Sunday School anec-
dotes. They appeared to be a harmless topic of con-
versation, and Quentin was rash enough to join in.
“Are your scholars satisfactory on the whole,
Esmé P”
She paused.
“Perhaps I can hardly put myself on a level with
the other teachers, but the children are very good.”
Esmé depreciated herself on principle. He that
humbleth himself shall be exalted; but if the exaltation
did not arrive speedily, things were unpleasant in the
neighbourhood of Esmé Rusholme.
“You are indefatigable in well-doing, Miss Esmé,”
observed Elkanah from the depths of his chair.
“I think it only right to do what one can, Mr.
Fleming. It is so little after all.” Then to Quentin—
“Do you know whether help is still needed at North
Rode? I could again spare alternate Sunday after-
noons, and I do so delight in the work.”
“I will ask the Patons if they want more assistance,”
he replied lazily, “but I am afraid the Sunday trains
are not very convenient. North Rode is not bounti-
fully supplied at any time, you know.”
Esmé arranged the lace frilling of her sleeve.
“I could come on the other line to Wildersmoor.
For such a purpose you would surely drive an old
playfellow across the moor, Quentin P I should be so
pleased to be of the smallest use to Mr. Paton, and of
course I could not possibly walk the distance.”


Wildersmoor 2OI
“An excellent plan,” said Mrs. Holt with emphatic
approval.
Eikanah shot an expressive glance at his nephew,
who, though considerably taken aback, rose to the oc-
casion.
“If Paton has a class requiring a guide, philoso-
pher, and friend, I will take care that the dog-cart
meets you at Wildersmoor station whenever you like,
Esmé. I am sorry I cannot be charioteer myself, but
I generally go over to North Rode every Sunday morn-
ing for service, and don't come home till dinner.”
There was a moment's silence. Elkanah Fleming,
perceiving the drift of things, began to enjoy himself.
He was so desirous Quentin should marry that he
would have accepted almost any niece-in-law. But
now that he had discovered where his nephew's choice
lay, the joint scheming of Mrs. Holt and Esmé amused
him, and also disposed him to lean more towards the
Avelands. For a Fleming to be hunted into matri-
mony was undignified; therefore, as the old man saw
the very deliberate arrangements of the two conspira-
tors, he chuckled over the equally deliberate repulse
they received.
“Where do you lunch, then?” inquired Mrs. Holt,
with severity.
“Sometimes at Sandhayes, sometimes at the Vicar-
age,” replied the culprit, with great cheerfulness.
“There are charitable souls at both places. Later I
have occasionally taken a hand in the Sunday School,
as you propose doing, Esmé.”
Elkanah nodded approval, for to uphold Church and
State—always remembering to keep a tight hand on
the parson—and to seek a suitable wife, are good and


2O2 Wildersmoor
reasonable things, and much to be desired in one's
heir, and, indeed, in all men. For these are the solid
British feet on which the Empire stands.
Then the elaborate clock tinkled ten, and Esmé rose,
saying she had “promised to be home early. Mamma
was alone. Isabel and George had gone with papa
to a dance at the Wards', so the carriage could not
come for her. Would Quentin walk with her?”
Here Elkanah interposed, a cab should be sent for.
But of this Esmé would not hear, it was not worth
while; the cabstand was so near, she was sure Quentim
would not mind.
Of course Quentin could not mind. He signified his
willingness to walk to the cabstand or anywhere else;
and Esmé, followed by Mrs. Holt, disappeared to put
on her hat.
“You’re in for it, lad,” observed Elkanah, when they
were alone. “Don’t tell me it's Maria, or poor Ralph,
or anyone but yourself. That young woman means
you, and she'll let you know it as you walk home.
Cab 2–pooh!—she doesn't intend to take a cab. She
intends to bring you to a better state of mind—from
her point of view. You're not one to be chivied into
marrying a woman, are you?” in a doubtful tone. “I
don't care who you marry, but I shall be annoyed by
Maria's crowing if you have chosen one woman and
she makes you take another.”
Quentin laughed.
“My dear uncle, there really is no cause for alarm.
I don't suppose I am the subject of the attack you
imagine.”
“You’ll see,” quoth the elder Fleming, oracularly.
And Quentin did see before the end of that walk.


2O4. Wildersmoor
rays of the gas-lamps and the glimmering lights of
the houses. From the nearest came tinkling sounds.
“The Kerrs are lively to-night,” said Fleming. “I
hear Charlie's banjo going—a sign that they are not
alone. They seem to imagine there is something dan-
gerous about music without the excuse of guests. It
may lead to riotous living and the husks of the swine-
herd.”
Esmé, however, took no interest just then in the
Kerrs; neither did she care to discuss the prodigal.
Even to her dull perceptions events were hurrying,
crowding one upon another. The tide of life was has-
tening—sweeping through the rapids. It behoved her
to steer her bark well through the rush.
“I am afraid you are a little vexed with me, Quen-
tin. You do not seem to wish me to come to Wilders-
moor or to North Rode. Is it because old friends can-
not always take kindly to the new P. To me your wel-
fare must always come before all other considerations,
even the risk of offending you.”
“Do I give the impression of being offended? If
so, I apologise. As for North Rode”—designedly
ignoring the allusion to Wildersmoor—“ of course you
and Paton will settle all that. Only do not be disap-
pointed if you find there is no vacancy. The school is
but a small one.”
He spoke lightly, determined to keep the conversa-
tion at a safe commonplace level if possible. Esmé's
next remark was not promising.
“I should regret not being able to do some little
good, but any disappointment I might feel would be
trifling compared with that of seeing you bring misfor-


Wildersmoor 2O5
tune on yourself by not listening to those who are your
oldest and truest friends.”
He looked down at her good-temperedly, they were
passing a gas-lamp.
“Don’t ask me conundrums, Esmé. I was never a
good hand at that sort of thing.”
“Do you not believe me your truest friend, Quen-
tin P A man may need a woman's help.”
“Thanks. But I am in no difficulty of any kind,
so far as I am aware.”
Silence again for a few minutes. The giant shadows
danced wildly—jubilantly on the grey road, over the
big stone houses. The nearest furnace shot out waving
banners of blinding flame. They were crossing the
end of one of the principal thoroughfares and the hum
of the busy streets came to their ears; not the steady
roar of London, but an intermittent rattle, above which
the human voice made itself evident, mingling with
the sharp clacking of wood upon stone—the ring of
clogs.
“Let me see, what day are you and Mrs. Holt com-
ing over?” said Fleming, innocently.
“Have you forgotten already?” Esmé laughed, a
little unpleasantly. “By the way, shall you ask the
Avelands to meet us?” -
“I had not thought of it. I had not thought of
asking anyone. You will be so short a time at the
Hall if you intend driving over to North Rode.”
“Ah, you are like poor Ralph. You prefer keep-
ing Sandhayes all to yourself.”
Decidedly Esmé Rusholme's temper was not under
control. Her jealous hatred of Frances Aveland


2O6 Wildersmoor
flashed out even when it would have been much more
politic to have concealed it. But Esmé believed Quen-
tin to be entirely in her power, and minds like hers
ignore their own effect upon others and underrate the
strength of counter influences. Also, they believe in
coercion. Bullying has to them the sacredness of a
Sacrament, they and those of whom they approve be-
ing the priesthood appointed to administer it. If it
fails, the reason of the failure lies undoubtedly in the
abnormal wickedness of the person experimented upon.
Quentin was a brand to be snatched from the burning
and fashioned into a useful household tool.
“Probably you will meet Dr. Aveland at North
Rode.” Fleming's tone was indifferent.
“Now you are angry! ” in an injured voice. “You
have no cause to be. I don't care about Ralph. It is a
little hard to be received as an enemy when one
stretches out a helping hand. But I am ready to make
every allowance for one in your position, Quentin.
Nothing troubles me except the thought that you may
take another fatal step and so lose yourself.”
“I shall not take another step, and I have not lost
either of us, for here we are,” he rejoined carelessly,
stopping before one of the solid, comfortable-looking
stone houses. “I will wait till you are inside the door.
Good-night.” He opened the gate and held out his
hand.
“Are you not coming in, Quentin?”
“Not to-night, I think. I have barely time to catch
my train.”
“There is a later train. Mamma would be pleased
to see you.” -
“I should be still more pleased to see Mrs. Rush-


Wildersmoor 2O7
olme. Pray tell her so. Nevertheless, I cannot stay
to-night.”
“Then it is good-bye till this day week?”
“Oh, I may perhaps drop in before then. Good-
night, Esmé.”
“Good-night.”
The shadows danced more wildly than ever, as
Quentin turned back to the station. He was very sen-
sible now of the strength of the web, and of the inten-
tions of the weaver. She had, or thought she had, a
hold upon him, and she meant to use that hold to
separate him from Frances Aveland. A slow convic-
tion forced itself upon his mind that his uncle's sur-
mises might be correct. It was not a pleasant convic-
tion to a man of generous feelings, and Quentin thrust
it from him; yet it returned. How else could Esmé's
words and manner be explained? Passing the elder
Fleming's house, he glanced up at the lighted windows
and wondered for how much of this the old man and
Mrs. Holt were responsible. Had they suggested to
Esmé the preposterous idea that he-Quentin—had
any stronger feeling for her than that of an old friend
and playmate?
But what if they had? A few idle jests neither
justified nor explained Esmé's attitude. Clearly she
meant to tighten her grasp, and to use whatever
weapon she had in reserve. What was that weapon?
How had she obtained it? An element of astonish-
ment mingled with Fleming's anger. Could this be
his playmate, Esmé? He had never admired her,
either physically or mentally; but he had had for her
that lazy liking which generally exists between men
and women who have been companions in childhood.


208 Wildersmoor
He had believed her attached to Ralph, and had re-
proached him with desertion of her, when Ralph sud-
denly ceased his visits to the Rusholme's, and bent his
steps towards North Rode instead. Quentin had pitied
the girl with generous indignation; and this amazing
change in her, this wholly unlooked-for attack upon
his love and his liberty, this attempt to coerce him by
means of veiled threats—seemed to him well-nigh in-
credible, so unexpected was it.
He was fairly in the town now—the untidy, jostling
crowd, making way before his swinging stride. Here
and there a man saluted him. Once he stopped to pick
up a screaming child that had tumbled into the gutter
by reason of its clogs being too large for it. The
street was full of children; in Woffendale they never
seem to go to bed at all. A fight was progressing at
one corner—a political discussion at another. It would
have been hard for a stranger to know which was
which. By the station several men were standing be-
fore a placard, one reading it aloud. It was Elkanah
Fleming's offer of a larger reward. The reading
stopped as Quentin turned into the station, and the
men looked after him with interest.
“Happen he'd give summat, too, if th’ felly wur
caught,” suggested one. “Anyways he'd let th' chaps
at th’ Works ha' a holiday when th’ hanging coom
off. He couldna do less than that.”
Quentin overheard the remark and laughed. There
was a grim humour about the situation. Certainly he
could not do less than that.
The slow train clanged on its way to Wildersmoor,
rounding the right flank of the Pike. Quentin was
alone in the carriage. When the noise and glare and


Wildersmoor 209
smoke of Woffendale were left behind, and the cool
breath of the silent moor blew in at the window, he
looked out into the starry darkness where, in the
south-west, Orion glittered with sheathless sword, and
said, aloud—“I will fight it. I will fight it to the
end.”


CHAPTER XVIII
ATE was gracious to the Rev. Travis Crosier
when, one afternoon of the following week, he
chanced to meet Quentin Fleming at the Woffendale
station. There was a little crowd on the platform,
waiting for the North Rode and Riverton train; and
Crosier, desirous of collecting his thoughts, retired to
the far end, where he paced to and fro, sentry-fashion,
meditating.
For he was perturbed in spirit, pleasantly perturbed.
He had been to lunch with the Bishop, a glorifying
but terrible experience for a young and nervous curate.
He had enjoyed himself with fear and trembling. His
ears had burnt and his face had paled. He had
dropped his knife and fork with a fearful clatter on
being suddenly addressed, and with a jerk of his elbow
had sent a mustard-pot flying.
But the mustard-pot had been dexterously caught
by a footman, and the Bishop had been mercifully ob-
livious of these small mishaps—had even been bland
and gracious. Now that Crosier found himself once
more upon ordinary ground, the very ordinary ground
of Woffendale station, he strove to bring his disordered
mind into some sort of coherence. He wanted to rec-
ollect all that had passed; his Lordship's expressed
opinions upon this, that, and the other. As a matter
of fact, the wary prelate's opinions might fitly be com-
pared to the pavilion of Pari-Banou; contracting till
- 2IO


Wildersmoor 2 II
it could be held in one hand, or expanding to cover an
army—either according to the owner's pleasure. Wof-
fendale's Bishop was far too wise to commit himself
to any definite statement outside the Apostle's Creed.
What with schismatics of every dye, rabid Evangel-
ists, aggressive Broad Churchmen, and domineering
Ritualists, the episcopal dignity is in these days no
ambling palfrey, but a buck-jumping animal that needs
well-nigh the skill of a Texan cowboy.
His Lordship, of Woffendale was a good rider.
Therefore the clearer Crosier's mind became, the less
he felt able to recall the conversation. It had been
soothing, paternal, elusive, pre-eminently safe. What
had the Bishop said upon the question of birettas?
Crosier distinctly remembered tentatively introducing
the subject. But the Bishop had not said anything.
He had turned his head at that moment to give an
order to a servant, had then apologized for not having
heard the Curate's last remark, and had blandly talked
of quite other matters. Which was a disappointment
to the Rev. Travis Crosier, whose soul hankered after
a biretta. He possessed to the full that amazing love
of millinery that flourishes so luxuriantly in the mascu-
line breast, and which—denied the tattooing and war-
paint of the savage—finds vent in garments of many
colours: in wigs and gowns, in hoods and aprons, and
such like trifles of mint, anise, and cummin, that not
infrequently obscure the weightier matters of truth,
justice, and mercy. The Burning of the Vanities?—
when did man ever burn his own particular Vanity?
Had Savonarola left Art's fair creations in peace, and
hurled instead his own gown into the flames, together
with judge's robe and conqueror's laurel, one might


2 I 2 Wildersmoor
feel some small sympathy with his fanaticism. For a
great clearing of mental vision is to be obtained by the
discarding of ordinary garments. Every petty tyrant,
male or female, recognizes this influence by depriving
his or her victims of free choice in the matter of rai-
ment; thus blunting the sharp edges of individuality.
If, during the examination of Galileo, their clothes
had suddenly flown off his judges, leaving the as-
tronomer alone in possession of doublet and hose, it is
possible that his theories might not have seemed so
outrageous to his hearers. The dignity of the one
clothed man might have had a subduing effect on the
naked and astonished rascals. Doubtless, though, the
end would have been the same. And why blame them?
Do we not all silence—or wish to silence, extinguish,
or otherwise dispose of those whose electric flame of
life almost puts out our little farthing dip? It is only
natural to protect one's own candle.
Travis Crosier was not one of those graceless ones
who see Geisler's hat in the judge's wig, and incon-
tinently long to take a shot at the obnoxious horsehair.
The Curate believed in vestments, all and sundry.
Personally, he felt they would afford him moral sup-
port; and as he paced the farther end of Woffendale
platform he wished regretfully that he could have con-
veyed to Mr. Paton some distinct opinion of the
Bishop's on this point—an approving opinion, of
course. Crosier was inclined to consider his Vicar a
trifle lukewarm.
Then the thought of Esmé Rusholme floated into
the Curate's mind on the top of the biretta, so to speak.
He felt that she too could give him the moral sup-
port he needed. She would be the ideal wife for a


Wildersmoor 213
nervous clergyman. He wondered mildly whether her
father would give her any fortune. Crosier's income
from his curacy was too minute for marriage, and he
had no private means. By-and-by he hoped to get a
living, which he really deserved, being a good little
man; then indeed he might array himself as he thought
fit; and if Esmé Rusholme
At this point of his meditations Crosier caught sight
of Quentin Fleming. It would have been difficult not
to see him, towering as he did head and shoulders
above the crowd. He was looking alert, aggressive,
a determined light in his eyes. Fleming was not
naturally aggressive, but if the ploughshare be good
iron it may be welded into a good sword by the hand
of Fate, that mightiest of smiths.
Since that walk with Esmé along the road with its
leaping shadows, many things had grown clearer to
him, and possible complications had unfolded them-
selves. He stepped on the platform feeling himself
rather the sport of circumstances—a thing he hated.
For all his easy good-nature, he had been accustomed
to rule himself and his own life; to feel his fate as it
were under his own heel. Now that it seemed to be
rising, not at his bidding; writhing round his feet,
making as though to twist and coil higher, pressing
the life out of him; now that this intangible yet deadly
enemy was upon him, Quentin felt possessed by a cer-
tain rage of life—of fierce opposition to all that would
stifle and drag him down. The passion of renunciation
that had dominated him on the moor that December
night was dying fast, unheeded.
Fleming was returning early to Wildersmoor to be
in readiness for his self-invited guests. He had duly


2I4. Wildersmoor
conveyed Elkanah's twenty pounds to Cyril Paton,
who had received the contribution with much self-
congratulation on his own forethought in asking Quen-
tin to mention the library scheme to his uncle. The
Vicar further expressed himself delighted that Mrs.
Holt and Miss Rusholme should take sufficient interest
in the library to come over to North Rode on account
of it. Did they intend returning to Woffendale by
train? There might be some little time to wait. His
wife would be pleased to see them at the Vicarage.
To which Mrs. Paton had assented with an amused
glance of friendly assurance and the remark that
“Cyril really ought to invite Mr. Crosier, as he ad-
mires Esmé Rusholme.”
Quentin's merely masculine intelligence did not al-
together comprehend the glance, but he felt vaguely
comforted. His instincts told him that Nina was a
loyal friend. Like many women of her type, she had
a genius for friendship. He had not again thought
of her remark till now, when on Woffendale platform
he met the eyes, or rather the spectacles, of Travis
Crosier. Then Fleming recalled Nina's words with a
flash of intuition. Here was deliverance, indeed!
Never before had the meek little divine appeared so
like an angel of light.
Quentin edged his way through the crowd and
invited the Curate to join the party at Wilders-
1110Or.
“Come on with me now, Crosier. There will be
a spare seat in the dog-cart, you know.”
“I shall be delighted,” stammered Crosier, beaming.
“Mrs. Paton mentioned to me the interest Miss
Rusholme took in our projected library. I have been


Wildersmoor 215
telling the Bishop about it. I have just been to lunch
at the palace.”
“Have you? He is a pleasant old boy. I must ask
him to the Hall. He has not been there since my
father died. I have been somewhat remiss as regards
my social duties.” -
To hear the Lord Bishop of Woffendale spoken of
as a pleasant old boy gave the Curate a slight shock.
He paused for a moment before replying, while the
Wildersmoor and Riverton train steamed up and the
platform cleared.
“I daresay you find the Hall rather lonely,” he ven-
tured to observe, stumbling into the nearest carriage.
“I hope to remedy that by-and-by,” smiling.
Crosier looked sympathetic. He had heard Nina
Paton's opinion as to the attraction Sandhayes had for
Fleming, and he would have liked to express his
gratitude for the assistance he himself was receiving
in his love-affairs. He had comparatively few oppor-
tunities of meeting Esmé Rusholme. This unexpected
invitation was really so very nice. But Crosier stood
in considerable awe of Quentin, and fearing to offend,
thought it best to speak of less delicate subjects. It
was only polite, however, to keep to matters personally
interesting to his companion.
“Mr. Fleming ages very much,” he said, with a
little deprecatory cough to attract attention. Quentin
was looking out of the window at the familiar outlines
of the Pike drawing nearer. “It is sad that his son's
murderer cannot be traced. Yet, doubtless, all such
matters are best left to the vengeance of heaven.”
“The criminal usually thinks so,” said Quentin.
“Yes, certainly. A very happy thing,” responded


216 Wildersmoor
Crosier, rather flustered. After a moment's pause he
resumed.
“That blind man—Blind John—do you believe his
story?”
“Oh, yes. I have not a doubt of it.”
“There seem to be several cottages near the Hall,”
the Curate went on. “I asked Mr. Paton about them.
He thought that end of the moor was not in his
parish.”
“That is an old dispute. Nobody will own us.
Every surrounding parish says we are not within its
boundaries. We are free-lances, so to speak. But
hall and hamlet have generally chosen to attach them-
selves to North Rode.”
This spiritual isolation was an awful state of affairs
to Crosier's mind.
“I think I will call upon the people,” he said, in a
tone of subdued dismay. “I suppose there would be
no objection?” interrogatively.
“None whatever on anybody's part,” returned
Quentin, amused at Crosier's evident idea that the
hamlet was possessed by Satan, and trying to live up
to the character of its owner. “But I assure you the
people are all quiet and respectable members of
society.”
Then he thought of Granny Darlow, and wondered
whether Crosier would consider her a quiet and re-
spectable member of society, if he chanced to hear the
accepted version of her career.
There could hardly be a greater contrast than be-
tween the kindly, precise little divine, with his soul's
ears well stuffed with cotton wool, and his soul's eyes
shaded by smoke-coloured glasses, lest the cries and


Wildersmoor 217
light of life should confuse and dazzle him—and that
tragic figure, old, withered, yet still vigorous, who
dwelt on Wildersmoor; whose eyes had looked fear-
lessly into greater depths than the dark pools, and
quailed never before the skeletons therein; who, like
her of Mycenae, having been sorely smitten, smote
again, and with deadly completeness; and, what is still
rarer, remained steadfastly in the same mind, repent-
ing never. What would be Crosier's opinion of
Granny Darlow 2
Quentin looked at him as he sat evidently meditating
on the spiritual darkness of the neglected hamlet.
What weight would his opinion carry upon any seri-
ous question of life? The thought was flat heresy;
yet it seemed to Fleming that a human spirit of Granny
Darlow's calibre, might give better advice to a harassed
soul than could Travis Crosier; the withered finger
of that wicked old crone might point to a more excel-
lent way—to a fuller life than could enter into Cro-
sier's philosophy. At least the old woman would leave
the spirit free to spread its wings and try its powers
of flight. She would not timidly cage it, lest that
flight should lead into storm and darkness. Beyond
the storm is yet the pure blue—the clear sunlight. If,
with the force and wisdom of the one could be blended
the moral scruples of the other
“Dear me!” ejaculated the Curate, coming out of
his reverie. “I had no idea we were so near Wilders-
moor.”
The day was still and grey, with little warm sea-
airs wandering now and then across the moor, and
rustling the ivy that waved its green banners from the
chimneys of the old Hall. The air was so mild that


2 I 8 Wildersmoor
some of the cottagers were sitting at their doors in
comfortable, old-time fashion, and on the long wooden
bench outside the Grey Wolf, a row of elders smoked
and gossiped, and watched with interested eyes the
arrival of the few passengers alighting at Wildersmoor.
One of these elders—the last man in the row—was
Blind John; and as Quentin's familiar step fell on his
ear, he touched the grey lock that hung over his fore-
head.
“A noice day, Mr. Quentin.”
“Yes, John, it is,” Fleming stopped, and John rose.
Crosier looked at him with interest as he stood there,
his knotty hands clasping the knob of his stick, his
ruddy face with the downcast eyelids over the sight-
less eyes, the peculiar listening turn of the head, with
its thick mat of grey hair.
“This is Mr. Crosier with me,” said Quentin, and
John touched his lock again.
“Do you live in one of those cottages?” Crosier
spoke very distinctly, slightly raising his voice as
though he imagined John was deaf as well as blind.
“I moind your voice well, sir, in church at North
Rode, though I didna know th’ step. Ay, I live in yon
last un. Owd Granny Darlow next door redds oop
an' cooks fur me; but being as I conna see, th' Lord
only knows how hoo keeps th’ place.”
“I think it is all right, John,” interposed Fleming,
feeling Granny slandered. She was a clean old wo-
man, with all the north-country love of scrubbing.
“I’m main glad to hear it, sir,” responded John,
rather as though he wasn't, “fur I’ve had an argy-
ment now an’ then wi' th' owd lass, an' I thowt happen
hoo'd take it out of me i' th' redding oop. Hoo's one


22O Wildersmoor
“I haven't a doubt of it. Shall we go on, Crosier?
Good-bye, John.”
Crosier's face during John's narrative had been a
delicate study of shades of apologetic dismay, culmin-
ating in positive horror. For a minute or two he
trotted along in depressed silence. Then he turned
for sympathy to his companion.
“One feels so overcome when the Church's past
neglect is brought home to us.”
“I think the clergy of that day sufficed for the needs
of the people,” Quentin replied, encouragingly. “We
are too apt to judge of the wants of past times by our
own. I don't suppose Hazelrigg's easy ways did any
harm. I am not sure that we do not overteach in these
days, cram people so much with the ideas of others
that they lack room to grow any of their own. Not
that I wish to curb your enthusiasm, Crosier.”
“No-no, not all. I quite understand. But I really
cannot excuse Hazelrigg's absences.”
The matter harassed Crosier's soul till the arrival
of Mrs. Holt and Esmé Rusholme by the three o'clock
train. Fleming entertained his visitors in a little room
opening out of the long white drawing-room, and also
looking out on the gardens at the back of the Hall.
A lawn gay with bright beds of crocus and cyclamen,
stretched from under the French windows to a group
of beeches. Beyond the beeches rose the Pike, bearing
on its slopes terraced walks, warm and sheltered even in
winter by reason of the hill protecting from the north
and east. This little room was in tones of pinky chest-
nut, with pale spindle-legged furniture that harmonized
with the yellow flower-painted case of the piano. On
the walls were a few fine water-colours, and two curi-


Wildersmoor 22. I
ous old mirrors, oval in shape, the frames formed by
twisted gilt dragons; some carved book-shelves in one
corner; and a high carved chimney-piece, under which
a true northern fire blazed in the wide deep grate.
“This is a pretty room,” Mrs. Holt observed, ap-
provingly, while she sipped tea out of funny little cups
that had come over from Holland long ago. “I recol-
lect your mother having it done up in this colour. It
needs more drapery about—embroideries, I mean. No,
thank you. I never touch sweet things,” this to the
Curate, who was nervously skipping about with a
cake-basket. “Yes, more embroideries. I always ad-
mire the drawing-room at your house, Esmé. You
have quite filled it with your own beautiful work.”
Esmé certainly had. The Rusholme drawing-room
presented the aspect of an Art-Needlework School.
She looked up from her tea-cup with a deprecatory
air.
“You are very good to praise my small efforts, Mrs.
Holt.”
“Not small,” said Crosier, with timid gallantry.
“Miss Rusholme's efforts are never small—nor their
results.”
Here he gave the basket too much swing, and its
contents rolled out on the floor, whereat he blushed
violently. Quentin came to his rescue.
“Never mind, Crosier. We will not hang the cake
round your neck as a penance. Bran will be glad
of it.”
“Do you allow that animal in here?” said Mrs.
Holt, with surprised severity, as the huge hound rose
up from behind a screen, and came forward to the
feast.


Wildersmoor 223
“Any way you like.” -
“Then I should like to pass the cottages. It is quite
a long time since I have been to Wildersmoor, and I
naturally take an interest in them.”
Fleming did not inquire why Esmé should naturally
take an interest in the hamlet; the expression sounded
Ominous. He agreed readily to her wish, and was
grateful to Crosier for immediately beginning a long
account of his intention to visit the benighted
ones. Possibly the Curate hoped Esmé would offer
to assist in the good work. But she did not. She
reflected that while she was instructing Wildersmoor
with Crosier, Quentin would be in Woffendale, or at
Sandhayes. No use wasting energy.
Granny Darlow, sitting with folded hands at her
cottage-door, watched the dog-cart and its occupants
as it passed. It is curious to reflect how often the
thread of our lives is held for a time by men and wo-
men scarcely known to us; who, consciously or uncon-
sciously, are the mightiest of friends, the deadliest of
enemies. Esmé glanced carelessly at the shrivelled
little figure, with its bright black eyes, its crown of
snow-white hair. Not once did she dream how daring
and reckless a spirit there masked itself as a quiet
tidy old woman, a cottager in an obscure hamlet. Nor
could Esmé's small soul imagine that the spirit look-
ing out of those black eyes might be watching the play
from a better position than her own; might have full
view of the stage, and be awaiting the moment to in-
terpose, while she, Esmé, was impatiently catching
glimpses from the wings, and trying to be both promp-
ter and self. Esmé did indeed remember that Granny
was ancestress of a young woman named Rossela; but


224 Wildersmoor
so far as Esmé's knowledge went, Rossela's adventures
concerned the past, and it was in the present that
Esmé's interests lay. Therefore, Granny Darlow and
her grand-daughter did not concern her. Had she
known of Rossela's application to Elkanah Fleming,
her opinion might have changed. But she did not
know.


CHAPTER XIX
T North Rode Vicarage, Nina Paton—in a dis-
contented frame of mind—was standing by the
window, looking down the village street.
“I wonder what has become of Mr. Crosier,” she
said, glancing over her shoulder at her husband. “He
professed himself delighted when I asked him to come
this afternoon and show the library to Esmé Rusholme.
Yet the train is in and there are no signs of him.”
She turned her eyes again to the street, more par-
ticularly to the post-office, on the first floor of which
were Crosier's modest apartments.
“It must be singularly pleasant and cheerful,” she
continued pensively, “for a Curate's lodgings to be
exactly opposite his Vicar's windows.”
“I don't see any objection.” Paton said this in a
tone of mild surprise.
“Neither do I. Only, were I the afflicted Curate,
I should feel an unholy desire to sit with my legs
dangling out of the window, smoking a long clay.”
“Sometimes, my dear, I positively don't under-
stand you.”
“Don’t try, dear. No man can understand a wo-
man. The wise man is he who accepts that fact as he
does the solar system. Happily I am not a curate, so
there is no fear of my sitting with my legs dangling
over the sill. I wonder what can have happened to
225


226 Wildersmoor
Mr. Crosier. Surely he has not been ‘butchered to
make a Bishop's holiday! —Cyril, that is an improve-
ment on Byron's line.”
This time Paton smiled a little.
“I thought you liked the Bishop.”
“So I do. Immensely. I am sure if he had lived
in mediaeval times he would really have tried to con-
vert a heretic before he burnt him. Why, there they
are!”—as the dog-cart appeared at the end of the
street—“And Mr. Crosier with them. How clever
of Mr. Fleming! I could not have believed a man
would have had so much sense.”
The cottage intended for the library had not needed
many alterations. A door had been knocked out here
and there, and shelves put up, and painters and paper-
ers were busy.
“How very convenient,” said Mrs. Holt, putting
up her eyeglass as the Vicar ushered her within, fol-
lowed by Esmé and Crosier. Mrs. Paton and Quentin
lingered in the doorway.
“Where did you meet him?” Nina inquired softly,
indicating the Rev. Travis.
“At Woffendale station. He seemed slightly de-
pressed by the episcopal lunch, so I thought Miss
Rusholme's society might cheer him.”
“Evidently it has done so. He looks positively
bacchanalian, so great is his joy. I am glad you are
sympathetic, Mr. Fleming.” -
“I believed I was helping your arrangements, Mrs.
Paton,” said Quentin; and they both laughed.
“Well, you are. I am sure Mr. Crosier admires
Esmé Rusholme immensely, and I am equally sure she
is exactly the wife for him. Therefore it is clearly


Wildersmoor 227
our duty to give him every chance. What do you
suppose Mrs. Holt is saying to my husband? They
are both looking so pleased that I am afraid she is
recommending some horrid course of study for the
women.”
“The retort is obvious. You can recommend some
horrid course of study for the men.”
“Thanks for the idea. I will do so. Or incite
Frances Aveland thereunto. Sometimes it is more
effective to set another woman to worry one's hus-
band. I wonder if they are coming, by the way; ”
and Nina stepped back over the threshold to look down
the road.
“The Avelands? Do you expect them?” And
Nina noted the tone of Fleming's voice, the light in
his eyes, as he too looked down the road.
“I told Dr. Aveland he ought to appear, being one
of the promoters of this affair,” waving her hand com-
prehensively; “Cyril wanted him, and it would be a
real charity to me, as it is so difficult to talk to Mrs.
Holt.” -
Mrs. Holt was enjoying herself immensely, airing
her views upon reading, the Vicar listening with in-
terested attention. Mrs. Holt was admirably adapted
to be an authority upon the subject; she possessed the
inestimable qualification of knowing nothing whatever
about it. She read a religious magazine on Sundays,
and some scientific work during the week. Women of
Mrs. Holt's type frequently choose scientific works for
their secular reading. They desire to be fashionable
in a serious manner, and as that branch of human
weariness makes no demand on either heart or soul,
it suits them exactly; giving them a comfortable feel-


228 Wildersmoor
ing of superiority over those who prefer Ariel's honey
to Caliban's pig-nuts.
Esmé Rusholme, on the contrary, was not enjoying
herself. She had not undertaken the journey to hear
Crosier's eager explanations of this arrangement and
opinion of that. He was very devoted and deferential,
certainly, and quite ready to give up any notions of his
own in favour of hers. If Fleming had not been
within reach, Esmé might have thought seriously of
Crosier; the curate caterpillar becomes the butterfly
vicar, and as a rule, northern girls smile on the
Church. But as things were, Crosier was a nuis-
ance. Esmé had intended inspecting the library
with Quentin on one side and Paton on the other.
She meant to give the Patons the impression that
she was Quentin's fiancée, or would be very soon.
Whereas, Crosier was hovering beside her with osten-
tatious unwelcome devotion, Paton deep in converse
with Mrs. Holt, and in the doorway Fleming stood
laughing and talking with Mrs. Paton, whom Esmé
detested, for no reason save the instinct that feels a
foe. What were they laughing at? And why were
they looking down the road? The climax of Esmé's
discontent was reached, when across her companion's
meek babble came cheerful sounds of greeting, and
Dr. Aveland's voice saying, “What do you think of
the village library, Mrs. Holt?”
Mrs. Holt did not like Dr. Aveland. She had not
met him half-a-dozen times, but he was not a Woffen-
dale man, and his daughter might marry Quentin—
two excellent reasons for disliking him. It was with
an even more wooden countenance than usual, that she
replied—


Wildersmoor 229
“No doubt it may prove useful.”
“Mrs. Holt thinks,” said the Vicar, “that not many
women will avail themselves of it.”
“I imagine they will, relatively to the size of the
village. Yet if not, what then? If only one comes, if
only one scholarly soul is helped—one empty mind
filled and ennobled, surely that would be sufficient
reason for keeping up the whole thing.”
Aveland smiled as he spoke, but Mrs. Holt did not
smile. She put up her eye-glass and inspected Frances
with manifest disapproval. They were now all stand-
ing in the room intended for the men.
“I had rather thought of that room being used for
newspapers only, and a few games—such as chess and
backgammon,” this hesitatingly from the Vicar, whose
mind was somewhat unhinged by his conversation with
Mrs. Holt.
Here Fleming interposed—
“I cannot have the women turned out, Paton,” he
said, good-humouredly, but authoritatively. “If the
men want to play games, they must do so in their own
room.”
Frances, who was standing beside her father, shot a
grateful glance at Quentin. “I daresay the men would
prefer backgammon to books,” she said, eyeing the
Vicar from under her long lashes. “It is more natural
to them. They have not the thirst for knowledge that
women possess. Eve plucked the apple because she
desired greater wisdom and fuller life, whereas Adam
was apparently content to loaf about with his hands
in his pockets.”
Mrs. Holt dropped her eyeglass in astonishment;
really these Avelands were very queer.


23o Wildersmoor
“There is a good deal to be said for that view,’
remarked Dr. Aveland cheerfully. “Let us hope there
will be numbers of equally enterprising Eves to patron-
ize the library. I am afraid there will never be any
lack of Adams.”
“Perhaps industrious Eves may again induce idle
Adams to take a nibble at knowledge now and then,”
suggested Quentin.
“I think we have seen all,” said Mrs. Holt severely.
“Shall we go on to the Vicarage now, Mrs. Paton?”
They walked in straggling fashion up the village
street, and here chance gave Esmé the opportunity she
wished. Some remark of Nina's had drawn the atten-
tion of the others for a moment, and Esmé, turning to
Frances, whose friendly advances she had hitherto re-
pelled, said with that chill, precise intonation of hers—
“It seems a pity that you should fuss about the
library, or anything here, when you will be leaving
before long.”
Frances looked almost as much surprised as Mrs.
Holt had done.
“We are not leaving Sandhayes. We have never
had any intention of doing so,” she said, with her slow,
sweet smile. “We are both fond of the place.”
“But of course you will not remain there when you
are alone,” pursued Esmé. “Quentin said the other
day that he supposed you would go to your relations
after your father's death.”
This was a pure invention of Esmé's, Fleming having
never said any such thing.
It was impossible that Frances should not feel a sud-
den chill at her heart when the dread shadow she so
constantly strove to forget was thus brutally pointed


Wildersmoor 231
out to her. The rich bloom on her cheek paled for a
moment, then returned with a rush, as amazed anger
succeeded the chill. It was so extraordinary to Frances
Aveland's mind that any presumably civilized being
should speak as Esmé spoke. But civilization is rarely
more than skin-deep, and cruelty is the most ineradi-
cable of human vices. Between the rough who tramples
on his wife, the scientist who galvanizes the ripped-up
nerves of living sentient creatures, the woman who
beats an infant—between all these there is no dif-
ference: the principle is the same; the pleasure in
cruelty, the outcome of the inherent belief that might
is right. Reverse the cases: make the wife and the
infant the stronger, the four-legged animal the more
cunning;-how public opinion would then range itself
on the side of the former victims' We have no need
of devils, so long as man disporteth himself upon the
earth. -
Esmé had the universal love of cruelty, restrained in
her case by her surroundings. Still it was there, and
displayed itself in dealing petty stabs, as well as in
graver matters. However, the blow aimed at Frances
somewhat failed in its effect, for she read in Esmé's
eyes that the speech had been designed to vex and irri-
tate, and the knowledge restored her habitual serenity.
It was with untroubled voice that she replied—
“I am glad to say my father is in much better health.
Of course he varies. To-day he is wonderfully well.”
There was no opportunity for Esmé to say more. The
conversation had become general again. Dr. Aveland's
voice—he was walking on in front with Mrs. Holt—
came clearly to her unwilling ears—
“You do not read any modern fiction, Mrs. Holt?


232 Wildersmoor
Not even newspapers?. I was about to say there is a
poem of Kipling's—the Galley Slave—which often
comes to my mind here. The grim force of it seems
to have a sort of affinity with Wildersmoor. I sup-
pose it is because on the moor one gets down to the
beginning of things, to the simple tremendous facts of
life and death; just as in India there is always the
flicker of the sword—whether the sword of steel in the
hand of man, or the sword of the pestilence in the
hand of the Angel, matters not—there is the sword.
Here we forget it, hide it behind bricks and mortar and
much speaking. And for want of that warning glitter
we sit down and maunder about our sensations when
we ought to be up and doing while yet the breath of
our life is blowing. In India men do their work as
Araunah his threshing—in full view of the Destroying
Angel. Better the armed Angel on our threshing-floor
than that we should come under the sweep of that
sword in our sluggish sleep, like the miserable Assyrian
hosts. The Scythians swore by Wind and Sword, by
Life and Death. It is an oath I have always admired;
and in some odd way, Kipling and Wildersmoor con-
stantly remind me of it.”
Mrs. Holt had never heard of the Scythians. In
fact, what she did not know would have made a fine
library. And she resented, as half-educated people al-
ways do, any allusion which she did not understand.
In her sight it was a covert insult. Therefore she ob-
served coldly, that she did not consider contempora-
ries worthy of study.” -
“Yet Shakespeare was once a contemporary,” said
Aveland, smiling.
But Mrs. Holt declined further conversation with


Wildersmoor 233
this tiresome southerner who spoke of things she knew
not, whose thoughts were not her thoughts, and whose
deep eyes were so inscrutable. Mrs. Holt instinctively
felt those eyes took views of life of which she would
not at all approve. As an orthodox Christian she could
not rejoice over the probability of a fellow-creature's
approaching death; but as an average Christian of the
tough-conscienced kind she did derive distinct conso-
lation from the reflection that these Avelands would
not long trouble the still waters of her world. She
drew the same conclusion that Esmé had done; of
course the daughter would leave Sandhayes after the
father's death.
Nina's pretty little drawing-room did not prove any
pleasanter to Esmé than either the drive or the library.
The firelight sparkled cheerily on silver and china, and
lit up a face here and there, the others remaining in
twilight shadow, for the February day was closing.
Dr. Aveland—forsaken by Mrs. Holt, who was talking
to Nina—seated himself by Esmé and endeavoured to
find some topic of common interest on which to con-
verse. But by this time she was so thoroughly out of
temper that she barely replied to him. Crosier, too,
meekly attentive to all her wants, met with cold snub-
bing. She wanted to hear what Frances and the Vicar
were saying. They were deep in a discussion, for
Paton was mindful of his wife's opinion that one day
Frances would be mistress of Wildersmoor, and it was
best to be friends all round. Quentin was assisting
Mrs. Paton and talking to her and to Mrs. Holt,
whereas Esmé had intended exhibiting him as her
especial property. Every moment her annoyance in-
creased. She felt he had avoided her, and that some-


234. Wildersmoor
how North Rode did not lend itself to her arrange-
ments as Woffendale did; in short, it refused to be ar-
ranged, things slipped away from her grasp. She gave
up the idea of offering to assist in the Sunday School.
She resolved that she would not come to North Rode
again until she came as Quentin's wife. Then she
would make things unpleasant for Nina, whom she
suspected of being at the bottom of the failure of the
day's outing. -
“It is growing quite dark,” said Mrs. Holt, pres-
ently. “I think, Quentin, it is time we started home-
wards.”
“As you like, Mrs. Holt. I will see about the dog-
cart. By the way, where is it? Have you got it, Mrs.
|Paton P”
“Really I don't know. Cyril, have we got Mr.
Fleming's dog-cart?”
The Vicar looked up from his discussion.
“The dog-cart, my dear? I have not the least
notion. I'll go and see.”
“I don't think it is at our place,” said Dr. Aveland.
“I understood, Quentin,” remarked Esmé, icily,
“that you had sent the groom on here to take charge
of the dog-cart.”
“So I did, and he was here all right. But I never
thought of telling him where to take it. He would
have to decide himself where I should be most likely
to turn up.”
Quentin felt a malicious pleasure in saying this.
Mrs. Holt stiffened visibly.
“I fear we shall be late for dinner. Perhaps we
had better take the train here?”
“Oh, I will get you to Wildersmoor station in lots


Wildersmoor 235
of time. It would be a pity for you to have the trouble
of changing at Riverton. Crosier, will you drive back
with us and dine with me?”-
The happy Curate accepted joyfully, his gratitude
increasing momentarily. Another blissful time beside
Esmé, the delight of assisting her at the station, and
afterwards a good dinner and pleasant evening with
Fleming at the Hall.
“I can put you up if you like,” Quentin added,
crossing the room and sitting down in the Vicar's
vacant chair by Frances. Crosier however explained
he had a service at the church in the morning, so was
compelled to decline.
“I would take the service for you with pleasure,
Mr. Crosier, if it wasn't for that tiresome St. Paul,”
said Nina, filled with admiration for Quentin's brilliant
strategy. “As it is a christening I am sure I could
manage it much better than you will.”
Crosier was confusedly murmuring something about
being “very much obliged,” when Paton re-entered
with the information that the dog-cart was not on the
Vicarage premises, and he had dispatched a boy to
Sandhayes in search of the missing trap and groom.
“Smith knows my haunts,” said Quentin to Frances.
The remark was overheard by Esmé, whom this
afternoon had more than ever determined to act with-
out delay. Quentin might choose to pretend he had
not understood her meaning when they walked along
the Woffendale road a week ago. He should have no
chance of such pretence the next time. Everything that
day had combined to exasperate her. Crosier's pres-
ence deprived her visit to North Rode of the signifi-
cance it might otherwise have had; and the prospect


236 Wildersmoor
of the return drive—again with the Curate beside her
—was a good deal more than Esmé Rusholme's temper
could stand. When the missing dog-cart appeared,
she got in without the trifling ceremony of bidding
good-bye to anybody; being further annoyed by notic-
ing that Fleming did not reprove the groom for the
mistake of having gone to Sandhayes. Crosier fussed
about arranging rugs; Mrs. Holt expressed to the
Vicar a dignified hope that his “well-meant under-
taking might do some little good; ” and the dog-cart
rattled away over the cobbles, bearing at least one
radiant countenance, that of the Rev. Travis Crosier.


CHAPTER XX
* { IT is evident,” said Nina, looking after the retreat-
ing dog-cart, “that either my education or Mrs.
Holt's has been much neglected. One of us is a savage.
I wonder which ! Do not go yet, Dr. Aveland. Well,
if you must, we will walk a little way with you. I
want to grumble at those awful women. How truly
thankful Mr. Fleming will be when he gets rid of them
at Wildersmoor station How he will enjoy his dinner,
knowing that every minute is taking them further
away.”
“My dear,” remonstrated Paton, diving into the
hall for his hat, they were all standing on the front
steps—“Mr. Fleming would not have driven them
over unless he liked them.”
“Their coming was their own arrangement, en-
tirely,” replied Nina. “He told me so himself. Also,
he told me neither of them would ever give the library
one penny.”
The Vicar's face fell.
“I fancied they took an interest in it,” he said,
“especially as Mr. Fleming of Woffendale was so good
as to send a donation. I cannot understand why they
came !”
“The reasons, dear, were various; none of them
being amiable ones.”
“What a prospect for Crosier l’” remarked Aveland.
237


238 wildersmoor
“How can you reconcile it to your conscience, Mrs.
Paton, to assist him to such a wife?”
“Oh, Dr. Aveland, Esmé Rusholme will suit him
exactly. She is one of those women who agree very
well with their husbands and bite their fellow-women.
Then the men speak of them as “sweet,’ and marvel
that other women do not like them l’’
Frances was silently patting her little terrier who
had come to look for her, as was his wont when he
missed her at home. He had been so deeply absorbed
in the contemplation of a rat-hole in the Sandhayes
stables that he had not seen his mistress go out. Con-
sequently, after searching the house, Malise had trotted
to the Vicarage as the dog-cart left. While the others
talked, and the terrier begged for yet more notice,
Frances pondered again those words of Esmé's: that
Quentin had said she-Frances, would probably leave
Sandhayes after her father's death. There is some-
thing peculiarly cold-blooded in discussing arrange-
ments that can only come into force after the death
of one still living, laughing, moving among his fellow-
beings. Anger rose again in Frances' heart and burnt
in her cheeks as she looked on her father and recalled
Esmé's speech. But her anger was against Esmé, not
Quentin. He could not have said it—not in that way.
Nothing is easier than to persistently question a person
and then to repeat an impatient answer in a very dif-
ferent manner to that in which it was uttered. Think-
ing thus, and remembering the furtive malevolent ex-
pression in Esmé Rusholme's eyes, Frances dismissed
the matter from her mind. It was unjust to Quentin
to dwell upon it.
“I think,” she said, slowly, replying to Nina's re-


24O Wildersmoor
to think that a small lending library of useful books
would meet all the requirements of the neighbour-
hood, thus freeing that room for papers.”
“What are useful books, Mr. Paton P”
“Well—er—,” rather taken aback—“ domestic mat-
ters.”
“Cooking and dressmaking? And does Mrs. Holt
propose to restrict the men to cooking, tailoring, and
farming? Who has a right to say to any human mind,
“Thus far shalt thou go and no further’? And are
books that inspire noble thoughts less useful than
those which treat of dinner and finery? Not that I
despise either. I am very fond of sweetmeats and
new gowns, Mr. Paton; but— the life is more than
meat.’”
The moon, rising over the moor, illumined her face
as she spoke. Priests are not, as a rule, very amen-
able to female influence. Their own craving to be
worshipped checks any inclination to worship aught
save the Divine Being, who can be so conveniently
ignored when such ignoring is desirable—put aside on
a shelf like an image of Buddha till next pooja-time.
Yet even the Vicar was not proof against the witchery
of Frances Aveland's smile. He visibly softened, and
brightened a little.
“Oh, I am not at all disposed to agree entirely with
Mrs. Holt. Besides, Mr. Fleming seems to be much
interested in the library, and of course I should feel
bound to consult his wishes before those of anyone not
belonging to the parish. Only I am naturally desirous
to hear various opinions on the subject.”
“Then will you hear mine, Mr. Paton?” said
Frances, still looking at him in the moonlight with


Wildersmoor 24I
smiling yet earnest eyes. “Mrs. Holt would make
people good by keeping them ignorant. Well, that has
been tried ever since the world began, and has signally
failed in the majority of instances. I would make
people better by wider knowledge. I would give them
noble thoughts to fill their minds—old tragedies, “great
griefs of days gone by,' to dwarf their own; and wide
—the widest knowledge of good and evil, that they
may see that good is good and evil evil—not merely
because their teachers say so, but because they are
so in the inherent nature of things. I would teach
them that saying of our Lord's that never yet has been
taught—pardon me, Mr. Paton, but it never has-' By
their fruits ye shall know them.’ I would show them
the fruits of evil that they may know and avoid it. I
would teach them that good is Life, and evil, Death—
moral, physical, eternal. For I believe with Rabbi
Maimonides that the souls of the utterly wicked will
perish by their own corruption, even as a diseased body
perishes—being unable to stem the sickness which de-
vours it. I do not believe that my soul is necessarily
immortal, but only so long as it has enough goodness
in itself to overcome—with God's aid—its own evil;
just as a body only lives when it has health enough to
resist or overcome disease. You shake your head, Mr.
Paton, but you cannot prove me wrong. Do not say
you are ‘troubled with the ghosts of dead ideas' and
afraid of the light. Why, in this light lies the solution
of the problem you have found so hard to solve—the
question of punishment after death. You cannot be-
lieve in Purgatory, you shy at the Puritan flames, yet
you feel there must be some punishment hereafter, for
here the worst crimes generally go unpunished. In


244 Wildersmoor
*
angry because he recognized the futility of argument
or snubbing. It was useless to argue with either,
Frances or her father. It was equally useless to at-
tempt to ignore them. They were like the rising tide,
which only recoils to advance. Not that Paton actu-
ally disapproved of anything Frances had said. He
merely disapproved of her having anything to say.
Occasionally he felt a little uncertain as to what really
were his own ideas, but he was quite sure that the
laity—and particularly a young woman—had no right
to be more grounded and settled than he was himself.
“I think,” he said, with emphasis, “that the North
Rode library will manage to get along without your
so unnecessarily harassing yourself.”
“Ah,” rejoined Frances, tranquilly, “when you have
lived longer on Wildersmoor, Mr. Paton, you will
understand how one is impelled, as it were, to look
round and reflect. There is something in the grey still-
ness that lays a finger on your lips and sets your mind
working. Really, we cannot help it, and you will soon
get used to us.”
This assurance did not tranquilize the Vicar, though
it was intended to do so. However, they had reached
the Sandhayes gates, where Nina and Aveland were
standing by the clipped yews—teapot and boat both
looming gigantic in the misty light.
“How I love those funny old clipped trees,” Nina
was saying. “No, thank you, Dr. Aveland, I am
sure we cannot stay to dinner. Can we, Cyril?”
“I am afraid not. I am expecting one of my church-
wardens this evening.”
“Then we shall see you to-morrow.”
On the way home, the Vicar gave his wife a brief
*


Wildersmoor 245
summary of the conversation between Frances and
himself.
“Goodness me, Cyril ' You mean to say you quar-
relled with her! The idea of a man walking with a
handsome woman and quarrelling with her | Fortu-
nately, she will not quarrel with you. Frances never
quarrels with anybody. She merely sticks to her own
opinions and goes straight on. What was it about?
—partly the library 2 Oh well, you know you were
vexed by that tiresome woman Mrs. Holt, coming
worrying here and never giving anything. Did I not
tell you those women were only coming to make mis-
chief ?—here it is already However, it does not mat-
ter. Frances will not quarrel, as I have said before.”
“Mrs. Holt may give something yet,” Paton inter-
rupted. “Miss Rusholme has influence there, and she
is interested in Church work.”.
Nina gasped with despairing indignation:
“Now do not tell me, Cyril, that you are still wor-
shipping your fetish, Esmé! Believe me, you will
never get anything, either for the library or the schools,
through Esmé Rusholme. How blind you men are to
be taken in by these mincing images ‘Good,” do you
say? No, she is not good, any more than a wasp is
good. She may be moral—I’m sure I don't know. But
Torquemada was extremely moral. The only man
among you with any discernment is that charming
scamp, Jack Ulyett. He hated Esmé. He understood
her. I wish he were here now; he was a real ally.
‘Gambler,’ was he? So I have heard—and I don't
care. He was an attractive, kindly gambler, anyway.
Now Ralph Fleming was a repulsive one. There is
the difference.”


246 Wildersmoor
“My dear, I never heard any good of Jack Ulyett.”
“Neither did I. I wish he were here now that I
might tell him so! I should be delighted to see him
coming along with that smiling, half-deprecating air,
like a dog hoping for a bone; then valiantly drinking
at least ten cups of tea, and telling me all the news
of Woffendale, and begging for all the news of North
Rode in return. I am sure you ought to be quite fond
of him, Cyril, considering how deferential he always
was to the Church, as represented by you and Travis
Crosier. Yes,” continued Nina, meditatively, “poor
Jack had the rare merit of knowing himself to be
worthless, and of appreciating the consequent situ-
ation.”
“I don't see that Ulyett has anything to do with
the present situation,” said the Vicar. He had not
been listening particularly.
“Neither do I. Yet one cannot tell, for he always
struck me as being one of those wandering atoms that
tumble into the scale unexpectedly. But to return to
this afternoon—now do listen, Cyril. As I have already
said twice, Frances will not quarrel; but it is not the
least use either arguing with or opposing her. She
only pauses, and then takes fresh hold. And Quentin
Fleming will do anything she wishes,” added Nina,
significantly.
“It is all very annoying,” said Paton testily.
His wife only laughed, and the Vicar began to cheer
up and to think that perhaps it was all Mrs. Holt's
fault after all.
Yet if he still secretly preferred Esmé Rusholme to
Frances Aveland, who can blame him? The preference
was natural. She taught in the Sunday School, de-


Wildersmoor 249
many a gallon o’ tea when I wur courting a lass a
while back; but that wur love, and it didna seem to
disagree. It's when a mon cooms to take tea with
his church-going that it turns him up loike.”
“Ay,” assented Vose with an approving nod, “it
do. I've tried it mysen, though tha mightn't believe
me, an' I dunnot hold wi' it. Art tha going far to-
neet?”
“I’m bound fur Woffendale. I did well enow in
Driffield, but I didna loike th' folks. I fair pined to
get whoam to th’owd town. I stood it fur seven year
fur th' sake o' th' wage. However, at last I says to
mysen as I couldna bide theer longer, so I just clapped
my savings i' my breeches pocket, an’ my tools i' th'
bag, an’ coom along. I meant to ha’ gone straight
through to Woffendale, but somehow I got into the
wrong train, an’ coom to North Rode. So I've had
th' walk o'er Wildersmoor. I’ll see Mr. Quentin Flem-
ing to-morrow. T reckon he'll give me a job. He
knows me well enow, does Mr. Quentin. Many's th’
time I’ve gone fishing wi' him when he wur a lad, an’
I wur boy in buttons at owd Elkanah’s.”
“I make no doubt he'll give thee a job,” said Vose.
“He’s th’ reet soart, is Mr. Quentin. He's giving th’
yearly play-acting to-neet o'er at th' Hall. Tha con
see fro' th' door how it's a' lit up. I'm going up theer
mysen by-an’-by. Being a tenant, Mr. Quentin asked
me hissen, an’ told me to bring a friend if I’d a moind.
Happen tha'd loike to coom?”
“Thank ye, I'd loike it rarely, if theer's a dark
corner as I con set in. I hannot getten my Sunday
clothes, tha sees.”
“That's all reet,” said Vose. “Step into th’ Snug,


25o Wildersmoor
an' ha' a smoke. Theer's one or two chaps theer,
Blind John among 'em. Happen tha knows him?”
“I’ve heard tell on him. Th’ chap as found Mr.
Ralph Fleming that neet.”
Vose nodded, and Gleave betook himself to the little
sanded parlour, where Vose introduced him as a Wof-
fendale man, and the company made room for him
before the fire, that was nearly as large as the one
blazing in the bar. For the season mattered little;
Wildersmoor folk had fires all the year round, and
if you needed a fire, why of course you needed a good
one. To express a preference for small fires was con-
clusive evidence that you came from “foreign parts,”
and you were viewed with distrust accordingly. The
mental attitude displayed by a stranger towards the
hearth was regarded as a test of social position. Did
he appreciate a noble blaze, and bask contentedly in its
light and heat, as one accustomed to worship at its
shrine? then there was a fair presumption that he
came of decent folk who had duly reverenced the .
household gods. If, on the contrary, he disdained the
ruddy glow, or sneaked up to it like some poor home-
less cur, grave suspicion attached to him and his un-
known belongings. So that when Gleave drew up an
empty chair with an air of decision, settled himself
in it, filling his pipe, and leaning back with a half-
sigh, half-grunt of contentment, the grunt was sym-
pathetically echoed by the company, as expressing a
general feeling of good-fellowship towards him.
This was, on Wildersmoor, the most courteous way
of intimating that the stranger's society was welcome,
and that any remark he might choose to make would
be received with respect. In such situations, a grunt,


Wildersmoor 25 I
it may be observed, has considerable advantage over
words. It does not demand a reply; and obviously,
there is more politeness in leaving a man in peace
for a few moments, than in disturbing him to talk
before his pipe is fairly under way and his thoughts
smoothed out. Therefore it was etiquette on Wilders-
moor for the stranger to speak first.
Gleave and his companions smoked a minute or two
in silence. Then he said—
“I’d loike to hear a bit o' news, chaps. I've been
away i' Driffield nigh on seven year, and seen nobbut
save i' th' papers. To be sure, I see Mr. Ralph Flem-
ing now an’ then when he came o'er on business, an’
fur th’ shooting—ay, fur th’ shooting,” Gleave re-
peated reflectively, with a slight shake of the head, as
though there was much to be said about that same
shooting.
“Mr. Ralph wurna much,” observed one man, add-
ing apologetically, “though, to be sure, he wur mur-
dered.”
“Ay, he wur,” said Gleave; “but theer wur rare
doings at that theer shooting-box,” and he shook his
head again. “I wur friendly wi' one o' th' keepers,
an' he asked me if I’d loike to coom o'er an’ take a
look at th’ place. So I went one Sunday, an’ a bit o'
a fire broke out that afternoon i' th' stables. Mr.
Ralph wur away, but me an’ keepers fettled it. When
it wur o'er, th’ missis coom out an' give us summat
fur our trouble. Hoo wurna a lady, but hoo wur a
good-looking lass, wi' black hair an’ rosy cheeks. I
wur thanking her when hoo says to me, quick-like,
‘Thamun be fro’ Lancashire?’ ‘Ay,” I says, “I’m a
Woffendale chap, thank th' Lord!’. Wi’ that hoo says


252 Wildersmoor
hoo wur a Wildersmoor lass, an’ begins to ask me
about a' th' folk. But, theer! I couldna tell her owt,
fur I’d been in Driffield more'n six year, an' hoo hadn't
been more'n two.”
“A Wildersmoor lass?” repeated the man who had
before spoken, “it mun ha’ been Rossela Darlow.
Hoo's th' only lass hereabouts as has left th’ place.
An' what tha says fits her, fur hoo had black hair
an’ rosy cheeks. But her grandam says hoo's in serv-
ice i' Lunnon. Hoo went nigh on two year ago.
When did tha see her?”
“It wur i' November,” replied Gleave, “but hoo
wurna i' service,” he added significantly.
“I’ll be bound it wur Rossela,” said Blind John
suddenly. He had been listening attentively to the
conversation. “I never did think owt o' that lass.
Look at her owd grandam—th' owd besom! Hoo
redds up well enow fur me, an' I ha' nowt to say agen
her cooking, but eh dear!—theer's tales o' her young
days as 'ud make a body's hair stond on end l’”
“Tha’rt reet theer,” commented another.
“An’ if hoo wur nobbut young again,” pursued
John, “theer isna owt as that owd lass wouldna be
up to An' I'll warrant th' young un is noan so mooch
better. Would tha' know her again?” to Gleave.
“Th’ lass?—ay, o' course.”
“Well, tha'rt safe to see Rossela if tha stays here-
abouts. Them soart allus drift back.”
“I shall bide in Woffendale, sure enow,” responded
Gleave. “I’ve had my filling o' foreign parts. Neither
th’ lads nor th’ lasses wur owt to depend upon. I’d
courted a lass off an' on fur three year, when one


Wildersmoor 253
Sunday I see her walking along wi' a Driffield chap's
arm round her waist. So I went up an’ says, “Here,
I conna put up wi' this. It's him or me. Make up
thy moind.” Hoo tosses her head an' says ‘Hoo isna
going to wed a Lancashire clog; ' did yo’ ever!” look-
ing round for the sympathy which was instantly ac-
corded. “I says, ‘A’ reet, I'll take thee at thy word.
But I'll punse this chap's head fur him afore I go.'
Wi’ that I give him a black eye, an' he give me an-
other, an' we had a pretty rough toime fur about a
minute an' a half, when I give him one as landed him
in th’ gutter, an' theer I left him. “Tha's killed him!”
says th’ lass. “Nay,' I says, “I’ve nobbut spoiled his
Sunday cloas,' an' I walked off. Eh!—I wanted no
more foreign parts after that! I just coom whoam
an' I'll stay whoam.”
“Theer's nowt like it,” said one of Gleave's audi-
ence. “Theer's allus summat interesting whoam, an’
theer's nowt a mon cares about elsewheer. Tha'll see
owd Elkanah's new placards all o'er th’ town. He's
keeping it up! He's offering seven hundred pound
now instead o' five.”
“Tha hannot found the chap yet?” said Gleave,
turning to Blind John. “Seven hundred pound would
set thee up, loike.”
It seemed to be tacitly acknowledged that a blind
man might earn blood-money without incurring the
usual odium attached to it.
“Ay, it would that,” said John, “an' I'll get it yet.
I'd swear to that chap anywheer if ever I coom across
him. An’ somehow I think as I shall happen on him
one o' these days.”


254 Wildersmoor
“I shouldna wonder. It's queer how one cooms
across folk.”
Here Vose spoke from the doorway.
“I reckon it's about toime to think o' going to the
Hall.”
*


CHAPTER XXII
HE play of which Vose spoke was an annual en-
tertainment at the Hall—usually a dramatic one
—to which gentle and simple alike were bidden.
Originally there had been a tenant's ball, but the elder
Fleming—Quentin's father—tried the experiment of
putting up a temporary stage in a large barn and
presenting Hamlet with Elizabethan simplicity as re-
gards accessories, engaging a Woffendale theatrical
company.
The change gave Wildersmoor so much gratifica-
tion, affording it subject for literary conversation for a
year, that the experiment became a settled thing; and
Macbeth, Winter's Tale, Marlowe's "Faust, and the
Duchess of Malfy successively appeared. The morals
of Wildersmoor did not permit the dwellers there to
frequent the Woffendale theatres, but the drama at
the Hall was a different matter. And the plays selected
appealed to Wildersmoor sympathies.
“I’ll try them with the Agamemnon and the Anti-
gone one of these days,” Nicholas Fleming had said.
“I believe the classics would suit them all round.”
But that day did not come, and Quentin this year
inclined towards more cheerful drama. He selected
the Merchant of Venice—not without a thought of a
stately maiden at Sandhayes who had much in com-
mon with Bellario's pupil.
So to-night when the April twilight fell there flowed
255


256 Wildersmoor
a continuous stream of guests of all ranks to the old
Hall. It is easier in country places for all classes to
mix than in large towns, there is greater simplicity
and more good feeling. Gleave, Vose, Granny Dar-
low, and Blind John—the last three in their best clothes
—set off together. Granny and John were, by grace
of Quentin, privileged to do a little gleaning after
supper, Granny because she was old and a widow,
John because he was blind.
The four walked on in the April starlight, Blind
John's stick steadily tapping the ground. Even with
companions he preferred to find his way after his own
fashion. He turned his face to the moor.
“'Tis a clear night,” he said.
“Ay, clear enow,” responded Vose.
“I’ll be glad to ha' a sight o' Mr. Quentin,” Gleave
observed. “It’s a matter o' four year sin' I set eyes
on him. I'll warrant he hasna grown less.”
“He’s a fine big gentleman,” said John. “I wonder
he hasna got wed afore now. But theer, it's little slim
nesh chaps that most women loikes.”
“Tha knows a deal about women, doan't tha P” re-
torted Granny, scornfully. “I reckon when th' Al-
mighty created Eve He mun h’ taken a sight o' Adam's
brains along wi' Adam's rib, fur th’ most o' thee men-
folk arena more nor half-theer. Thee con see th’ bot-
tom o' a beer-mug sharp enow, an’ that's about as fur
as thee con see.”
“If tha says as it wur three parts o' Adam's tongue
as wur took fur Eve, I mout agree wi' thee,” replied
John with slow sarcasm.
“I wouldna say o'er mooch about that if I wur
thee,” said the old woman sharply; “th' biggest gossip


Wildersmoor 257
o' a woman is nowt to thee men when thee gets to-
gether at th' beerhouse, an’ tha knows it. Thee con
shut thee mouths tight enow when tha 'rt whoam, but
when tha 'rt a-setting smoking o'er theer, thee oppens
'em wide enow fur to swally th’ moor.”
John felt slightly uncomfortable. Granny had an
uncanny reputation; could she by some occult means
have become aware of the conversation in the Snug
an hour previously? He hastily changed the subject.
It was not advisable to offend “th' owd witch,” for
there was no one else in the hamlet to “redd up " and
cook for him, and did she not concoct wondrous oint-
ments for rheumatic limbs 2
“Eh, dear!” he said, “to think as it's five month
sin' I found Mr. Ralph o'er theer on th’ moor.”
“Ay,” said Granny, “tha hannot yet caught th' chap
tha guided to North Rode fur a’ tha made so sure on
it.”
“Thee womenkind are allus in such a hurry fur
everything,” retorted John. “If yo' could ha’ your
own way, we'd ha’ had th' Judgment Day th’ week
after th’ Flood.”
“An’ if yo' men could ha’ things as yo' please, we'd
never ha' any Judgment Day at all, fur th’ most o'
thee ha’ good reason fur not wanting it.”
“Theer's owd Elkanah,” said Vose, as a carriage
passed them. - -
“Eh, we mun be quick!” and John hastened his
pace. These grand doings at the Hall would furnish
him with conversation that would interest both his
cronies at the Wolf and his clients on the moor. He
trusted to his companions for descriptions of looks
and dress—whether so-and-so resembled his or her
3:


258 Wildersmoor
parents and grandparents. While as for picking up
gossip, he could trust his own ears to serve him well.
Granny Darlow had other reasons for going. She
had not to keep up the reputation of a raconteur.
What she saw and heard sank into her own mind and
remained there. She went because she had a great
admiration of Quentin Fleming, and took a very deep
interest in the drama of his life. Indeed, she was by
no means sure that she would not take a part in it
herself. She held herself in readiness should he need
assistance—how or when she could not tell. But like
a dog, she kept a watch on him and on all around him,
prepared to rush to his defence if need be.
Presently she ensconced herself in the dark corner
of a passage leading out of the flower-decked hall.
Here, herself unseen, Granny watched the perpetual
movement of guests in and out of the long white
drawing-room, with the singers at the farther end.
Quentin had invited the members of the Woffendale
Glee and Madrigal Union, and they had joyfully
availed themselves of the opportunity to exhibit their
undoubted talent while the actors were getting ready.
Granny's nook also commanded the hall-door, and
each arrival was noted by her with interest. There
was a tolerable sprinkling of strangers, for a learned
society had made Woffendale its head-quarters that
week, and the savants were very willing to accept an
invitation which promised a fairly amusing evening,
with a good supper at the end. Fleming had accord-
ingly asked most of them—not all. But for strangers
Granny cared little. They were nothing to her. She
came to look at the people she knew—the people in
whom she was interested. For the mimic drama pre- .


Wildersmoor 259
paring in the barn she felt a slight contempt. It was
the drama of life she studied—the drama in which she
herself had played so strong a part. She came to look
at the people whom she knew. Standing motionless in
the shadow, she saw them pass and re-pass before her
in the light and brightness and colour of the scene.
Fleming himself was often in sight. Granny watched
his greeting of the Avelands, her keen old eyes resting
admiringly on Frances as she stood—a tall white figure
in a gown of some glistening stuff, beside a bank of
red azaleas. Then Aveland himself, with his bright
eyes and delicate dark face, sharpened by illness. Then
McKie, gaunt and jovial; Travis Crosier; the Patons,
Nina, in a pink frock—her pretty fair hair a mass of
tiny curls. “A most unsuitable coiffure for a clergy-
man's wife,” Mrs. Holt was heard to remark to Mrs.
Rusholme. Esmé and her mother had just returned
from a six weeks' visit to Bournemouth—an enforced
absence from Woffendale that had not pleased Esmé.
But Mrs. Rusholme made a rule of always going
away in spring, and Isabel had protested she really
could not give up Harry Haslam's society for so long
a period.
Therefore to-night was Esmé's first meeting with
Quentin since that afternoon at North Rode, and she
meant to make the most of it. It was, however, more
difficult to speak to him alone than she had anticipated;
he was so much occupied with his guests. A bachelor
host has double duty to perform, and the interval of
arrival needs to be well managed to escape dulness.
In this instance the interval went cheerfully enough.
People thought they ought to listen to the glees, there-
fore they were inclined to talk. They drifted into the


26o Wildersmoor
library, where there was coffee; thence into the draw-
ing-room, listening a little; and finally settled into
groups in the hall, discussing this and that; while
Celia's lachrymose lover explained his wishes to the
river-god, or Mynheer van Dunck trolled forth his
opinions upon the question of alcoholic refreshment.
Certainly, the hall was an attractive lounging place;
softly, darkly carpeted, gay with flowers, and warmed
by the great fire blazing in the wide fireplace; as it
always blazed from September till June, for Wilders-
moor held no delusions as to spring temperature.
“I am sadly in need of an astral body,” said Quen-
tin, addressing a good-looking grey-haired woman in
a steel-coloured gown—a member of the learned society
that was just then shining on Woffendale. “I desire
to be in two places at once, and to talk to all my guests
at the same moment.”
“I am afraid an astral body would not help you,
Mr. Fleming, for your spirit cannot inhabit both bodies
at once, any more than it can serve two masters. Your
earthly garment would lie helpless and inert while the
astral was disporting itself elsewhere.”
“Then I give up the idea. I imagined my duality
would prove useful to an embarrassed bachelor anxious
to do his best.”
“But why a bachelor?”
“I am not married. Did you think I was?”
“Oh no, I was told there was no Mrs. Fleming.
Besides, it is easy to see you are a bachelor. You
would not be so positive about everything if you were
married.”
“Is that a sign of single misery?”
“Certainly. We are pliable before marriage, men


Wildersmoor 261
after. How I should like to attach you to our party.
Do you remember our political argument at the
Bishop's dinner last week? If you were to choose a
wife from among us !” regarding him reflectively.
Fleming laughed. “I find it a little difficult to
attach myself to any party. The word politics ‘sur-
prises by himself, more than ever in these days. Be-
sides, I always look on the other side of the shield.”
“Ah, you are one of the few who think for them-
selves. Everybody pretends to think, but the majority
merely echo the opinions of their friends or of their
pet papers; and in so doing lose what little individual-
ity they may once have had. I hope you will make no
mistake when you marry. It would be a thousand
pities.”
“I shall not do that.”
“That answer tells me you have chosen already. I
shall be very curious to see your wife.”
“I shall be delighted to introduce you to her when
you come again.”
“The Society meets at Driffield next year, I believe.
That is not very far away. We all think it so good of
you to invite so many of us. By the way, did you
know the celebrated Professor Blank is one of us?”
“Yes, but I have old-fashioned notions of hospi-
tality. I do not ask a man to my house unless I can
welcome him, and as I do not approve of animal
torture, I cannot extend a welcoming hand to a vivi-
sector.”
“Really?—of course, if you feel like that you are
right. How you surprise me, Mr. Fleming.”
“Do I? Once we tortured the human animal in
deference to the opinions of judges and priests. Now


262 Wildersmoor
we torture other animals in deference to the opinions
of doctors and scientists. I fail to see that the latter
have any more right to insist on legalized torture than
had the former; and cruelty remains cruelty, no matter
what the intentions of the person inflicting it.” "
“Now I wish more than ever that I could persuade
you to join us. What an ally you would bel You
seem so much in earnest.”
“That,” he replied lightly, “is the result of living
on Wildersmoor. We are like the ptarmigan, we
take colour from our surroundings.”
“I understand. I have seen both Woffendale and
Wildersmoor—the Titan at work and the Titan at
rest.”
“Yes. All wild tracts of country are apt to pro-
duce men and women with convictions. McKie there,
is a Galloway man, and he has convictions of the
calibre of an eighty-ton gun. I think I see someone
beckoning to me. This is one of the occasions when
I desire to be in two places at once.”
He moved away into the library, and Mrs. Holt
observed vaguely to her brother-in-law, that “she
could not imagine where Quentin got such ideas. No
doubt he would lose them as he grew older.”
“I think the lad is right,” said Elkanah, bluntly.
“I don't concern myself about such matters, but if a
man has got any opinions, let him stick to 'em.”
“I am rather surprised Fleming does not show more
feeling for science,” lisped a young fellow with a re-
ceding chin and spectacles.
“Better let science begin to show feeling,” growled
McKie—he had pricked up his ears like a terrier at
the sight of a rat's nose—“six or seven thousand
-


Wildersmoor 263
dogs and cats being flayed, roasted, baked, disem-
bowelled, artificially ulcerated, galvanized on ripped-up
nerves, in all the laboratories of Christendom | Oh
ay, science is a grand thing to respect!”
“. Pray don't, Dr. McKie. You really make one feel
quite ill !” Mrs. Holt hated McKie, and in making
this remark she knew she would have sympathizers;
in fact, a little murmur of assent did follow her words.
“Ye don't like to hear the truth,” said McKie
sturdily. “Ye don't mind such things existing—ye'll
not raise a finger to stop or check them—but ye don't
like to be disturbed by the hearing of them. I don't
doubt that was the feeling of the priest and the Levite.
The wounded man wad be a gruesome sight, dusty and
bloody, and a sair trouble to any that would fash them-
selves with the helping of him. So they just let him
lie there, which was verra natural and according to
human nature. The creatures must writhe out of your
sight, and then ye welcome their torturers to your table.
Natheless, never a creature writhes out of the sight
of the Lord that made it, and ye all—men and women
alike—will hae to listen at the Judgment Day, and to
answer for your passive share in the ineequity: “As
ye have done it unto the least of one of these, ye have
done it unto Me.’”
“But, Dr. McKie,” said the young man with the
receding chin, “do you really mean to say you believe
in that nursery bugbear, the Last Judgment?”
“Assuredly l’—McKie was the grimmest of Pres-
byterians, and would have gone to the stake in sup-
port of his opinions—“assuredly! . And I wad say to
unbelievers, that since nae man can tell what comes
after death, it's weel to be on the right side—to gie


264 Wildersmoor
the poorest reason for belief. It's aye easy for these
smirking torturers with their sonsie incomes to deny
the God above—and weel they may, for they daurna
face Him. But denial proves naething but their bound-
less egotism. For the rest of ye, I was about to say
ye echo the cry of Cain when ye turn a deaf ear to
the sufferings of the puir beasts. Ye say ye are not
their keepers. Weel—weel, it's a grand comfort to
me that ye'll hae to repeat that before the Lord. I
ken weel what ye are thinking—I am auld and ahint
the times. That's as it may be. It's my ain opinion
that I'm before the times—which is anither matter.
Ay, before the times—these times when ye can blas-
pheme your Redeemer and deny your Maker, and get
the applause of the fashionable world whiles ye do
it, but ye daurna say a word against yon animal-tor-
turers. These be your gods, O Israel! There is
neither Heaven nor Hell—there is neither Father, Son,
nor Holy Spirit! But there is the Devil ye call Science
for your worship, and there are the writhing beasts for
your offerings; and ye say the work of your day is
good—verra good in your sight!”
McKie stopped, and the notes of “Aileen Aroon"
floated out from the drawing-room. Whether a burn
from hot or cold iron is the more severe depends upon .
the skin of the individual burnt; but it is pretty safe
to say that the burn from cold iron makes the stronger
impression on the mind. It gives such an idea of
staying power. For we know the red-hot glow will die,
and rapidly too. Whereas the cold iron burns by reason
of its coldness—and still burns and burns—and who
can tell the duration of the frost? A North Briton
of the Covenanter type is very cold iron indeed. He


Wildersmoor 265
is never heated nor flurried. He knows exactly what
he is going to say, and he says it; and whether his
personality be an agreeable one or not, there is no
denying that it is a personality. Therefore McKie im-
pressed his audience at least with the force of his
dogged sincerity, if not with the justice of his opinions.
Rusholme, that old Pict—feeling who can tell what
faint stirrings of comradeship from those far-off days
when Pict and Scot fought side by side, and the fal-
con's flight marked out the lands of Hay–Rusholme
nodded approval; and the grey-haired woman, per-
ceiving that here was another energetic individual,
slipped into a vacant chair by McKie, and with much
tact and pleasant appreciation endeavoured to ascer-
tain his political leanings.
Only, while conversation rose again, the spectacled
youth objected.
“Rather—er—bad form to make such a fuss here,
eh?” he observed.
“Everything steadfast is bad form now-a-days,”
said Aveland. “The correct thing is to possess a mind
as supple as an acrobat's back.”
Standing near the spectacled one was another
young fellow—a civil engineer, and at Aveland's
reply, he laughed appreciatively, his white teeth
and bright black eyes lighting up his swarthy face.
He was strongly built and rugged of feature; by
no means handsome, yet very pleasant to look upon ;
full of the life and energy, and with the eyes of a
faithful dog.
“I always back up old McKie,” he said, turning to
Frances, whom he greatly admired, only—as he put it
to himself—it was easy to see that Fleming was first


266 Wildersmoor
favourite; “he's the sort of man you feel sure of,
isn't he?”
Whereupon Frances was very gracious to the civil
engineer, which cheered his soul and he talked on, the
northern burr sounding in his speech, melodious though
it was: a fine type this young fellow; one of the best
the north offers. Four months later he was slain by
fever, and buried in a hot West Indian island; whence,
doubtless, his spirit fled home to grey cool Lancashire,
and walked the wet familiar streets, and heard again
the soft broad-vowelled speech that had been his own.


CHAPTER XXIII
SME RUSHOLME never felt the smallest interest
in anything that did not directly concern her-
self, otherwise she might have noted the picturesque-
ness of the mingled audience that presently flowed
down the gaily-decorated temporary passage to the
transformed barn.
Not that the building had lost its barn character.
On the contrary, Fleming had preserved that by leav-
ing the rough brown walls and roof untouched. The
arrangements were purposely primitive. The actors
entered only by the wings. At the back of the stage
was a little painted scenery. That was all. The
playbills, however, were dainty works of art—the whole
play, with delicate illustrations. Quentin had spent
thought and money on these, knowing that his poorer
guests would cherish them. And it was noticeable how
the bronzed fishermen and burly farmers and their
wives appreciated the feeling which had provided those
fairy books. Old Will Elliot was there, dirty as ever;
but with clean hands and face, and a smart new coat.
Gleave, conscious of his working clothes, modestly
squeezed into a top corner near Vose, who had Blind
John beside him. Granny found a vacant chair behind
“th’ gentry,” close to Farmer Blackshaw and his wife.
The latter, a buxom smiling dame, looked askance at
Granny, and wondered audibly to her husband, how
267


268 Wildersmoor
“the owd witch had the face to show herself among
respectable folk!”
“Let-a be, let-a be,” said Farmer Blackshaw, with
masculine tolerance of impropriety, “happen it wurna
exactly as folks tell it. An' it's many a year ago—
afore thou an' I wur born. See theer, th' curtain's
going up!”
The Merchant of Venice suited the audience ex-
actly. Portia supplied the intellectual element, Antonio
the commercial. His losses by shipwreck appealed to
the fisher-folk, who were of opinion that Portia had
better have married him instead of Bassanio. Whereas
most of the landsmen thought Antonio “nobbut a
fool, for a wee laddie could ha’ seen what owd Shy-
lock wur up tol’ But all agreed that “Portia wur a
grand lass,” and one or two matrons meditated bestow-
ing her name on their next daughter.
When the last scene opened in the moonlit garden
at Belmont, Fleming quietly went out, with the inten-
tion of inspecting the supper-room before taking his
guests thither. Surmising this, Esmé slipped out too.
But she did not follow him through the temporary
passage from the barn to the house. That passage
ended in the conservatory opening from the dining-
room; and Esmé, knowing the place, took a short cut
across a lawn into the house, and was sitting in a
basket chair by a group of palms before Quentin en-
tered the conservatory from the passage. She knew
this would be her only chance of seeing him alone that
evening. Living as she did in Woffendale, it was
difficult to get an opportunity of speaking on that sub-
ject from which he had partially escaped that night at
Elkanah Fleming's, in the winter. He should not


Wildersmoor 269
escape this time, she thought, as she heard his ap-
proaching footsteps echoing along the passage.
And Granny Darlow 2 Of course Granny had seen
Quentin go out, and Esmé, and equally of course,
Granny had also made a quiet exit, following the
latter. She watched Esmé seat herself in the corner
by the palms; then saw Fleming enter from the pas-
sage, walking quickly, evidently going straight
through. His surprise, when Esmé rose and confronted
him, was clearly observed by Granny.
“Th’ impident besom!” she muttered, “waiting
theer fur a mon as wouldna wait for her.”
But the old woman could not hear what was said,
and the annoyance visible in Quentin's face determined
his human watch-dog to be effectively present at the
interview. Outside the conservatory corner was a
clump of laurels, dark in the April starlight. Here
among the leaves stood Granny. Above her head a
small pane of glass was open, thus every word spoken
within became audible to the listener without.
“It was not Ralph—I never cared for Ralph.” This
in Esmé's precise metallic tones.
“Pardon me if I do not understand you, Esmé “–
this in Fleming's voice. Then more lightly—“Will
you come with me to the supper-room? In my char-
acter as hostess I am bound to see that all's well before,
as host, I give the signal to fall to.”
“You understand me perfectly well, Quentin,” with
unmistakable anger; “your affectation of ignorance
is mere pretence. You have understood ever since we
dined at your uncle’s.”
“I hope not,” gravely.
Esmé laughed, a low unpleasant laugh.


27o Wildersmoor
“You owe me reparation even by your own show-
ing. You say you believe I loved Ralph. Very well,
who prevented me marrying him?”
“Not I, Esmé.”
“Yes, you. And you bribed my cousin, Jack Ulyett,
not to tell what he saw that night on the moor—you
bribed him with a thousand pounds. But I can compel
him to speak if I choose; and whether I do or not
depends on yourself.” -
Her anger seemed to have vanished. She was speak-
ing with cold insistence.
“I never bribed your cousin. What wild tale you
may have got in your head I cannot imagine. What
do you suppose Ulyett to have seen 2"
Fleming spoke with equal coldness.
Outside, Granny listened intently. She had known
all along that Ulyett was on the moor that night, and
had guessed he must have been the man whom Blind
John guided. But Granny had kept this knowledge
to herself, and Elkanah had questioned her in
vain.
There was a short pause before Esmé's next words
floated through the open pane. In truth, Quentin's
direct challenge had slightly discomposed her. She
felt positive that he was Ralph's murderer, and that
Ulyett had witnessed the crime and made capital out
of it. Yet Esmé experienced a difficulty in charging
Fleming to his face with having killed his relative.
Had he appeared dismayed, despairing, she would have
trampled hard. But he was cold, unmoved. A doubt
crossed her mind. Could she be mistaken P Then she
reassured herself; she had confidence in her own con-
clusions.


Wildersmoor - 271
“You gave Jack a thousand pounds,” she said, a
slight uncertainty betraying itself in her voice.
“Lent it. Certainly. But who told you, or why
Ulyett's money matters should so excite you, I don't
know.”
Another short silence. Then Esmé spoke again, a
little hesitatingly.
“I heard Jack had stolen that money.”
“Did you? Pleasant for Jack!”
“I mean, someone else's money; and you enabled
him to replace it. Of course you would not do that
for nothing. You must not think I should betray you,
Quentin.” -
“It seems to me that you are betraying Ulyett—if
you have any real grounds for your assertions respect-
ing the poor fellow.”
“Never mind Jack. He is not likely to come back,
unless I send for him. Would you like me to send
for him P”
“That is your concerns’
“No, it is not; it is yours. It's no use pretending
unconsciousness, Quentin. You need Jack's silence,
and you have paid him for it. But you cannot tell
how long it will last. You are no relative of Jack's.
Besides, you owe me reparation, as I have said. If
Ralph had lived, I should have married him.”
“Ten minutes ago you told me you did not like
Ralph.”
“I should have married him to please my mother.
I have never thought of my own feelings. Dear
mother's wishes are sacred to me, and she always
wished me to marry a Fleming.”
Which statement was an ingenious perversion of


272 - Wildersmoor
Mrs. Rusholme's natural hope that her pet daughter
would marry a rich man. Outside among the laurels,
Granny muttered vigorous comments in her native
Doric. The affected modesty of Esmé's voice, the
well-acted faltering and final sigh, all worked up the
old woman to a heart-warming pitch of solid exaspera-
tion. Scant shrift would Esmé have met at Granny's
hands could she-like Abou Hassan—have been abso-
lute ruler for one day. She crept closer to the glass.
Fleming was speaking gravely.
“I never bribed Ulyett. I had no reason for doing
so. As for reparation, I owe you none. It is mere
childishness to say so. With regard to your mother's
wishes, Ralph is gone—and I cannot think you would
have been happy with him had he lived. There is a
good man who loves you—Travis Crosier, a thoroughly
good fellow. He will make you a better husband than
my cousin would have done. For myself, if I marry—
I do not know that I shall marry—but if I do, my
choice is already made.” "
“You mean Frances Aveland. You cannot marry
into any strange family. You must marry to ensure
silence. Otherwise I shall not feel under any obliga-
tion to keep silence. You cannot bribe me, Quentin,
as you did Jack.”
Esmé’s words were very deliberately uttered, and in
the metallic tone which always became more accentu-
ated when she felt particularly vindictive towards the
individual she was addressing.
“I am sorry that you take such an extraordinary
view of a very simple act of friendliness. And I am
also sorry, Esmé, that this conversation seems to have
become the reverse of pleasant to either of us. Let us


Wildersmoor - 273
agree to forget it. Can I take you anywhere? Or do
you prefer to be left here. I am afraid I cannot spare
any more time from my guests.”
“I have no wish to keep you from them, though you
appear to forget that I am one. Leave me here. I
have no more to say. You have your choice, and you
have plenty of time to think over it. If you marry
Frances Aveland I shall not consider myself bound to
silence.” º
There was no more said after this.
Granny heard Fleming's footsteps passing out of
the conservatory down the passage. A soft April air
blew from the moor, a few sleepy birds twittered. The
darkness was not the dense horrible darkness of houses
built by hands, but a dim starlit blueness—a sort of
owl's noonday, in which trees and shrubs and winding
pathway were faintly visible. A quiet friendly dark-
ness—more friendly than any human home and
warmer in its kindliness than any human hearth. In-
doors may be good—outdoors is generally better.
Granny slipped back through the laurels on to the path
beyond and thence into the house again. Crossing the
passage by the conservatory door, herself in
shadow, she saw Esmé standing alone by the palms;
and the look on Esmé's face boded ill to Quentin
Fleming.


CHAPTER XXIV
LEMING'S guests might have been fairies, so
quaint and varied were the vehicles in which
they departed, and of shapes utterly unknown else-
where. Pumpkin-like covered waggons, spider-like
gigs, and queer little low cars with a contrivance for
supporting a huge umbrella—the whole speeding over
the moor like an animated mushroom.
The Avelands had an old-fashioned hooded phaeton,
with a fat shaggy brown pony, and an almost equally
shaggy coachman and general factotum, called Peter,
as thin as the pony was fat. Peter considered it due
to his master's dignity to start off with prodigious
dash and rattle. Once fairly outside the Hall gates
and out on the moor, old Peter drove at a steady jog-
trot and gave the occupants of the phaeton ample time
to study the landscape as it drifted past them. To-
night it was a weird misty landscape in silver grey with
blurred shadows, no sharpness anywhere. A light not
clear nor dark; earth and air one soft shimmer of mist
and moonlight. The sandhills were more silver than
grey, the moor more grey than silver; each and all
melting—elusive. It might not have been earth at all,
but some dim lunar world whence all realities had
vanished, leaving only their ghosts. The silence added
to this feeling of illusion—of remoteness. The phae-
ton wheels made no sound on the sandy peat of the
track. Once a curlew screamed. Then the shining
274


Wildersmoor 275
mist seemed to close round again after its severance
by the bird's cry—to close into wellnigh absolute still-
ness; save for a faint tremor hardly to be called a
sound—the pulsing of the sea.
“This is Northern magic,” said Aveland as he and
his daughter were carried softly onward without
effort of their own through that eerie landscape, so
familiar—so transfigured; “Northern magic,” he re-
peated. “I am no lover of the north myself, yet I
recognize its witchery under certain aspects. Such a
night makes the Norse faith natural. Anything might
take shape and form from this mist. Odin and his
ravens—the Valkyriel You would make a good Val-
kyria yourself, Frances.”
“Should I, father? The moor reminds me of Pierre
Loti. It often does.”
“You are right. I had not thought of him. Yes,
it is the same landscape as the Breton—the same feel-
ing. The bare greyness, the sea-mists, the subtle
charm of mystery and restraint. Odd that the most
delicate Ariel-like genius seems to need—firstly, a long
line of dour Puritan ancestors; secondly, a chill sea
coast for a cradle. I have sometimes thought there is
a certain resemblance between the writings of Loti and
Hawthorne, with their respective Puritan and Hugue-
not ancestry. Of course Hawthorne is the stronger,
but the likeness is there. The same limpid clearness,
though dealing with things mist-like and strange, and
coloured with the colours of dark rock and barren sand
and luminous air. The same insight, the same tender-
ness for helpless creatures—this last most marked in
Loti. And also, both equally give the impression of
restrained force, as does that soft lapping of the tide


276 Wildersmoor
that we hear. It is only the soft grey tide—and no
man can tell what it may do.” Aveland paused.
There came through the silence a measured beating
sound that grew more distinct.
“What is that? A horse?”
Frances leant forward from under the hood as her
father spoke, and looked back into the thin silvery haze
that seemed to part and close up and follow them;
thickening over a stunted oak till the tree seemed
clothed with ghostly shimmering foliage; drawing
away behind a willow clump till every leafless branch
could be seen defined against the pale mist crouching
beyond, like an outcast soul—a wavering, moonlit haze,
in which a horseman loomed gigantic, all outlines
blurred and shifting.
“There is someone riding behind us,” said Frances.
“Quentin must be too busy to leave the Hall to-night,
yet the rider looks like him, and the horse like Mari-
gold. The mist is so confusing that I cannot see
clearly.”
“Doubtless it is Odin. He is on his way to Heligo-
land, where his horse will be shod by Master Olaf,
the Smith.” -
Though Aveland spoke thus jestingly, his heart gave
a bound; so anxious was he—this dying father—to
leave his child's future less uncertain. If Fleming,
after seeing his guests depart, could take a night ride
of fourteen miles, merely for the sake of trotting half
that distance beside the Sandhayes phaeton, why,
surel P
“It is Quentin,” said Frances, “and here is Bran!”
as the great hound bounded up.
“I hope you have not imagined me a highwayman,”


Wildersmoor 277
said Fleming, checking his horse to a trot beside them.
“When I had seen my last guest fairly outside my
gates, I felt the need of a little exercise. So I started
in pursuit of you.”
“Father took you for Odin. It is a great disap-
pointment.”
“Is it? I am so sorry!”
“And we are in pursuit of the Patons,” Frances
continued. “We are supposed to be going home with
them. Of course we shall not overtake them. We
never overtake anybody. They are about two miles
ahead, and are likely to remain so, as they have bor-
rowed Farmer Blackshaw's mule. How can we, with
merely a pony, compete with a mule !”
“Blackshaw's mule !—but why in the world ? “
“Oh, their horse is lame, that is why. Did you not
see the mule as they drove up? It is a very smart
animal—much smarter than our own shaggy friend,”
with a nod towards the plodding Sandhayes pony.
“Anyone can drive a smart animal,” Aveland ob-
served meditatively. “Only a philosopher or a saint
would sit behind a cinnamon bear.”
“It is a good little beast,” said Fleming.
“Thank you, Quentin. When a man makes a state-
ment like that I appreciate the friendship which dic-
tates it.”
“Well,” rejoined Quentin, laughing, “I was admir-
ing the pony's moral qualities.”
“He has the soul of a Bayard,” said Frances.
“Therefore the mule is ahead of him,” said her
father.
“Does it matter?” Frances asked, in the slow, clear
tones so like her father's. “Being ahead does not


278 Wildersmoor
always mean getting the best of things. ‘The gods
sell their gifts at a fair price.' If one lingers by the
way, one has leisure to look around. Bayard is in the
right. Let the mule go ahead!” -
“That is what I should have said in my youth.
Now I feel an unreasonable desire to apply a stick to
the mule, merely because it is a mule. Curious how
one's natural savagery survives!”
“My natural savagery seems in abeyance just now,”
said Quentin, restraining Marigold's inclination to set
off like the wind—for what was the moor made if not
to gallop over? “I wish to linger, to prolong the
moment,” this more particularly to Frances. “Do you
remember that fellow in Browning who thought
Heaven might be one long ride at sunset? This moon-
light does just as well.”
They talked on. Aveland leaning back among his
wrappings and listening—hoping—watching the slow
eddying of the moon mist into dim shapes that peopled
the moor with phantoms of Briton and Roman, Pict
and Dane, whose feet had trodden it long ago. April
though it was, the hall at Sandhayes retained its win-
ter cheerfulness, the red firelight warming its white-
ness—the dull whiteness of the stone floors, the walls
—dark panelled below, white above up to the dark
rafters; the two house-friends, Malise and Ptolemy,
basking on the white rug before the fire.
“You will come in, Quentin?” Aveland had said.
“I know no reason why a man should welcome his
friends only at certain hours. A call paid at one in the
morning has at least the merit of escaping monotony.”
“I am not sure of that,” Fleming replied, entering
nevertheless. “I should say that the monotony or


Wildersmoor 279
otherwise of the visit would depend a good deal on
the fellow paying it. However, natural perversity
usually impels a man to be more lively after midnight
just because he ought to be asleep.”
“Why ought?”—Frances took off her cloak and
went to a side-table; “Quentin, I think that little kettle
is boiling. Please bring it here, I am going to make
some coffee. Why should we lose every night? The
stormy ones, perhaps; but the starry and the warm
ones? I always sympathize with that friend of De
Quincey's whom he found sitting in his garden after
midnight—not ‘sunning,' but ‘mooning' himself. Why
should we not moon ourselves occasionally?”
“Rheumatism,” suggested Aveland, taking his cof-
fee from his daughter's hand, and patting Bran; the
dog having come in with his master as a matter of
COurse.
“I do my mooning best on horseback,” said Flem-
ing. “A night ride is a capital thing.”
How pleasant it all was The wide white hall with
its dark fittings; the singing fire; the basking dogs;
the murmur of the sea without; the delicate aroma of
coffee, bringing a thought of the hot East into the chill
North; the mingled simplicity and culture, characteris-
tic of Sandhayes under the Aveland rule. The pity
that it could not last!—that all things, good or bad,
drift away towards change; and the best things go the
quickest when their foundation is that frailest one,
human life. The fair peace of Sandhayes rested on
Aveland's life. When he went, the spirit of the home-
stead must needs depart also; must become a memory,
instead of a joy. Many happy memories had Aveland
prepared for his child—memories like a string of


Wildersmoor 281
ago. It seemed to be lifting. The moist, warm airs
faintly breathing from the sea brought out the char-
acteristic odours of Wildersmoor, the dry, curious
scent of dead bracken mingling with the fresh earthli-
ness of springing moss. As the scent rose, incense-
like, Frances remembered hearing of a dying sailor, a
Wildersmoor man, who—being desperately ill—was
sent ashore near Sandhayes, and prayed his bearers to
lay him down for a moment by the roadside, saying he
“Couldna die easy without a smell o' the moss.” Not
far away was the patch of emerald velvet that had been
his death-bed—a more wonderful couch than any made
with hands. -
Overhead, a dark rift appeared, a space of deep
violet sky, into which sailed a moon of vivid silver,
lighting up sea and land. How beautiful it all was
The more beautiful because there was no shadow on
the girl's soul to dim that beauty. She rose from her
leaning attitude, listened to the church clock striking
slowly—the light wind brought the sound from the
village. Marigold and his master would be home by
this. Frances closed the window with a smile on her
face, drew the heavy curtains, and turned with a little
shiver from the mystery and glory without to the
warmth of the dancing fire, that babbled neither of
death nor of change, but only of the fair common-
places of home.


CHAPTER XXV
UT nothing happened as yet. May passed with
its sheets of blue hyacinth in the copses, and on
the moor the moss grew and embroidered itself with
tiny white and yellow blossoms; and satin-flowers and
rose-a-rubies shot up to keep the tall ferns company—
soon to be overshadowed by them. By the brown
pools, hemlock spread its leaves—there was much
hemlock on Wildersmoor; while from every thicket
and bush, from willow and hazel and stunted oak,
those feather-clad spirits we call birds, sang matins
and evensong with lusty throats and joyous hearts, so
happy were they—so unmolested. There were never
many people needing to cross the moor, and the most
of these kept to the main tracks. Only Granny Darlow
and Blind John wandered along bypaths, and women
are seldom scourges to any but their own kind.
Granny was as harmless to the winged and four-footed
natives as though she were disembodied; and, as for
John, the creatures knew well they had no need to flee
in terror from a blind man. What a new era of happi-
ness would dawn for our poor fellow-spirits, were the
whole human race stricken blind. They have no foes
so dire as we.
But the returning summer brought no return of
health to Aveland. He had rapidly become worse.
By the middle of June he rarely went further than his
own garden. From the porch to the clipped yews and
282


Wildersmoor 283
back again, was now his customary walk. Sometimes
not even that. Day by day he grew more fragile-look-
ing, more transparent; and day by day the troubled
shadow deepened on his daughter's face. She could
not disguise from herself how swift was his journey-
ing away from this familiar earth. Fleming perpetu-
ally sent over from the Hall everything he could im-
agine that would tempt a failing appetite, and followed
himself; but then he could hardly appear at Sandhayes
more often than he had been in the habit of doing.
McKie was constantly stepping out of the train at
North Rode, or driving over with Quentin; not that
any check could be put on the ebbing life, but McKie's
attachment to Aveland drew him—though uselessly.
Nina Paton came from the Vicarage with a smiling
face, and laughed and chattered. Then went home
and wept, exclaiming against the perversity of things.
“Dr. Aveland is the one adorable man I have ever
seen,” she said, with a sob and a sniff. “Excuse me
saying this, Cyril. And to think that he should go
when so many worthless ones cumber the earth!”
“We must resign ourselves,” said Paton, thought-
fully. He was really sorry about Aveland.
“Don’t say that, Cyril, please. People always say
that to anyone who is troubled in heart, and I call it
taking a mean advantage of one's sorrowful, and there-
fore, defenceless condition. Just say it to a man who
has tipped off his bicycle into a ditch, and see what he
will reply l’”
The Vicar gazed reflectively out of the window at
the post-office and Crosier's lodgings. He was not
paying much attention to his wife's remarks.
“Aveland is a little difficult to approach,” he ob-


284 Wildersmoor
served presently, “I mean in serious matters. I have
been at Sandhayes pretty often lately, but have had
no opportunity of speaking to him on other than every-
day topics.”
“Do you think he needs speaking to? He sees you
constantly. If he wishes for any spiritual advice he
will surely ask for it.” -
“True,” Paton spoke a little reluctantly. Then he
added more briskly, “I may as well go there now.
Probably I shall find Aveland alone. Fleming gener-
ally turns up about six, doesn't he?”
“Sometimes earlier. It depends on whether he is
staying to dinner or not.”
“Anyway, I’ll go down now. I meant to have
looked in yesterday, but Crosier's absence kept me
busy. They are alone, are they not?”
“They were when I left, an hour ago.”
June on Wildersmoor had not the riotous summer
heat and luxuriance of more southern places. There
was a sort of repression about it. The sunshine was a
softened gold, the pale blue of the sky had a faint
haze in it. The spring green was darkening, though
here and there the cuckoo lingered.
There was one calling in the larch wood at the back
of Sandhayes, as the Vicar turned in at the gates
between the clipped yews. There seemed to be a hush
about the place—a hush not of peace, but of expect-
ancy.
Dr. Aveland was lying in an easy-chair in the
dining-room, by the window looking out on the moor.
Quentin Fleming usually came that way, and in these
last days Aveland's thoughts dwelt on him more than
ever.


Wildersmoor 285
“Is your father well enough to see me, or do we
give you too much of us?” asked Paton, when Frances
met him in the hall.
She answered the latter part of his remark first.
“You know we are always glad to see either or both
of you. Nina told us you might possibly appear later.
Father, here is Mr. Paton.” -
“Tell me all the news of the village, Paton,” said
Aveland, as his visitor entered. “There is something
peculiarly soothing in village news. Which man has
grown the biggest lettuce or the most alluring cabbage?
Whose children have let the family pig into their
neighbour's garden? And with what results? It is
the best possible news for a sick man—unless the vil-
lagers are his tenants.”
“I don't know that there is much civil war going
on at present,” rejoined the Vicar. “We have settled
the little difficulty between the Brierleys; I daresay you
heard that from my wife.”
The conversation drifted on from one subject to an-
other. By-and-by Frances left the two together. Her
father seemed well amused, and the little larch wood
behind the house was full of cool air and summer sun.
In these days Frances did not wander about the moor
as she used to do. The last weeks of Aveland's life
were too precious to his daughter to be spent away
from him. Now and then, when a friend was with
him, she would go into the wood, striving to gain
strength and calmness from sunlight and sea wind—
from strong-growing trees and happy living things.
Sitting on a rustic bench in the chequered light and
shadow, Frances thought much and deeply, being con-
fronted by that which quickest cowes and kills—the


286 Wildersmoor
sense of powerlessness. Meanwhile, in the dining-
room, conversation had taken a graver turn, and an
opportunity had been given Paton to observe that if
he “could be of any service in his priestly ca-
pacity xx
“Thank you, no.” Aveland's eyes rested on his
companion with a quiet smiling light in their depths.
“For the one thing that troubles me—the leaving my
only child—you could not give me consolation. For
the rest, I need no consolation—I am glad to go. I
have no sins to confess. I have never repented of any-
thing, save of my amiable impulses—those pearls of
conciliation that I have cast before swine. Content
yourself, Paton, I die in the faith of the Trinity—the
oldest faith in the world; the original ancient faith, of
which all other forms of religion are offshoots. In
Asia—in India, you can see its traces in the old, old
books, in the present habits and beliefs of the people.
Why does the Indian woman wash out her water-jar
in three jerks? There was the faith of the Trinity in
old Egypt, almost lost—as in India—among fantastic
star-worship and tutelary gods; so corrupted that
Moses saw no way out of the maze of idolatry but by
teaching the Trinity in its unity—as the one God Je-
hovah; precisely as Abraham left Ur of the Chaldees
and rejected all save the One God, both of them acting
—as you and I believe—under Divine guidance. The
restoration of the ancient faith in its fulness was too
great a task for man; it needed the Second Person
of the Trinity. Not till Christ appeared was the old
faith taught once more in its purity.”
“I am willing to admit,” said Paton, dubiously,
“that the ancient nations may have had some dim


Wildersmoor 287
illumination; yet I can hardly go as far as you. For
instance, Mahomedanism is no offshoot of the true
faith of the Trinity.”
“I think it is. It was a revolt of the human mind
against the corruptions that had crept into the Trini-
tarian belief—a revolt similar to that of Moses. Ma-
homed looked round at the multitude of gods—many
of them were blocks of meteoric stone, like the Kaaba
at Mecca—and turned for relief to the Unity of the
Trinity—the one God, whom he called Allah, and whom
Moses called Jehovah. But the Arab camel-driver was
not a man of either the natural powers or the educa-
tion of Moses—whom, by the way, he doubtless imi-
tated. Neither had he any especial command from
the Almighty. Consequently, he grafted a lot of fan-
tastic lies on to his real and true idea of the one God.
But I believe the man to have been sincere, as far as
his capacity went. Afterwards his success did its usual
work, and he bequeathed vice, war, and misery—and
that deliberately—instead of peace and conciliation.
Nowadays we are witnessing the same falling away
from the faith and the same results—a drifting to
monotheism on the one hand and to superstitious be-
liefs and multitudinous gods on the other; to Bud-
dhism, to Theosophy, to a hankering after the classic
gods. I should not be in the least surprised to hear
of a revival of the cult of Isis or Dionysus. But this
is more your affair than mine, Paton. I am passing
away from it all. Rest assured there is nothing new
under the sun. The brutalities of science, its so-called
discoveries—all are old forms of cruelty, old theories,
old inventions. Nothing is new save railways. Those
we moderns have truly invented. All else is old. Every


288 Wildersmoor
modern form of thought has been anticipated, every
phase of belief and disbelief has been experienced long
—long ago. For me, content yourself; I die in the
oldest faith in the world—the faith of the Three that,
later, took its clearest form in Christ—and these Three
are One.”
Paton did not immediately reply. He didn't exactly
know what to say. These just persons who need no
repentance, whose belief is clear and unassailable,
whose ingrain independence of spirit compels them to
get over the gates themselves, instead of waiting for
an orthodox introduction to St. Peter, are eminently
trying to the professional mind. We all know there is
more joy in heaven over a repentant sinner and un-
doubtedly there is also much more satisfaction upon
earth. Paton felt a very natural annoyance; and Ave-
land—a man of keen intuition—perfectly understood
the Vicar's frame of mind, and derived therefrom
much internal amusement.
“Though I do not need your teaching,” he re-
sumed after a minute's silence, “I have not said that
I do not need your friendship.”
The Vicar's slight ill-humour vanished at these
words, and he clasped the transparent hand held out
to him.
“If I can do anythin
“For me, no. But I am leaving my child. If, when
I am gone, she should at any time need a friend?”
“I shall be only too happy to be of assistance. My
wife, you know, is devoted to your daughter.”
“Yes. I do not know a woman in whom I have
greater faith than in Mrs. Paton. I am sure her friend-
3 *


Wildersmoor 289
ship will not change. But I should like to hedge
Frances about with friends—if I could.”
There was a touch of hopelessness in Aveland's
voice. No one knew better than he the terrible un-
certainty of all things in this transitory life. Paton
opened his mouth to make fresh assurances—very hon-
est assurances too, when Fleming came in. Aveland's
face brightened at the sight of him.
“I did not hear your horse, Quentin?”
“I came by train, as I had to see a man in River-
ton. How are you, Paton? Is Mrs. Paton here?”
“No, she is at home, where I ought to be,” said
the Vicar, rising.
“Till to-morrow then?” said Aveland, inquiringly.
“I will come to-morrow,” replied Paton. “What
time suits you best?”
“Any time after one. We are expecting McKie in
the evening.”
The Vicar made a wry face. He did not in the least
intend to do so, but the face was made before his
sense of propriety awoke and controlled the muscles.
Fleming saw the grimace and laughed.
“You would like McKie if you knew him better.”
“Oh, I fully admit Dr. McKie's many fine qualities.
Perhaps I might admire his “swashing blows' more if
they did not so often fall on us poor maligned parsons.”
“I’ll tell him so. I've been trying to cool him down
as to the Church—sprinkle him with holy water as it
were—for the last ten years. But his Presbyterianism
fizzes up worse than ever.”
“He is a free lance,” muttered Aveland, “and the
worst of it is, he is generally right!”


290 Wildersmoor
But it is doubtful whether the Vicar heard these
last words.
In the larch wood Frances still sat thinking of many
things, and Malise lay at her feet and pricked his ears
at the moving shadows. Presently the little dog
sprang up with a welcoming bark and much tail-wag-
ging. Fleming was coming through the chequered
light and shade, the sunshine behind him lighting up
his uncovered head. Truly he was goodly to look
upon, and Frances Aveland thought so as she watched
his approach.
“I did not know you were here,” she said. “Have
you seen father? Mr. Paton is with him. I knew the
Vicar would feel happier if I were not glowering at
him, so I retired hither.”
“What is his latest atrocity?”
“Mr. Paton's P Nothing. We have been the best
of friends for quite six weeks. I should really like
him immensely if he did not expect me to defer to
his opinions when I expect him to defer to mine. In
short, the perpetual rock ahead of us is that he wants
me to minister to his vanity, whereas I want him to
minister to mine. You perceive it is the usual whine
of human nature. But he has not ruffled my vanity
lately, or I should have set you to worry him.”
“I am always ready to act as bulldog. Now am I
not?” -
He was leaning forward as he sat at the other end
of the rustic bench, lazily pulling his moustache, his
right elbow resting on his knee. As he spoke, he
turned and met Frances' eyes with a glance so smil-
ing, radiant, yet humbly questioning, that the answer-
ing colour flashed into her face. There was a momen-


292 Wildersmoor
She paused a moment, thinking how powerful, and
yet how powerless, was money. With Quentin aiding,
she could summon to Sandhayes every healing agent
known to civilization; and what then P Money had
but the limited power of the Genie of the Ring in the
Eastern story. He could bring much, bestow much;
yet the restoration of the Fairy Palace was beyond
his capacity. All the wealth of the young man beside
her was hers to command, but the earthly dwelling of
her father's soul was crumbling day by day, and the
Genie who only commanded gold could not stay its
falling walls.
Gold might have stayed them sooner, though. Like
most good things, the Genie came too late. There is
always food to be had when the starving man is past
eating; always warmth when the chill of death is on
the body; always peace when the spirit no longer
needs it.
“If father were not himself a doctor,” Frances went
on, “he might perhaps wish to hear other opinions.
But he has his own opinions, you see.”
“Still, if it would be any comfort to you?”
She shook her head.
“I don't think it would, thank you. I believe too
much in father and Dr. McKie to take comfort from
any stranger's ideas.”
“I think he is better to-day,” said Quentin.
“Do you? I fancied so myself. But the improve-
ment never lasts.”
She rose to her feet, and the little terrier rose also
with a prodigious yawn, glancing from one to the
other to ascertain their intentions. Were they going
together?


Wildersmoor 293
“Must we go in 2 This is one of the oases we
talked about on the moor. Let us stay in it.”
He looked up at her as he still sat on the bench,
and Frances saw in his face that mingling of conflict-
ing feeling—of some thought restraining speech, that
had now and again puzzled her during the last few
months. *
“If father were not walking in the desert,” she re-
plied gravely. “Besides,” with a quick change of
manner and a little laugh, “I am sure it is dinner-
time. Everything gives way to dinner.”
“Everything!” acquiesced Fleming, getting up.
“Scott was wrong when he made love the ruler of the
world. It isn't. It's dinner. No matter what a
civilized man may be doing, he obeys the dinner sum-
mons. The only free soul is the artist. He makes
dinner wait; thereby proving the divinity of Art. Even
the Church respects the dinner hour and arranges its
services accordingly.”
Frances laughed.
“The Church is not respecting the dinner hour
to-day. I know the Patons dine earlier than we
do.” -
“Oh, Paton went home ten minutes ago. I saw
him off the premises.”
“Then father is alone!” Frances quickened her
steps.
“Dr. Aveland said he wished to write one or two
letters before dinner,” explained Fleming.
Perhaps Aveland had wished to give the young man .
that brief interview in the fir wood. He was not
writing when they joined him, but was idly turning
over the leaves of a book. As they came in he looked


294 Wildersmoor
up with a faint inquiry—a hope in his eyes—a hope
that died almost instantly, leaving a vague trouble.
The sands of his life were running so swiftly; and
Quentin had not spoken.


CHAPTER XXVI
T was not a sad dinner. Aveland exerted himself
to talk, and Quentin was always a good compan-
ion. Seeing her father animated, Frances too bright-
ened. Surely, he must be better! So the conversation
flowed lightly on, serious subjects being tacitly avoided
—the great shadow was too near.
But when Frances had left the two men alone, the
smile died out of Aveland's eyes. He leant back in
his chair, and said, with the abruptness that betrays
serious thought upon the matter:
“Quentin, there is something in human nature that
compels a man to make a dying speech if possible.
The tightest mouth uncloses, the slowest tongue wags,
when a man knows he is facing the curtain. Silence
is often imposed by circumstances on the most voluble
of us; but when we see our order of release dated and
signed, the desire of loquacity comes over us, and we
pour out all the pent-up thoughts, feelings, and wishes
that have been clamouring for utterance so long. All
which brings me to what I was going to say—to the
beginning of it, rather. Quentin, you are very lucky
in knowing nothing of poverty—real poverty—for that
is knowledge which is not good.”
“Cash is useful,” responded Fleming, as his host
paused, “but—”
“Yes, I know what you would say; and you are
right. There is much it cannot buy. It will not give
295


296 Wildersmoor
a man what Paton calls a ‘sool —have you noticed
his peculiar pronunciation of that word P. Neverthe-
less, the absolute want of it is apt to cause extremely
unpleasant results, both immediate and later. I know,
as I sit here to-night, that I shall not live a week; and
I know with equal certainty that I die—at fifty-two—
of useless privation in the past. I am a slain man,
when I might have lived to old age—lived to enjoy
name and fame, had I possessed but just enough to
keep body and soul together in the days of my struggle
with want. The curse of poverty kills slowly, like an
insidious disease. People who have not starved—actu-
ally starved with slow, semi-starvation for years—
don't know what they are talking about when they
patter glibly about ‘endurance,’ and ‘bracing effect,”
and so on. The utmost squalor of the lower classes
has nothing to be compared with the wasting torture
of the well-born, refined genius—whether male or
female—under that iron pressure. First your health
dies, then your buoyancy, then your enjoyment of life,
lastly your capacity for action—all withered, blasted
by the fell atmosphere of worry and despair that your
poverty compels you to breathe. And the reason that
these things die in you is because of the continual
checking of healthy impulses. You have friends; you
would like to see them. But no, your clothes are
shabby; you cannot go to their houses. You have not
enough to eat; how can you entertain? And by-and-
by you cease to care. Then your ambitions—your
God-given ambition to use the God-given gift within
you—that too you must crush, for poverty does not
suffer you to choose that phase of your profession
most congenial to you. You must work at precisely


Wildersmoor 297
that which will bring in your wretched half-loaf; and
your starved brain writhes; at its unwelcome work,
and your whole soul frets. By-and-by that goes too
—the fret, I mean—and you begin dying. You no
longer care for all—for anything that makes life more
than a mere vegetable existence. You are not even an
animal, for an animal—when not tortured by the ac-
cursed beast called man—is happy, riotously happy,
over and over again. But you are a withering herb; ,
your animal spirits, your intellectual cravings are dead,
killed of necessity by the repression to which they have
been subjected; and the miserable life that yet flickers
in you is no more than a dull wonder, and a stunned
wish for annihilation.”
Aveland paused a moment, and his listener felt a
pang of shame that this man should have so suffered
for want of what he himself had had in such abun-
dance that he never even thought of it.
“If I had known,” he began, “if my father had
known xx
“Yes,” resumed Aveland, “I know what you would
say. But your father never knew. One likes to keep
one or two of one's friends in ignorance of the depth
of one's humiliations. Your father believed in me.
It was that for which I felt grateful. We had not met
for years till I came down here, and he thought my
health had kept me poor and obscure. I never told
him my health had been good till those years of starva-
tion. Most people smile derisively if one still main-
tains that if one had a chance one could prove one's
capacity. The usual reply is that if you have capacity
you will rise; your remaining at the bottom, or there-
abouts, is a sure proof that you are a conceited fool.


298 Wildersmoor
It is best to say nothing. What use to point out that
this man had powerful friends, that man a private in-
come which kept him from the bitter need that has
slain your dearest, and worse than murdered you? It
is no use. The well-fed smile, and think it cannot be
much hardship to go without a few luxuries. It never
occurs to them that you may have to go without neces-
saries. Besides, there is a very general idea that the
brain-worker ought to thrive on poverty. If you are
clever—or think you are—why, you must expect to
be poor; and it is your own fault if you remain so.
The idea is, as you perceive, a singular muddle, but
there is no doubt that it dwells in serene confusion in
the minds of most well-fed human beings, especially
when they are the relatives of the man or woman on
whom God has bestowed the many-coloured robe of
genius. Most of us have to remain in the pit into
which our loving brethren hasten to cast us, or in the
hands of the Midianites unto whom they sell us. And
we are murdered, slowly murdered, by those who re-
fuse us the trifling aid we need; who tell us to make
bricks without straw; who send us ragged and starv-
ing on a campaign that taxes the strength of the best-
fed and best-equipped soldier. Well did the old Rab-
bis say that those who had suffered from poverty should
never see hell. And why? Because they had seen it
already, endured it, passed through it. Do you re-
member De Quincey's account of his own sufferings
by starvation? He was a Lancashire man, by the
way. You don't make enough of him—a delicate
spirit, a most sympathetic and honourable gentleman?
Do you recall his confession of the humiliating pain
it cost him to pass a bread-shop with its smell of hot


Wildersmoor 299
loaves? When I read that, I feel he is my brother
indeed. There is a bread-shop at the corner of a street
that has cost me agonies of bodily longing and mental
fury at the humiliation of that sick hunger. By God!”
cried Aveland, with sudden passion, “I feel it still !
That is a memory which lasts. Whatever else one
forgets, one does not forget the hunger-pinch—nor
those who caused it.”
He leant back in his chair exhausted; the dark red
flush on his face fading, leaving him of the whiteness
of the sea-pebbles bleached by stress of storm—even
as he.
Fleming poured him out some wine. He drank it,
and resumed:
“This seems a peaceful haven in which to end my
days; it has never been peaceful to me. Had the better
luck, the trifling ease come earlier—come in time, be-
fore I had lost my wife and while I was yet hopeful—
I think I could have been a very happy man, for I
was naturally light-hearted. But it came too late. I
am deeply thankful, for my child's sake, that it did
come. With the little I shall leave her she will have a
sufficiency, as far as one can foresee the future; and
Sandhayes is hers. She never knew her parents' pov-
erty. As you know, my wife's cousin—one of those
much-scoffed-at spinsters with hearts of gold—had the
child here during our darkest days. Frances has no
idea of what I am telling you now. But in this quiet
haven I have ever tossed in spirit on the terrible seas
that wrecked me. If I had to advise one entering life
I would say—pray to care for nothing but yourself.
Your own privations you may somehow endure, your
own disappointments you may overcome, but the pri-
º


3O2 Wildersmoor
aside—what matter where she dies? A lonely woman
with money is a being to be robbed—what matter if
she starves? Therefore, Quentin, it has been in my
mind to ask you to take care of her interests. You
are rich and young, likely to live as long as she, and
your wealth and influence will keep thieves at a dis-
tance—they will fear you. I feel sure the Patons,
particularly Mrs. Paton, will do all in their power
for my child; but Paton is no man of business. I have
tied up most of the money safely enough; but she may
wish to sell this house, or other contingencies may
arise which I cannot foresee. I came here for her
sake, knowing that I must die soon and thinking your
father would be a protection to her when I was gone.
But he has gone first, and I know no one whom I
could trust save you and McKie—and McKie is an old
man. So long as he lives, Frances will not lack a
friend. But should he die?”
Aveland stopped. He had said all this in his usual
soft quiet voice; only the eager brilliance of his eyes
betrayed how much it was to him. Quentin sat look-
ing down on the table, a faint pallor showing itself
beneath the tan of his face. Then he lifted his head,
and with a sudden light in his eyes and a warm under-
flush banishing the pallor, said,
“Would you like me as a son, Dr. Aveland?”
“My dear lad, I should like none better. I should
be content to go if I could see Frances your wife.”
“I do not know that she would have me. I have
thought of it ever since you brought her back to Wil-
dersmoor. I did not speak sooner because I feared
refusal.” He hesitated an instant. “Since last winter
I have been held back by a belief that perhaps I ought


3O4 Wildersmoor
it was so, I said nothing. I suppose I was a coward.
I had no clear idea as to what I should do. Had I
found him myself I should have gone for assistance
and owned to it, but in the confusion of his being
brought to me I hesitated before committing myself
and ended by being silent. I was never once suspected,
but I may be. Or an innocent man may be, which
would oblige me to come forward. This contingency
has held me back. I have felt I had no right to marry
when at any time I might be tried for manslaughter
and convicted. I suppose it would be manslaughter—
not murder. A Woffendale jury would not hang me.”
“Considering the general opinion of your cousin,
I think a Woffendale jury is quite capable of bringing
in a verdict of justifiable homicide. They would, no
doubt, consider the provocation. What did you and
he quarrel about 2"
“Well, I objected to his coming here. I had good
reasons for doing so, independently of my own feelings
about it.”
“I also objected. My letter was found in his pocket,
I believe.”
“Yes. It was that which had annoyed Ralph. He
first spoke of it to me. He imagined I had asked you
to write it.”
“I see. What did he say?”
Fleming's face darkened at the recollection.
“I would rather not repeat it. Of course I will if
you wish.”
“No, never mind. Who was the man who crossed
the moor with Blind John?—Ulyett?”
“I think so. I am not absolutely certain, but it
must have been Ulyett. He had been at the Hall, and


Wildersmoor 3OS
we parted on the moor just before I met Ralph. The
fog was then coming on pretty thickly. Ulyett must
have lost his way, and so come across John. If he
is ever accused—if John should even happen to meet
him, and recognize his voice, of course, I must ac-
knowledge myself the one guilty.”
“Is Ulyett likely to return?”
“He will certainly return some day, and, consider-
ing the climate, he may return very soon. Besides,
Esmé Rusholme has got some idea that I killed Ralph
—how she has got it I cannot imagine—and she has
told me that if I marry she will reveal what she knows,
whatever that may be. Perhaps it is merely suspicion
on her part. I could not possibly ascertain what she
knows, or fancies she knows; it seemed to me that my
only course was to ignore her hints as beyond my
comprehension.”
“Why should Esmé Rusholme object to your marry-
ing? What concern is it of hers? I understood your
cousin was engaged to her.”
As Aveland spoke, some remarks of Nina Paton's
flashed across his mind. He and Mrs. Paton were the
best of friends, and one day after Mrs. Holt's visit to
Sandhayes, Nina—Frances not being present—had
permitted herself to express pretty freely her opinion
of Esmé Rusholme's intentions. It was possible that
Esmé might scheme to marry the surviving cousin.
“Would Miss Rusholme marry you, Quentin?”
Aveland asked, and there was visible hesitation in the
young man's manner as he replied:
“I don't know that she and Ralph were actually
engaged, but certainly I expected it, as also did others.
As for myself, I have never thought of Esmé save as


306 Wildersmoor
an old friend—we were all playmates, you know. The
idea of marrying her never once entered my mind;
she is not the sort of woman I admire. I could not
possibly marry her—not for any reason whatever. I’d
rather be hanged.”
Aveland felt answered. Quentin's evasive reply con-
firmed Mrs. Paton's surmises. The girl was playing
a bold game for the Fleming wealth. Perhaps she
really knew nothing; had only made a shrewd guess.
“Then your position is this: If you marry my
daughter, Esmé Rusholme will accuse you of Ralph's
death. Also, whether you marry or not, the innocent
man who was Blind John's companion—whether he
was Ulyett or not—may at any time again encounter
John, and be recognized; in which case you would be
compelled to confess. Is that it?”
“That is it exactly.”
“Well, as regards the second contingency, you are
tolerably safe. I think more seriously of the first:
it is an immediate threatening. Ulyett is related to
the Rusholmes, is he not? You say you parted from
him on the moor. Could he have overheard the quarrel
between you and Ralph, and have by chance mentioned
it to his relatives?”
“I have thought of that, particularly as Esmé
alluded pointedly to Ulyett when she hinted at some
knowledge she possessed. But I am absolutely certain
that Ulyett would never do anything to cause me the
least annoyance, and also I feel tolerably cértain that
he would not mention the quarrel if he did hear it.”
“Then how do you account for Esmé Rusholme
bringing Ulyett into the matter as you say she did?”
“Well, Ulyett came to me for advice that night. He


308 Wildersmoor
people are in want of money they sometimes do aston-
ishing things—is Esmé Rusholme in want of money?”
Quentin shook his head.
“The Rusholme girls have always plenty to spend,
and Esmé prides herself on petty economies. No, that
reward has nothing to do with it.”
“I was only wondering whether its withdrawal
would make any difference.”
“I think not, except that it would lessen the risk of
an innocent man being charged. As regards Esmé, I
am sure it would make no difference. And my uncle
will never withdraw it. The loss I have brought on
him has been almost the worst part of it all to me. I
don't blame myself for Ralph's death. I regret it very
much, of course; but it was purely accidental. Not
for an instant had I the faintest intention of killing
him, as I have told you. I should have struck anyone
else in precisely the same manner; and, seeing that I
never meant to harm him, I do not feel any great re-
morse for what was really and truly an unhappy acci-
dent. What does weigh upon me is the effect on my
uncle. I have not only killed Ralph; I have killed the
old man too. At his age the shock was too much. He
has not got over it; he will never get over it. At first,
I thought of telling him—I mean when he offered that
reward. Then I turned coward, and said nothing.
So he still believes in me—does not dream that it was
I. I think that if he knew the truth he would with-
draw his offer, but I cannot tell him.”
“Tell no one,” said Aveland, decisively; “there is
unspeakable treachery in human nature. Judas is the
type of the race. If you have one faithful friend, you
are happy indeed. For even if those around you are
**


3 Io Wildersmoor
“You are too good,” he said, gratefully. “If you
knew how ashamed I feel to intrude my miserable
affairs on you!”
“My dear lad, your affairs are mine if you marry
my daughter. Also, I wish to help you for your own
sake, to say nothing of my old friend, your father.
If Esmé Rusholme were married, and settled in a snug
vicarage down in Somerset, it is hardly likely she would
trouble herself about any Woffendale matter. Her
own importance in the parish would be uppermost in
her mind. Besides, she would no longer be here to
pull the strings. Of course, there is the risk that she
may take immediate action. That cannot be helped.
It must be risked. With regard to the questions as to
whether you should marry with this possibility of being
tried for manslaughter hanging over you, I think I
will not express any opinion. I cannot tell whether
Frances would accept you. I do not know what may
be her feelings towards you. If, however, you should
decide on trying your fate, I will say that it would give
me great comfort if I could leave Frances in your care.
If I were tolerably sure of a life of average length,
I might hesitate, might urge at least, some delay; but
a man who is dying, has no right to hamper the living
by any utterances of his, however well-meant and seem-
ing wise. For his death changes life for those around
him; new complications arise which he could not fore-
see, and he is not there to straighten them. Thus his
wishes and commands, meant for the best, often bring
about the very results that the dead man himself in-
tended to guard against. I cannot tell what may hap-
pen when I am gone; therefore, I shall leave my child
untrammelled by any wish of mine. I believe I would


Wildersmoor 31 I
rather she married you, even with that risk ahead,
than drift about the world alone—perhaps, at last, to
marry some man utterly unknown to me and utterly
unworthy of her.”
“I would take care of her, Dr. Aveland,” said Flem-
ing.


CHAPTER XXVII ,
ATER that evening, when the scarlet-shaded lamps
were lit—for even in June the long day goes at
last—Dr. Aveland sat writing the letter which would
give Crosier that Somerset living so entirely unex-
pected by him. When any good fortune comes to us,
we are apt to regard it as the result of our own
merits. It never occurs to us that a kindness may be
done with the object of getting us out of the way.
However, in this case it was not Crosier who was to
be got out of the way, but Esmé Rusholme; and the
curate was decidedly the gainer, for he hereby ob-
tained a snug home in a pastoral district, when other-
wise he might have waited long for a living and missed
his bride altogether.
Aveland never put off writing a letter. A troubled
life had given him that instinctive fear of the morrow
that never comes to those who have always sailed on
an even keel. And this instinctive fear was height-
ened by his illness. If the letter could in any way
smooth his daughter's path in life, there was good rea-
son indeed for not delaying by even one post. So Ave-
land wrote; and having sent what he had written to
the village post-office, leant back in his chair and looked
out of the window into the summer twilight, where two
figures now and then came in sight among the garden
trees. At the gates the two clipped yews—the boat
and the teapot—loomed darkly against the green light
3I2


3I4 Wildersmoor
windows, which on this warm evening were uncur-
tained and open, the lamplight streaming out across the
sandy paths. They stood for a moment looking in
upon Aveland as he sat in the glow of the scarlet
shades writing that last request to his old friend. He
appeared younger, happier, better, and his daughter's
heart was cheered. In after years one of her most
vivid recollections was that of seeing him sitting there,
close under the tall lamp, by the little table only big
enough to hold an inkstand and Ptolemy. For Ptolemy
was a literary feline and took much interest in letters,
observing the progress of the pen with pricked, atten-
tive ears; now and then tentatively stretching out a
silky black paw, doubtful whether or no to play with
the active quill. Against the soft yellow-brown back-
ground of the room, and faintly flushed by the lamp-
light, Aveland's features seemed to lose their pinched
pallor—to return to their natural hue as of warm ivory.
And thus seen, like a pale cameo, the antique beauty
of his face and head was very apparent. Four hun-
dred years the Romans ruled in Britain—a longer
period than from now back to Elizabeth—forming col-
onies, bringing not only Roman but Greek and Syrian
blood into the island, and that it is still a living stream
is proved by hundreds of English faces, of which the
originals may be seen on coins and busts and statues
eighteen centuries old and more.
The two without still looked on Aveland, lingering
unconsciously longer than the natural restlessness of
youth inclines. Afterwards they were glad—Frances
especially glad—that they had done so.
“He is better—I am sure he is better,” she said,
softly, as they drew away from the window.


Wildersmoor 315
“Oh, yes, he is better,” Quentin echoed.
They strolled along a path on the moorland side of
the garden, and Frances turned her head to listen to
the swish and lap that came from out the western
gloom.
“How still it is There is not a sound but the splash
of the tide, and hardly that.”
“It is nearly high,” said Fleming. “There has been
scarcely a ripple all day. As for the moor, its voice
never rises above a whisper unless a gale is blowing.”
“And then the wind wakes up the trees to talk—
yes, I know. I have always loved that silence of the
moor. I have wondered how I shall find courage to
leave it—if I must leave it. Yet I do not think I
could live alone at Sandhayes.”
“Could you live at Wildersmoor?”
They were standing at the end of the path by the
low thorn hedge that divided garden and moor. The
crescent moon had sailed clear of clouds and threw a
faint light over the wide dim blurred plain, the trees
showing but as deeper blurs in the darkness.
“Could you live at Wildersmoor?” Quentin re-
peated. “The Hall is yours and all that I have—and
myself, if you will take me. How lamely one says these
things I have thought of nothing else for months
and years, and now I cannot find fitting words in
which to tell you so simple a thing. I wish I were
a fisherman in the village yonder, who can tell a woman
he loves her by appearing at her door with a clean
face and a big fish.”
“You have often appeared at the door with a clean
face,” said Frances, demurely, “but I shall expect the
fish.”


316 - Wildersmoor
By-and-by they went indoors and told Aveland.
“I am more than content,” he said. “What can I
say to express my contentment? It is the happiest
news that has fallen on my ears for very many years.”
Quentin stayed late at Sandhayes that June night,
lingering by the white gate between the clipped yews.
The last lover who turned away from that gate was
Ulyett—a perforce silent lover, a justly-ruined man,
another fragment of human debris—so useless we say.
Yet shingle, which is but debris, helps to check the
flowing tide and affords firm foothold. Ulyett went
out into the chill December fog—as was fitting for him.
Quentin—as was equally fitting, into the summer night,
with step as light as his heart.
The future unrolled itself like the year as he brushed
the dew from the moss. Now was his summer—
flower-crowned—beneficent, with promise of fuller
luxuriance and autumn's golden fruition. In the dis-
tance of time, age, like “a lusty winter, frosty but
kindly;” with “honour, love, obedience, troops of
friends.” And so indeed it was to be. For the man
of Uz spoke truth when he said, “One dieth in his
full perfection, being wholly at ease and quiet; and an-
other dieth in the bitterness of his soul, and never eat-
eth with pleasure.” And none can tell why this or that
should be. Time and chance happen to all. Quentin
Fleming was one of the lucky ones of the earth.
Good-tempered, honourable, rich; with no especial
gifts, those jewels of God that excite the hatred of
those who can only wear jewels of earth; having none
of these, but possessing wealth, Quentin must needs
be lucky.
But Aveland—whose gifts were many, and whose


Wildersmoor 317
guardian angel was therefore of a sterner order—be-
longed to those who die in the bitterness of their souls.
To-night, however, he brightened visibly under the
cheering knowledge that his child would not stand
alone at his death. Yet he strove to read her future,
with that pathetic striving which feels the uselessness
of the effort. The years to come did not unfold them-
selves to him as they did to Quentin. With the intui-
tive doubt and dread that result from too close grapple
with the wolf, Aveland looked on the shining curtain
of to-morrow and wondered fearfully what it might
conceal.
“It is what I wished,” he said, when Frances came
in with eyes dazzled by the lamplight, and sat down
on a low stool by his chair, leaning her head against
his arm. “It lifts a weight of anxiety from me. I
hope you may be very happy, my dear.”
“There is no one like you, father,” the clear tones
faltered slightly. “But I think"—with tender jesting
—“I have taken the next best.”
“Assuredly,” replied her father, and there was a
little silence.
Then Aveland roused himself to speak of the
future, when he would be no longer present to advise.
Perhaps having unburdened his soul to Quentin earlier
in the evening impelled him to further utterance. It
was no feeling of increased weakness. On the con-
trary, he felt stronger, because happier.
“I wish,” he said, “that I could be always here to
watch over you. But that is not to be. Neither is it
the course of nature. Curious that natural events
should be the bitterest—Time, and Change, and Death.
I trust no change may come to you that is not a happy


3.18 Wildersmoor
one. Yet if it should, do not let any troubles of this
world blight your spirit. I will not speak of the pleas-
ures. Ease of life will not transform you into that
terrible type of woman whose existence has run in
such smooth grooves that she is utterly oblivious of
everything outside her own four walls—the woman
who turns down her thumb when the beaten fighter
looks up from the arena for mercy. You will not be-
come such. But even wealth and affection cannot al-
ways shut out sorrow ; and so I say to you, Frances,
if care or disappointment should touch you, still re-
main yourself. It is not fashionable now to quote the
Lord God Incarnate, yet His words remain the same,
and it is well to ponder the seed choked by the cares
of this world. I hope and believe Quentin will be a
good husband, a strong, faithful companion. Still,
if not, let his failure neither harden nor weaken you.
Strive not to become either fretful or bitter. Do not
permit the iron to enter too deeply into your soul; it
gives too dark a colouring. Remember your own inde-
pendent personal life, and do not suffer your individu-
ality to be degraded by any circumstances. Though
God died the death of a slave, He did not lead the
life of one. Let no motive of expediency decoy you
from the path you would instinctively take if you stood
alone. ‘Be true,” says the Greek proverb, “to the
dreams of thy youth.’ I think I have been true. I do
not know that they have brought me much material
advantage. That is not their office. Doubtless the
Baptist was true to the dreams of his youth—and what
did they bring him? A prison and a severed head.
That is what they usually bring—more or less. Yet
they are worth their price. Therefore I say, be true


Wildersmoor 319
to them. They preserve youth of heart, and eyes of
youth, and dew on the soul. For a woman to keep
these dreams is more difficult than for a man. The
petty details of a household are antagonistic to them;
and the marble that might have fashioned a Deborah
is broken into sharp fragments for a cemetery path—
fragments that hurt the tired feet, and are merely so
much waste and ruin. I have often thought you some-
thing of a Deborah, my Frances,” Aveland went on,
tenderly; “a mother in Israel and a ruler. I trust your
life may be as honoured and serene as hers. I am
sure it will not be less noble. I do not know that I
can give you any better advice—any advice that might
be of especial use to you.” He paused, thinking of
Quentin's confession. Should Frances be told? On
the one hand, the knowledge might save her from a
possible shock; on the other, it would overshadow her
with a dread contingency that might never arise. Her
father decided on silence.
“After all,” he resumed, “vague advice is not likely
to be of much use; and moreover, I should not like you
to remember me as prosing away about generalities on
this eventful evening of your life.”
“Dear,” said his daughter, “you could not be prosy
if you tried. Do not speak like that. Let me bring
you some wine. You look so pale!” -
In truth, Aveland did look singularly transparent.
He drank the wine, and smiled at his child's anxiety.
“It is growing late, and I am tired; that is all. I
feel better to-night—much better. Perhaps I am going
to live—who knows? God bless you, my child. Good-
night.”
Aveland was going to live—but a life quite different


32O Wildersmoor
to that which he had hitherto known; for in the morn-
ing his daughter found him dead, lying on his side,
calm and composed, having evidently died in sleep.
He was buried in the little churchyard at North
Rode, within sight of Sandhayes. Perhaps it was not
the resting-place he would have liked best—not his
native village basking in the hot sunshine, with the
white dust blowing over the roses, and cawing rooks
flapping lazy wings. But, assuredly, in that native
village his rare personality would not have received
the recognition it met with here. For all Wildersmoor
came to the quiet funeral; gentle and simple they
crowded—a grave, silent crowd—through the old lych-
gate, to pay Aveland the respect of their presence.
Many of them he knew but slightly, some not at all.
Yet they were there to show their unspoken admiration
of the stranger who had dwelt among them. Even
Woffendale sent a small contingent—including old
Elkanah Fleming—to honour the man to whom a
manufacturing town was almost as poisonous as a
relation.
The elder Fleming had signified his approval of his
nephew's engagement. “And I'll come to the funeral,
lad. It is true I felt mad about that letter of Ave-
land's forbidding Ralph the house; but that's neither
here nor there. I'll come. Frances Aveland is a hand-
somer woman than Esmé Rusholme, and you're right
to choose for yourself. Maria must be content with the
Curate for her favourite.”
So Elkanah came to North Rode, and many others,
including Granny Darlow and Blind John. And, later,
the Vicar remarked upon the largeness of the gather-
ing.


Wildersmoor 323
time went on; and culminated in sturdy liking for his
daughter—all that was visibly left to remind them of
him. So they came to wish her good luck, and her
husband too. Fleming had always been popular. But
it was Frances who had drawn the masculine specta-
tors. Her father being dead, they felt a sort of re-
sponsibility respecting her. She was left there alone
on the moor, and she had grown up among them.
Therefore the stalwart fishermen and farmers gathered
in the little church with a serious air, as of men doing
their duty, and dispersed at the close of the ceremony
with an air of satisfaction and many gruff and heart-
meant congratulations; and also with many sympa-
thetic glances towards Aveland's sunlit grave. A
pity he died so soon!—a pity!—a pity!—that was the
thought of all as Frances and Quentin came down the
narrow path. They went straight to the station, in-
tending to spend the next two months abroad.
“I hope she will be happy—I think she will,” said
Nina, watching the train out of sight. It also bore
away the elder Fleming and McKie back to Woffen-
dale, so the Vicar and his wife strolled home alone.
“Of course she will,” said Paton, with serene assur-
ance. He was quite reconciled to the marriage. Cer-
tainly he still preferred Esmé Rusholme. To his eyes
she was the perfect type of woman. But as Nina re-
fused to appreciate her many excellences, doubtless it
was best that Quentin Fleming should marry a woman
with whom Nina was intimate.
“I don’t know about “of course,’” pursued Nina,
reflectively. “When a woman has had a good and
charming father there is less chance of her being
happy in the married state than when she has had a


324 Wildersmoor
bad or ordinary one. Quentin Fleming is tremend-
ously nice, but he is not Dr. Aveland.”
“A husband is a husband,” quoth the Vicar, de-
cisively.
“Precisely. That is the point.”
“And it is her duty to place him first in all her
thoughts.”
“That is what makes it so infuriating. Besides, it's
impossible. The fact is, the average husband is a
great deal more pleasant to live with than the average
father, hence the general readiness of women to
marry. But the best husband that ever existed is
simply not in the same street with the best father.
There is nothing anywhere—no, not anywhere in the
world—to equal a charming and sympathetic dad. My
dad was neither the one nor the other; but Dr. Ave-
land—why, Cyril, I do not believe you are listening
one bit.”
“I was wondering,” returned the Vicar placidly,
“whether Mrs. Fleming would put up a stained-glass
window to her father's memory. You might suggest
it to her, Nina.”
His wife laughed.
“Of course I will, dear, and she will do it. She
will do many things for us, and Mr. Fleming shall
help us to a bishopric. We will go to Heaven in the
episcopal purple, which is a deal more comfortable
than the rags of Lazarus.”
However, it is only fair to say that Paton would
have been equally earnest on behalf of his church and
parish had he himself been clothed in those same rags,
and with no prospect of anything better.
The day wore on with its heat and light and beauty,


Wildersmoor 325
the wedding-bells ringing out joyously from the
square tower seaward and moorward. The sunshine
quivered over Aveland's grave, turned golden, crim-
son, died, giving place to grey twilight and the light
of stars, and noiseless flitting of soft moths above the
grass instead of the sound of clashing bells. . Through
those hours Frances and Quentin sped southward and
further south, and the sunshine travelled with them.
“Good luck to 'em!” said Vose, at the Grey Wolf
that evening, giving the toast. Vose was busy and in
his glory, Quentin having arranged that a dinner
should be given at the Wolf to all who chose to come;
a similar entertainment being provided at the Hall for
the women and children.
“I hannot been so thrutched sin' th' inquest,” said
Vose, with a beaming face. “Eh!—that wur a toime!
Dost thou moind it, John P. Tha did a big day's talk-
ing then.”
“Ay,” replied John, who had returned from North
Rode in a friendly waggon with Granny Darlow; tell-
ing her that she need not cook his dinner because he
“wur going to dine at th' Wolf loike a' th' rest o' the
world, an’ wur minded to stay theer till neet just to
see th' folk.” John always spoke of seeing people.
“So,” he added, graciously, “tha con go up to th’
Hall as soon as tha pleases.”
“Dost tha think,” she responded, in tones of scorn,
“as I’m going to th' Hall when Fleming hissen isna
theer? Nay, I am na that keen after victuals.”
“Victuals l’’ retorted John, indignantly, “it’s th’
company tha goes fur. I’ll not deny th' victuals helps
loike, but tha dunnot go fur 'em. Tha goes fur com-
pany,” with emphasis.


326 Wildersmoor
“Well, then,” Granny replied, with equal scorn, “I
am na keen after company.”
John pondered. He could not decide whether
Granny's reluctance to partake of the festivities arose
from pride or fear. “Happen hoo thinks hersen too
good fur th’ company,” he muttered to himself too
low for Granny to hear, “ or happen hoo knows th’
company would think theirsen too good fur her. Eh!
—that's it! Hoo's feart o' th' women's tongues when
Fleming isna by to keep ’em down.”
Herein John was mistaken. Granny was afraid of
nothing. She did not care to join in the wedding feast
because the chief actors had departed, and no one
who interested her would be present. For most of her
own class she felt supreme contempt, and rarely held
any intercourse with them. Here and there was one
towards whom she showed some slight friendliness;
Vose, for instance. Perhaps she intuitively recognized
in Vose the capacity for action swayed by strength of
feeling and generosity of mind that always aroused
Granny to sympathy. These were qualities in which
Blind John was conspicuously deficient. Hence he
never understood her. Satisfied that he had hit upon
the true reason for her remaining at home, he sat and
chuckled softly as the cart rolled on over the peaty
track, the North Rode bells growing fainter till the
creaking of the heavy wheels alone broke the hot still-
ness. No one spoke. Once the driver pulled out a
silver watch about the size of a prize tomato, and ob-
served that it was half-past three. A little later he
clambered down without stopping the plodding horse,
and gathered a bunch of honeysuckle.
“May as well ha' a posy on a wedding-day,” he


Wildersmoor 327
said, arranging it in his button-hole. “Will ye have
some, Missis?”
Granny signified assent, and the driver climbed back
with a noble handful of the sun-stained flowers, which
he gallantly handed to the old woman. In his manner
there was a certain indefinable masculine appreciation
of and sympathy with her past; and Granny re-
sponded, taking the honeysuckle with a similarly inde-
finable brightening and warmth; as when red embers
are blown to sudden transient glow by some passing
breath of wandering wind.
Then John had a spray put into his coat; and thus
decorated, the party in the cart journeyed onwards—
silent once more—to the Grey Wolf.
As the shadows lengthened, there was much chatter
and laughter at the Hall, and louder talking and
laughter at the Wolf. And a little way off, Granny
sat at her cottage-door, facing the sunset. And thus,
sitting apart and alone, she yet saw and heard more
than any of those who feasted, and laughed, and drank
the health of the married pair. For Granny saw and
heard all that was said and done, knowing well all
that would be said and done by the feasters. And
above and beyond this she saw the white moths flitting
above Aveland in North Rode churchyard, and heard
the moan of the sea and the rustle of the grass as the
nightwind stirred it; elemental voices speaking in un-
known tongues, yet neither impossible nor difficult to
comprehend if listened to in a certain sympathetic
spirit. For sympathy is the key to all knowledge whose
fruit is good. There is a knowledge whose fruit is
evil; for that no sympathy is needed. But to the
human creature who can—if only for a little while


328 Wildersmoor
—strip himself of the monstrous egotism of the race,
and with conscious atavism and sympathetic feeling,
throw himself back into the life of the dust, of stones
and wood, of wind and sea, mingling sensibly with
the elements of which he himself is a more conscious
fragment, a more complex mingling; not thinking
nor—worse still—talking about them, but simply lis-
tening thus humbly to the earth-voices—to that human
spirit will come the knowledge which is divine. He
will pass from listening to a deep understanding of
this world and the creatures therein, to a keen intui-
tion and a compassion as keen and deep; able, as it
were, to drift at will through all grades of being, from
the sea-coral to his nearer kin in fur and feather,
things that rejoice in pleasant warmth and sweet cool-
ness, in light and health—even as he.
Thus drifting, he will comprehend and love, which
will be well for him; for sympathy is the wedding-
garment, lacking which none shall stand in the pres-
ence of God. Doubtless there will be many a rent in
the garment before its owner passes in to the Wedding
Feast; for the highways are rough, and humanity is
the weakest thing upon earth. But the Host will not
be extreme to mark what is amiss. The possession or
non-possession of the garment is the difference be-
tween John and Judas.
Granny's soul-garment, it must be confessed, was
by no means in good repair. In truth, it might be said
to be in tatters, and here and there were ugly red
stains. Yet she wore the garment, and the unrent
portions thereof were fair and shining. There were
allowances to be made for Granny. A densely igno-
rant, aspiring spirit, with much about her that was


Wildersmoor 329
terrible, much that was noble. The thirty pieces did
not attract her. Gold and jewels kindled no answer-
ing glitter in those black eyes. And of how many
men and women can we say as much?
So being what she was, and listening through the
long years to the voices on Wildersmoor, Granny,
poor and ignorant, was yet able to comprehend the
thoughts and feelings of men and women far removed
from her by education and position. She had appre-
ciated Aveland, and intuitively understood that life
had been hard to him, and death hard too. She saw
perfectly the mental likeness between him and his
daughter, and resolved to champion that daughter if
need be. And Granny was no mean ally. Now that
Frances had married Quentin Fleming, Granny's self-
imposed task of protection seemed easier; only one
household for the keen old eyes to guard.
She sat long by her door that evening in the twi-
light, a solitary figure apart, while all the hamlet
feasted and laughed. Then the night air blew softly
from the sea, and Granny rose, looked up at the Great
Bear shining over her cottage roof, set a dish of scraps
outside for her neighbours' cats—she had none of her
own—glanced towards the brilliantly-lit Wolf, and
shut the door. There was no light in her cottage-
window when the revellers trooped home; but, with
the light slumber of old age, she heard Blind John's
stick tapping over the ground as her tall Dutch-clock
struck twelve.


CHAPTER XXIX
RS. HOLT had declined to accompany her
brother-in-law to the wedding. She said she
considered Quentin's choice injudicious, and she
would not countenance it.
“Please yourself, Maria,” said Elkanah, when he
started for North Rode that sunny morning; “I don't
suppose the lad wants you, or the lass either. It was
but civility that made them ask you, because you are
living with me.”
Mrs. Holt had replied stiffly that she had arranged
to spend a week at Llandudno, and should take Esmé
Rusholme with her; “therefore it is not to be ex-
pected that I should change my plans for this mistaken
marriage.”
“Take the Curate too,” suggested Elkanah, with a
wink. “What is his name? Crosier? Take him to
console Miss Esmé.”
Now this was precisely what Mrs. Holt had in-
tended doing, but that her brother-in-law should sug-
gest it, annoyed her; so Crosier was not invited to
Llandudno, and Esmé consequently had time wherein
to reflect on the trick that Fate had played her. True,
she could marry Travis Crosier, and she resolved to
do so; but what was the prospect of a country parson-
age compared to the wealth of the Flemings? Her
thin lips grew tighter and her cold grey eyes more
steely as she thought of all she had missed. Material
330


Wildersmoor 33 I
advantages were to her the one end and aim of life,
and of these Quentin had deprived her. Had Ralph
not died on Wildersmoor she would have married him.
Of this Esmé was positive. Probably she was right.
Now, having slain Ralph—according to Esmé's belief
—it was clearly Quentin's bounden duty to make full
amends and purchase her silence by marrying her; thus
giving her the house, carriage, diamonds, and general
envy that would have been hers had she married his
cousin. She was sure Quentin had sealed her cousin
Jack Ulyett's lips with that thousand pounds. Yet
she, who had lost most by that foggy night, got noth-
ing ! The longer Esmé pondered the more evil were
her thoughts. She recalled the interviews in which
she had plainly intimated to Quentin the sole condi-
tion of her silence, and his reply was—his marriage to
Frances Aveland. Therefore she would strike with
the weapon she held, and that hard. She had every
possible reason of the average dishonourable mind.
Disappointed ambition, hatred of the man who had
rejected her, and still bitterer hatred of her uncon-
scious rival—the unsleeping hate of the inferior, which
cannot be appeased by aught save the uttermost degra-
dation of that superior, and which, therefore, is so
seldom appeased.
It was Esmé's nature to go cautiously to work, with
petty lying and much scheming; so in this matter she
decided on writing to her cousin Jack Ulyett before
publicly accusing Quentin. If Jack answered, the
letter might contain further evidence. If not, the
slight delay was of no consequence.
The writing of that letter was a real consolation to
Esmé. She detested Ulyett, and pictured with satis-


332 Wildersmoor
faction his amazement and annoyance when he would
receive it. She wrote it slowly. Esmé was not an
adept with the pen, and her literary style was awk-
ward and infantine in the extreme. But her meaning
was perfectly clear. However infantine her sentences
might be, there was no ambiguity about them. She
knew what she wished to say, and she said it; with
many laments over the additional shock that was com-
ing to Elkanah Fleming, whom she revered as a
father. The gist of the letter was that Quentin was
suspected of having caused Ralph's death. In fact, it
would soon be common gossip. There was every prob-
ability that he would shortly be arrested. She-Esmé
—would feel it her duty to reveal what she knew, and
her Cousin Jack must pardon her also revealing the
state of his affairs at the time he left England, and how
Quentin had thereby been able to purchase his silence.
Then, suspecting Ulyett's admiration of Frances Ave-
land, Esmé told him all particulars of the wedding,
adding that it was “sad indeed to look forward to her
life as the wife of a convicted criminal, but when peo-
ple married for money they had no right to complain
if a judgment fell upon them.” For Esmé, like Mrs.
Holt and many others, was persuaded that Providence
ordered all things with especial reference to her pri-
vate animosities.
The letter was long. Indeed, its composition occu-
pied the spare moments of several days. One evening
at the end of the week, Esmé put on her hat to meet
the Rev. Travis Crosier, who was coming to the same
hotel for a short holiday. She intended to meet him
accidentally as it were, on his way from the station.


Wildersmoor 333
“I have a letter to post, dear Mrs. Holt. Have you
any?”
“Thank you, my dear, yes. There is a note to my
brother-in-law on the table. You are always so
thoughtful. Have you been writing to your mother
again? What a devoted daughter you are !”
Esmé did not explain the destination of the letter
she held. It would not do for the Rev. Travis Crosier
to hear that she wrote to a spendthrift cousin. As
she dropped her packet into the box she smiled and
said softly to herself.
“That will surprise Jack!”
It did. It surprised him so much that he rose from
the bed on which he was slowly recovering from fever,
and insisted on sailing for England by the next
steamer. He must go at once, he said. He would
resign his appointment; that was nothing, for anyway,
he could not hold it long. The men who listened did
not contradict him, for when West Coast fever meets
with an enfeebled constitution and a disappointed life,
the end of the encounter is easy to predict. Ulyett
had meant to drift to death out there, helped mightily
thereunto by the fever-spectre. But Esmé's letter was
a call to action, so strong that he temporarily beat back
the deadly sickness, and rose and walked ghostlike—
but his own ghost, his own jesting, reckless self. He
must go home, he repeated vehemently, and his ac-
quaintance bestirred themselves after that blessed fash-
ion which does what you wish without asking why
you wish it. Thus it happened that a fortnight after
the arrival of Esmé's letter Ulyett was afloat and
homeward bound.


Wildersmoor 335
husband so suddenly disappeared; and in like manner
the quaintly-designed hands had travelled on their
ceaseless round till they reached another hour, in
which the white angry billows cast up among the
sandhills the body of a fisherman. Still the mechanical
heart beat on quietly—steadily; what did it all matter
to the old clock? Metal is so much better than flesh
and blood. With the unvarying tone it marked the
flight of its master Time, till the grandchild, Rossela,
came under the old roof and looked up at the clock
with wondering eyes. Rossela went away, and Granny
Darlow sat alone—seemingly alone; for who can tell
what shadows peopled to her the dim interior of the
little cottage in the August twilight, made duskier by
the grey falling rain and lit only by the dull red glow
of the embers? Of what was she thinking?—of
whom?—as she rocked to and fro in the old chair.
Of the present? Of her own skill in brewing mysteri-
ous simples from the marsh-land plants for the cure
of most of the ills afflicting the country people?
Doubtless Granny was thinking of this, for she glanced
at the bundles of dried herbs hanging against the
walls. Or did her thoughts drift back to the past?—
to the “meadows of memory”? Perhaps stranger
plants grew in those shadowy fields than on Wilders-
in OOr.
Patter—patter sang the raindrops outside; ting—
tong droned the old clock; a few live coals fell upon
the hearth, glowed more redly for a moment, then
faded into darkness. The twilight deepened. Still
the old woman sat on, gazing into the fire. Presently
a footstep sounded on the threshold and a girl entered,
a handsome girl with a half-sullen, half-defiant expres-


336 Wildersmoor
sion. Granny Darlow turned her head, and said, in a
tone that expressed no surprise.
“So tha hast coom back! I thowt tha would one o'
these days.”
And stirring the fire, she set the kettle on and then
resumed her rocking.
“Ay, I've coom back,” replied Rossela, throwing
off her wet cloak, “an what o' that?”
“I know’d as tha 'd make a muddle o' things,” said
the old woman. “Tha's bound to make a muddle !”
“Tha made summat o' a muddle thysen i' thy young
days, if a folks say is true,” retorted Rossela, angrily.
Granny Darlow's eyes lit with sudden fire.
“I got what I wanted an' I wur satisfied—theer!
Tha canna say as much. It isna in thee, to start wi.”
“Anyways, I've getten brass enow to last me awhile.
I wur allus saving, so tha needna chunner o'er my
coming whoam.” - -
“Brass 1" echoed her grandmother, contemptuously,
“tha'rt th' soart to think o' brass. It wurma fur brass
as I ."
She stopped a moment and then resumed.
“Tha's getten that fro’ thy grandfeyther, that's
wheer tha's getten it fro’. Tha didna get it fro’ me.
I’d loike to ha’ seen th’ mon as would ha’ offered me
brass. I’d ha’ throttled him ’’
“Eh, well, Iloike a bit o' decent clothes to my back,
an’ decent victuals to my mouth,” returned the girl,
with a short laugh. “Tha's never had owt barrin' a
cotton gown i' summer an' a black stuff fur winter, as
wur mostly given thee. An' many's th' toime tha hast
made thy meal o' th' shore cockles, an' nobbut this owd
roof o'er thy head. I con do better.”


Wildersmoor 337
“Art tha sure as tha con do better? Dost tha think
theer's nowt i' th' world barrin' foine clothes an' vic-
tuals? Tha con think as tha loikes. Happen theer's
plenty as 'ud agree wi' thee. I dunnot hold wi' it
mysen.”
“I know’d as tha'd go on loike this,” said Rossela,
sullenly; “so I've brought thee nowt. I'd ha’ brought
thee summat smart if tha'd ha’ been civil—tha never
wur civil | *
“I wouldna ha’ touched it if tha had. Tha con
spend tha brass on thysen. It's noan th’ soart as suits
me.”
“Eh, but tha'rt a rare un to moither one!” ex-
claimed her granddaughter, impatiently. “If a as is
said o' thee is true, tha has done things as fair frighten
folk to speak on, an’ tha makes a' this fuss o'er a bit
o’ brass. I conna understand thee!”
“Happen tha conna,” with scorn. “Ay, I'll war-
rant tha conna! Tha’rt loike th' rest o' folk, only
nobbut a bit worse.” -
And the old woman softly stroked her wrinkled
hand, on which shone the worn wedding-ring.
Rossela perceived the gesture, and answered it,
“If I’d a husband,” she said, scoffingly, “I shouldna
murder him.”
“No, tha'rt reet theer, lass. It's noan thy line.
Tha'd speak him fair enow so long as he'd brass in 's
pocket as tha could get hold on ; an' a' th' toime tha'd
ha’ a chap ready to coom in at th' back door th’ minute
he wur out at the front. That's thy line lass.”
y
“There’s one in Woffendale, " Rossela, as
is asking me to go to America appen I'll
do it.”
*


338 Wildersmoor
“Tha con please thysen. If tha stayed here, tha'd
ha’ to coom down to work, an' that wouldna suit thee.”
“No, I reckon I'll do better fur mysen than to go
cockle-gathering an’ redding-up i' my old age.”
“Tha needna worrit over thy owd age; tha'll noan
live to it. Theer's nowt lasting i' thee; neither feeling,
nor life, nor nowt else.”
An angry retort rose to the girl's lips, but at that
moment the kettle boiled over, hissing and spluttering
on the hearth, and she rose to prepare the meal; while
the old woman lit the oil-lamp that stood in the deep-
set little window with its diamond panes of greenish
glass.
“Is owd Elkanah at home?” asked Rossela, after a
long silence.
“I dunnot know, an' I wouldna tell thee if I did.”
“What hast tha getten i' thy head now?” inquired
the girl.
But Granny Darlow answered not a word.


w
CHAPTER XXXI
HE sun next day beat hotly down on Wildersmoor
from a cloudless sky. Blind John sat outside
his cottage-door on this Sunday morning, arrayed in
his best, and smoking a short pipe, while Granny Dar-
low “redded-up,” and prepared his dinner. His curi-
osity was considerably aroused by Rossela's unex-
pected return, and, hearing the girl's footstep close
by him, he took his pipe out of his mouth, and said,
“Art tha going over to North Rode, lass?”
“Dost tha mean to church P Nay, I am na. Par-
sons is noan i' my line.”
“I didna think they wur,” with a chuckle. “Conna
thee set down awhile P I'd loike to hear summat o'
Lunnon. I’m a bit curious about Lunnon sin' I led
that chap o'er the moor. Tha saw it i' th' papers,
didn't tha P”
“Did the mon say he wur a Lunnoner?”
“He didna deny it. Eh, but it wur a fog, an' no
mistake l’’
Here followed a long silence. John resumed his
pipe, while Rossela, deep in thought, leant against the
doorpost. Before them was the dusty road; beyond it
stretched the moorland, now in its full luxuriance of
fern and spreading marsh-plants, rank grasses, softest
moss, and grey-green willows; with here and there a
purple patch of heather where the ground rose higher.
The burning sunbeams poured down upon the green
339


34O Wildersmoor
rolling expanse, the rippleless pools where vivid blue
dragon-flies darted to and fro among the giant hem-
locks. There was a sleepy stillness over everything.
Now and then the clatter of dishes within told that
Granny Darlow was busy. A soft-footed cat stole
across the road and stretched itself out in the hot
dust.
“Eh, but it's warml" remarked John, at length.
Then, as if following a previous train of thought, he
said, “It’s a pity tha didna coom whoam i' toime to
see th' wedding, though it wur but quiet-like, seeing
as Aveland wur dead not long sin’. Theer wur a mort
o' folk, a' Wildersmoor, and some fro’ Woffendale.
An' theer wur dinner at th' Wolf fur everybody. It
wur going on a day, an’ same at th' Hall fur th’ wo—
men. Eh, tha ought to ha’ been here, Rossela! It
wur a graidly day—it wur that! An' we kept it up,
too—ask thy grandam if we didna.”
Apparently Rossela did not feel much interest in the
wedding festivities, for she made no comment.
“Tha dunnot say owt,” grumbled John, presently.
“Tha wur allus so took up with thysen tha never had
a word fur owt else. Tha hannot told me owt about
Lunnon yet.”
“Tha likes best to hear thysen talk,” replied the
girl.
“Nay, nay, a bit o' both. Conna thee tell me sum-
mat about it?”
“Theer's nowt to tell.”
“Eh, but theer mun be. Art tha going back again?”
“Mind thy own business!”—walking away as
Granny Darlow came out.
“Eh, but I’d give summat to know where hoo's


Wildersmoor 34. I
been,” soliloquized John, as Rosselā's departing foot-
steps struck his ear. “Loike as not, hoo's never been
in Lunnon at all! Well, I never thought owt o' that
lass. Is that thee, Granny?” turning his head.
“Ay. Tha'll find thy victuals ready on th’ table.”
“All reet,” getting up. “Hold on a minute. Didn't
tha say Rossela wur i' service i' Lunnon? Hoo dunnot
seem to know mooch about it.”
“I reckon hoo knows as mooch about Lunnon as tha
does,” replied the old woman as she left him.
“Hoo wunnot say either,” muttered John, “th' owd
besom! Eh, but theer's a noice pair on 'em!”
After dinner he repaired to the Grey Wolf, where—
seated on a bench outside—he confided his suspicions
to Vose.
“Dost tha mind that chap as coom here in th’
spring P A Woffendale chap as had been awhile i”
Driffield. Gleave wur his name, an' he wur going to
try fur a job at Fleming's. He said he'd seen a Wild-
ersmoor lass down Driffield way, an' fro’ what I could
make out, hoo wur Rossela Darlow fur sure. Hoo
mun ha’ been, fur theer isna another lass hereabouts
as has left th’ place.”
“I mind well what he said,” responded Vose, “fur
I wur standing in th' doorway o' the Snug most o th’
time he wur talking.”
“Well,” resumed John, “I’d loike to ha’ that chap
see Rossela. He'd know her again sharp enow. Eh.
they're both alike—grandam and lass!”
“Nay,” said the landlord, “tha'rt wrong theer, owd
lad. Theer's a deal o' difference betwixt 'em—a deal
o' difference"—reflectively gazing over the moor.
“Fur Rossela, hoo's nowt but ordinary an' a bad un


342 Wildersmoor
at that. Theer's plenty more o' the same sort up an’
down. But theer's summat i' th' owd lass as is sum-
mat, mark you ! I dunnot dislike her mysen, though
I'll warrant them tales are true enow. Hoo's noan
like Rossela.”
Blind John shook his head unconvinced.
“Hoo'd be a noice missis fur a chap to wed, wi'
them moor pools staring him i' th' face,” he observed
significantly.
“I dunnot know as I'd mind wedding th' owd dame
if hoo wur a bit younger,” returned Vose, philosophi-
cally. “A chap mun risk summat, an' I'd sooner run
my chance o' th' pool than ha' Rossela's goings-on.
Happen it wur th’ mon's own doing mostly. Tha’rt
rare an' sharp, owd lad, but tha dunnot understond
women.”
“Eh, I dunnot want to It fair beats me to think
how th' Lord made 'em loike that—worriting an’
moithering ! They'll worrit an’ moither a mon till he
conna tell whether he's standing on his head or his
heels, an' then turn round an' say it's a' his doing!”
“They might say th’ same o' thee, owd lad,” said
Vose, with a broad smile. “Tha dunnot understond
'em—that's what's th’ matter wi' thee—tha dunnot
understond 'em!”


CHAPTER XXXII
HERE is often a point where many converging
roads meet, cross each other in seemingly wild
confusion, disentangle themselves, separate once more,
stretching away widely divergent; never again to meet
at that same point, in that same tangle.
Afterwards, those whose lines suddenly tangled on
Wildersmoor that golden September looked back to
the gossamer month of that year as the point to the
converging roads. They had all been drawing to-
wards it—all unconsciously, save Granny. But then
Granny was ever on the look-out for human tangles.
She perceived them from afar, as the seaman's eye
catches the glitter of icebergs on the swell. And she
was likely to prove a sturdy helper, because she pos-
sessed the vantage ground of the man who dodges
round the outskirts of a fight, watching his opportun-
ity to sail in and deliver his swashing blow.
Through the hot August days Granny looked after
the ways of her household, “redded up " for Blind
John, wandered about the moor gathering herbs like
another Medea, and sat at her cottage door from sun-
set till the starry waggoner had driven quite over the
chimney-pots.
It was the season of shooting-stars. Before
Granny's eyes they flashed and fell over the moor.
She believed they were rejected souls falling—falling
343


344 Wildersmoor
—doomed so to spend the ages. It was the custom
on Wildersmoor to call shooting-stars Wanderers, for
does not St. Jude speak of “Wandering stars, to whom
is reserved the blackness of darkness for ever?”
Granny vaguely contemplated the possibility of her-
self becoming one of these flashing Wanderers. She
was not possessed of that amazing conceit which
imagines itself so indispensable to the Almighty that
pardon is assured. Neither did she contemplate win-
ning Heaven by repentance. “If folk mean to repent
o' things, they shouldna do 'em,” had been Granny's
creed. Granny did not repent of her deeds. So she
watched the Wanderers glittering into sight in the
blue, falling with glancing flash as of drawn steel,
vanishing as swiftly—wandering souls with deadly
histories, seeking rest yet never finding it; approach-
ing the sweet familiar earth whereon they sinned and
died—perhaps for one brief look at the spot where they
had surely been happy for a little space. All these
were company for Granny. She knew her Bible; she
knew the life-stories of some who were without doubt
Wanderers—Athaliah, who slew all the blood royal;
the Daughter of Ethbaal King of the Sidonians; the
Women who mourned for Tammuz; the Women who
wedded Angels; surely these were doomed to the
starry darkness! She felt a sort of affinity with them.
As they were, so would she be. Neither did she
feel any rebellion against the destiny. The doom was
just. Granny had a fine sense of justice, provided the
judge was no mortal man. For the fantasy called Hu-
man Justice her contempt was immeasurable.
Rossela had gone away. The little cottage on Wil-
dersmoor was not to her taste. To live in such a


Wildersmoor 345
dwelling one must either be true poet or true peasant.
Rossela was neither. She had accordingly drifted
away, telling Granny she was going to America.
“Please thysen,” the old woman had responded.
She detested her granddaughter, but being a peasant-
woman she did not, like her betters, enjoy turning
any fellow-creature—not even a relation—out into
the world to starve or not, as chance might dictate.
If Rossela chose to stay, the cottage was open to her.
However, hard fare and peasant life were not agree-
able to Rossela, and the moor was just the moor—wild
and ugly, and gaslights were better than stars. There-
fore she departed wellnigh as suddenly as she came,
observing as she arranged her hat before the cracked
little looking-glass, that she would have a day or two
in Woffendale before the steamer sailed.
“Woffendale !” echoed the old woman in surprise,
“what dost tha want theer?”
“Business wi' owd Elkanah,” responded her grand-
daughter, with a short laugh.
“He'll send thee about thy business sharp enow.”
“Nay, he willna. He'll be glad to see me. I had a
letter fro’ him i' th' spring a-saying so. I wur allus
better at getting hold o' th' brass than tha wert.”
“Women o' thy soart con allus get brass,” retorted
Granny with truth, “an' I shouldna wonder if tha
finds a mon fool enow to marry thee. Men-folk mostly
loikes them as they con understond. What's owd El-
kanah going to pay thee fur?”
“A bit o' help.”
“Help?” repeated the old woman, “what sort o'
help?”
But Rossela was gone. Granny went to the door


346 Wildersmoor
and looked after her, puzzled and suspicious, knowing
that pursuit and question would be useless.
What help could Rossela give Elkanah Fleming un-
less in the matter of his son's death? And even in
that matter, what could she know about it?
Granny was baffled. A thoroughly base nature can
always baffle a higher, and Granny—crime-stained
Granny—was yet an infinitely higher type than her
descendant. The more she pondered over Rossela's
words the less she liked their possible meaning.
The public interest in Ralph Fleming's death was
fading despite the increased reward. Best that it
should. A revival of that interest might lead to com-
plications. Rossela's mysterious errand was as a cloud
on the horizon; who could tell into what storm it
might develope?
Early in September Frances and Quentin came
home. On the day they were expected an accident
happened at Wildersmoor station. A passenger from
Woffendale slipped on getting out and broke his leg.
He seemed ill and feeble before he slipped, said the
solitary porter when describing the occurrence. The
injured man seemed to know the neighbourhood, for
he directed himself to be taken to the Grey Wolf, and
dictated a telegram to Dr. McKie.
“I shall do very well at the Wolf,” he said. “Lift
me carefully. Better put a plank on a ladder, and carry
me on that.”
The porter accordingly went to the little inn, re-
turning with Vose and William and the short ladder
that had served as a bier for Ralph Fleming. Vose
was rather flattered by the stranger's readiness to put
up at the Wolf, and scrutinized him closely as he was


Wildersmoor 347
lifted. He was a fair man, of a reddish fairness. His
curling hair and moustache were ruddy; his eyes, of a
bright blue, had a half laugh in them, and yet were
melancholy. No doubt his complexion was once in
keeping with the hair; now it was of a deadly waxen
pallor, as also were the long-fingered delicate hands.
“Surely I have seen you before, sir?” said Vose,
inquiringly.
“I daresay. I have come over to the Hall now and
then. My name is Ulyett.”
“To be sure, sir, to be sure,” responded Vose, care-
fully raising his end of the ladder; “to be sure,” he
repeated meditatively. Then with more animation:
“Now, William, walk steady.”
“I know how to carry a gentleman,” said William,
a trifle resentfully. “I helped to carry Mr. Ralph on
this here same ladder.” -
“Mr. Ralph wur dead, tha fool!” replied Vose.
“Was it the same ladder?” asked Ulyett.
“Ay,” said William, who was a taciturn lad.
The journey was a short one, the inn being so near
the station. As his bearers passed by the Hall, Ulyett
saw over the gates a triumphal arch, glowing with the
deep tints of late summer flowers—dahlia and marigold
and purple heather—and he guessed its meaning.
“Are they home?”
Vose answered:
“No, sir, not yet. Mr. and Mrs. Fleming 'll be home
this afternoon. We put it up early so as it might be
ready.”
“I will send a note to the Hall for Mr. Fleming
when he arrives.”
“Very good, sir. William can take it.”


348 Wildersmoor
“And can I have a front room at the Wolf?”
“Certainly, sir. It's not much of a room for a
gentleman.”
“I should like it.”
No more was said till the Wolf was reached. News
of the accident had spread, and there was a small but
deeply-interested crowd round the door. Vose and
William came to a halt.
“Would you like, sir, to be carried up now? Or
will you wait awhile till the room is put a bit straight
for you? Granny Darlow 'll redd it up in half-an-
hour.”
“I will go up now. Granny can fuss about as she
likes when once I am in bed. I feel as if I had had
about as much as I can stand.”
“That's the chap!” exclaimed a voice—Blind
John's.
Ulyett turned his head as his bearers were raising
him again.
“Ah,” he said, “Blind John l’’’
“Ay, Blind John,” returned that individual, coming
forward. “That's it!—Blind John. Him as took thee
to North Rode station th’ foggy neet Mr. Ralph wur
murdered.”
Ulyett looked at John curiously, as not having seen
him clearly before; then smiled slightly and glanced at
Vose.
“I know’d I'd find thee one o’ these days,” John
continued, “I know’d—”
“Howd thy jaw,” said Vose, with decision, grasp-
ing the situation; “howd thy jaw Dost tha think an
invalid gentleman has nowt to do but to listen to thy
moitherings? Get on, William.”


Wildersmoor 349
William heaved up his end of the ladder and they
walked briskly indoors and up the staircase, John's
voice sounding after them:
“Moitherings, indeed! I'll see what owd Elkanah
Fleming thinks on it—theer!”
The front upper room of the Grey Wolf looked out
across the moor along the road leading past the Hall
gates. Ulyett had the bed moved so that he could
see out of the window without raising his head. Then
William retired.
“Will's a good lad. He'll say nowt,” observed Vose,
as the door closed and William's heavy footsteps
slowly descended the stairs. “An' as for John, it's
nobbut John's say-so, an’ what o' that! There's no
call for you to make yoursen uneasy; sir.”
“I am not uneasy. I am so near the end of my
tether, that John's recognition is of no consequence
one way or another. He is quite right. He did guide
me to North Rode that night. Have you kept any
papers of that time? I should like to see them by-
and-by.”
“I did keep a week or two o' the Woffendale Star,
and you can see 'em an' welcome.” Here Vose paused.
He felt convinced that Ulyett was the man who struck
down Ralph Fleming, but a certain magnetism was
beginning to tell upon him. Ralph Fleming had pos-
sessed no magnetism. Ulyett's helplessness; the half-
pathetic, half-humorous look in the eyes; the charm
of the voice—Ulyett had a singularly sweet voice—
these things appealed to the generosity which was a
characteristic of the landlord of the Wolf. He cleared
his throat and resumed:
“This here room, sir, is yours as long as you wish;


35o Wildersmoor
but if so be as you should feel worrited about th’
papers an' John's moitherings, there's ways o' getting
across the moor, an’ boats at North Rode that'll make
a trip to Man any day you like. I've a cousin in Man
—a farmer there. He's noan th' sort to ask questions,
an' I reckon folk wouldna ask questions of him
neither.” -
While speaking, Vose had carefully averted his eyes
from motives of delicacy. Now he turned and met
Ulyett's gaze. Vose had the instincts of a dog. He
comprehended without exactly knowing what it was
that he comprehended. Something in Ulyett's eyes
puzzled him. There was appreciative gratitude and
trust; and behind these a half-laughing, half-reproach-
ful denial that—as Vose afterwards put it to himself
—“made him think he hadna hit th' right nail on th’
head after a’.”
Ulyett perceived the vague bewilderment, smiled,
and held out his hand, saying simply—“Thank you!”
and Vose, grasping the thin fingers, fell completely
under the sway of smile and voice.
“So theer's naught for you to fret o'er, sir,” he re-
sumed, after a moment's pause. “I’ll send Granny
up here to straighten things a bit. Being a widower,
I've getten no womenfolk about th’ place.”
He went in search of Granny, and having given her
instructions, addressed himself to William, who was
meditatively polishing the pewter mugs.
“Will,” said Vose, “keep tha mouth shut about this,
Wilt tha P”
William nodded and observed sententiously, “John
willna.”
“I know. I’ll give him a talking to.”


Wildersmoor 35 I
“He’s off to owd Elkanah a'ready.”
“What!”—Vose jumped up from the massive oaken
settle.
“I see him pass in his Sunday clothes, two minutes
sin', so I went to door an' watched him to station.
Theer's th’ whistle!”
Vose dashed out at the front only to see the white
smoke of the Woffendale train as it glided behind the
Pike.
“Eh, well,” he said, coming back, “I’d ha’ given
summat fur that not to have happened, but it's nobbut
natural for a blind mon to be keen after brass. He
hasna his sight to help him. Will, tha munnot let any-
body upstairs barrin' Granny and th' doctor. I reckon
he—” with a jerk of his thumb towards the ceiling
to indicate Ulyett—“is one o' them gentlemen wastrels,
but fur a’ that I like him.”
“Mr. Ralph wur nowt to boast on,” observed
William.
“No, he wurna. An' besides, I've no mind to ha'
it said that a gentleman wur took out o' th' Grey
Wolf to be hanged. Better get out more o' them pew-
ters, William, theer'll be a mort o' customers to-neet;
what wi' th' Hall folk coming home, an' a' this
moitherin’ o' John's into th’ bargain.”
Later, McKie arrived in response to the telegram.
He saw his patient, and had an interview with Vose,
who gave him a brief and graphic account of Blind
John's doings. McKie looked grave.
“Gone to Mr. Fleming at Woffendale, has he? And
what are ye proposing to do? Mr. Ulyett is ill—verra
ill. I’m not meaning his broken leg. That's naething.
Just a simple fracture. But he's worn by fever, and


352 Wildersmoor
his lungs—weel, he'll not last long, and may go
quickly.”
However convinced the doctor might be of Ulyett's
guilt, he did not now feel enthusiastic about hunting
him down. McKie belonged to the old-fashioned
medical school. He had a friendly feeling towards a
patient, merely because the individual was a patient.
He regarded sickness and death as enemies; not as
valuable allies. A patient was to him as a smitten
friend; not a subject or a purse—or both—according
to circumstances. And being thus honourable and
kindly—that is to say, old-fashioned—the sturdy North
Briton was ready to do strenuous battle for Ulyett's
liberty during the brief term of life that remained to
him. Therefore McKie wished to know Vose's prob-
able course of action.
“Mr Ulyett seems fair an' honest about it,” Vose
replied. “He didna deny he wur with John that neet.
I’ve allus held that a mon munnot lay his doings on
other folks. He ought to shoulder 'em hissen, an’
then I'll not say but what I'll give him a helping hand.
I've told Mr. Ulyett I’ll stand by him.”
McKie looked relieved.
“I’m glad to hear ye say so. I will see Mr. Flem-
ing when I get back to Woffendale, and I'll look in
here again towards evening. That old woman, Granny
Darlow, can look after Mr. Ulyett perfectly well.
He'll not need much nursing. Only someone handy in
case he wants anything. Can she stay with him?”
“Hoo can be here most o' th' neet, sir, an’ me an'
William can tackle the day in turns.”
McKie nodded approval and departed, considerably
perturbed in spirit.


Wildersmoor 353
“Deil take the lad!” he muttered, as the train bore
him back to Woffendale. “Why couldn't he die on
the coast! I must see Quentin about it.”
Little did the doctor imagine how deeply Ulyett's
return would concern Fleming.


CHAPTER XXXIII
ARLY in the afternoon Nina Paton drove over to
the Hall from North Rode, bringing with her
Ptolemy the cat, and Malise the terrier, who had been
visiting at the Vicarage while their mistress was away.
Nina had vainly tried to bring her husband too.
“Now do come, Cyril. They will be sure to ask
me to stay dinner, and how can I stay without you?”
“Why not? If you are not back by six, I'll come on
later and fetch you.”
“Still I wish you would come. Old Mr. Fleming
will be there, and it would look better. Also they
would be pleased to see you.”
“I would if it were not Saturday. You know I
always prepare my sermon on Saturday afternoon.”
“Let it go, and read somebody else's instead,” Nina
suggested recklessly. “I knew a man who read one
of Jeremy Taylor's sermons to his congregation and
they liked it a deal better than his own.”
Even this soothing idea did not shake the Vicar's
resolution. He settled himself firmly in his study with
a pile of Christian Fathers on the one hand and an-
other pile of modern reviews on the other; and thus
Nina left him, shaking her pretty fair head.
As she passed Sandhayes the old homestead seemed
to wear an air of forlornness out of keeping with the
sunshine of the warm September day. Yet the place
was as carefully tended as ever. Perhaps the forlorn-
354


Wildersmoor 355
ness was in Nina's mind, the reflection of her own
regretful thoughts of the many pleasant hours she had
passed there—hours which could not return, simply
because they had been so pleasant. One may always
expect a return of unpleasant times. If you have
starved once there is a probability that you will starve
again. But if you have been happy once, make the
most of those memories, they are all you will get of
that kind.
Nina found Dr. McKie at the Hall.
“And how are ye, Mrs. Paton P” he asked, grasping
her hand with more than his usual cordiality. “I
thought I’d come over to welcome the young folks
home, seeing that there is nae father to do it, and
auld Elkanah laid up.”
“I am sorry to hear old Mr. Fleming is ill. I ex-
pected to meet him here.”
McKie nodded.
“It was so arranged. But he has had a good deal
of excitement this afternoon,_I'll have to tell Quen-
tin about it—and he has had a fit. At his age it is
verra uncertain how illness may end. I see ye have
brought the Sandhayes beasties with ye, and well they
look too ! Eh, but it's a sair pity to think of yon
house and the friendly times in it—all gone with Ave-
land. Some men take a deal away with them, Mrs.
Paton.”
“Yes, oh, yes!” said Nina, touched by the pathos
in McKie's voice; “life seems a great muddle, Dr.
McKie.”
“It's a' a muddle,” replied the North Briton, quot-
ing poor Stephen. “For everything ye gain ye lose
as much. But it's a grand racket after all,” he added


Wildersmoor 357
“We are both pining for news,” he declared. “We
want to know everything that has happened. Who has
got a new dog? Or got engaged? Or built a new
stable? Or any other interesting item of that sort.
Now surely, Mrs. Paton, you can tell us all about
Wildersmoor; and for Woffendale news we look to
you, McKie. By the way, I think I will go over there
this evening and see my uncle, if you will excuse
me, Frances. I shall not be away more than two
hours.”
“Shall I come too? Do you think he might like
to see me?”
“He would be glad to see ye to-morrow, Mrs. Flem-
ing,” said McKie, “but to-night one visitor will be
enough for him. And, besides, ye will be tired with
your journey. He is well looked after. Miss Esmé is
staying for a day or two with Mrs. Holt, and she is
a good nurse for a man. It’s just vanity and love of
meddling that makes her so, but it is useful.”
“I have news of Esmé Rusholme for you,” said
Nina. “She and Travis Crosier are engaged, and he
has got a living in Somerset—nobody can imagine
how, least of all himself.”
Even to Nina it never occurred that her own words
to Aveland had caused that Somerset living to fall to
Crosier. Only Quentin knew how it happened, re-
membering that last day of Aveland's life.
“So they will be married very soon—in a few
weeks,” Mrs. Paton continued in a tone of extreme
satisfaction.
“I recollect your resolve to arrange that marriage,
Nina.”
Frances Fleming spoke with the most smiling seren-


358 - Wildersmoor
ity—the most complete oblivion of the reasons Nina
had given for promoting Crosier's love affairs.
“She has forgotten what I told her about Esmé,”
thought Nina, “ or does not care—is too happy to care.
I suppose a happy marriage always stuffs one's ears
with cotton wool and ties a bandage over one's eyes,
like a figure of Justice.” Then aloud, “Well, yes, it
is my fashion of dropping people I dislike down the
oubliette. I do not in the least mind its being a pleasant
oubliette. Only let me drop them down it—that is
all.”
“A verra good way,” said McKie, “ye just smother
them with roses. Nae harm done, and a grand relief.
I can sympathize with ye, Mrs. Paton. Miss Esmé
is nae favourite of mine. I like yon cousin of hers
better, though little did I think I should ever say so.”
“What cousin of the Rusholmes’ do you mean?”
Quentin's tone was one of puzzled surprise.
“Why, yon Ulyett, poor lad! Did ye know he was
coming home? He broke his leg in getting out of the
train here this morning, and I set it for him at the
Grey Wolf. But he is verra ill.”
“Here! Ulyett here!” A dark red flush mounted
to the very roots of Fleming's hair. “Here!” he re-
peated, the flush slowly dying.
“Would you like to have Mr. Ulyett brought to the
Hall, Quentin?”
Frances made this suggestion, naturally attributing
her husband's evident perturbation to concern for his
friend.
“He would be far more comfortable with us than at
the Wolf,” she continued.
“Thank you, dear. As you have no objection, I


360 Wildersmoor
excitement. When I was called in there this after-
noon I found he had been pairfectly well till he saw
two visitors. First a woman—Mrs. Holt saw her, but
did not know her. She said she had some informa-
tion to give about Ralph's death. Your uncle saw her
in his study. What she told him naebody knows, but
when she left he told Mrs. Holt he had his finger on
the murderer, and ordered the carriage. Before he
started however, a blind man came, who gave his
name of Blind John of Wildersmoor.”
“Blind John l’exclaimed Nina.
“I suppose,” said Quentin, “John had recognized
the man he had guided that night, and came to say
So?”
“That is what I conclude,” said McKie, in his cau-
tious manner. “Anyway, your uncle was even mair
excited after Blind John's visit, so Mrs. Holt tells me.
He expressed an intention of driving straight to the
police-station, and had put on his hat when he was
seized with a fit. They sent for me, and I was there
in ten minutes—in fact, I was on my way to see him.
But he is verra bad. Age, ye see, auld age.”
“But,” said Frances, “even if Mr. Ulyett was the
man whom John guided, that does not prove him to
have killed Ralph.”
“Ye are quite right, Mrs. Fleming; it does not.
And I doubt whether a Woffendale jury would con-
vict him, especially as Ralph Fleming was nae favour-
ite. I fear, though, there is evidence enough to send
to trial. Further, we cannot tell what the woman's
information may have been.”
“Jack Ulyett never did it,” said Nina suddenly; “he
is not the sort. Besides, were they not friends?”


Wildersmoor 361
It was Quentin who replied:
“He and Ralph? In a way. Mutual accommoda-
tion. Ralph wanted a companion, and Ulyett wanted
money; and he was the better player of the two.”
He spoke with a tinge of bitterness. The time came
when the name of Ulyett was a sacred memory to
Quentin and his wife. But just then poor Jack was to
Fleming simply a troublesome friend, who had already
worked upon his—Fleming's—feelings for a consid-
erable sum, and who could not even remain on the
West Coast, whither a miracle had sent him. Yet
despite the momentary bitterness, Quentin was himself
again. Not perhaps the radiant host of ten minutes
ago, but still himself. A man may be pardoned some
little bewilderment when a chasm opens unexpectedly
at his feet. Now however, that he had seen the width
and the depth of it, had realized that there was no
getting round or over it—in short, no possibility of
saving Ulyett from arrest—why, things were straight
and clear. He must tell his wife first. That was
hard. He looked across the table at her; what would
she say? Not that Quentin feared harsh judgment or
bitter words; he knew her too well for that. But what
would she say to the immediate future?—to his trial
and the term of penal servitude which was the most
favourable sentence he could hope for? As he thought
thus, his eyes fell on the table before him, with its
soft glitter of glass, and silver, and shining damask,
half in lamplight half in twilight; for the window had
been left open and uncurtained this warm September
evening. Beyond was the rich darkness of the room,
a fitting background for his wife's beauty.
Fleming was fond of his home, and he wondered


362 Wildersmoor
vaguely how a cell and a plank bed and prison meals
would suit him. Would they at last become familiar P
—or at least, not so strange and impossible? Well, he
would have the happy knowledge that Frances and the
Hall would be here—here, ready and waiting for his
restoration. He checked his thoughts to listen. His
wife was speaking.
“I feel sure,” she said slowly, “that if Mr. Ulyett
is the man, then the death was an accident. He is
not an intentional murderer.” -
For she had been recalling Ulyett's demeanour when
he paid his late visit to Sandhayes that foggy night.
He had been his usual courteous self, gentle, saddened,
distinctly depressed, with a visible effort to appear
cheerful. It was impossible—though to be sure, there
is a great variety in murderers—it was impossible to
believe that Ulyett's general behaviour that evening
was compatible with his having deliberately killed a
friend an hour or two previously. His manner was
emphatically against the supposition.
“And I still think,” Frances continued, “that he
would be better here. As Mr. Fleming is so ill, he
cannot order the police to make any arrest.”
“He is too ill, certainly,” assented McKie; “but the
accusation can be no secret. When auld Elkanah is in
full blast half Woffendale can hear him. Mrs. Holt
will no keep silent, to say naething of the servants.
Then there is Blind John to point out the puir laddie,
so the police may take action on their own account.
Therefore Ulyett is safer at the Wolf for this reason:
ye would not know whether or when the police in-
tended arresting him. They would come suddenly upon
ye, and ye would not be able to get the lad away.


Wildersmoor 363
Now with Vose it would be otherwise. Among his
class rumour is as rapid as the telegraph. He'd know
what the police meant to do almost as soon as they
knew it themselves, and that would give time to con-
sider the best course to pursue. Ulyett's illness is a
certain protection to him, and he is mair likely to die
in peace at the Wolf than here, kindly though ye mean
it, Mrs. Fleming.”
“Well then, I will send him some things. The Grey
Wolf cooking is not very suitable for an invalid.”
At this moment Ulyett's note was brought in.
“He wishes to see me to-morrow,” said Quentin,
after reading it. “That will be better, as I may be
detained at Woffendale. Now, doctor, are you ready?
I suppose Ulyett is not restricted as to diet? Send
something round there to-night, darling,” this to
Frances. “I am sorry to leave you alone this first
evening at home. I will be back as soon as I can.
Stay till my return, Mrs. Paton, and I will drive you
home.”
“Cyril is coming to fetch me, thank you, Mr. Flem-
ing.”
“Is he? Well, both of you stay. I shall be glad
to see him.”
“No, I shall not stay, nor let Cyril do so either,”
said Nina, when the two men had gone. “We should
be simply nuisances. Meanwhile, it is good to have
you alone, Frances. I have a million things to say.
When I have uttered a quarter of them I will go over
to the Wolf and call on Jack Ulyett. I will accom-
pany the basket of dainties and shall do him more
good than they will.”
Frances laughed.


364 Wildersmoor
“Of course. I wonder how Dr. McKie hopes to
keep his patient at the Wolf a secret when by this
time half Wildersmoor knows it, and by to-morrow the
other half will. No doubt old Peter is at this moment
discussing the news with the servants, and will carry
it back to North Rode when he drives you home.”
“Exactly. I suppose Dr. McKie thought even a
gain of a few hours might be something, though I
don't see what difference it can possibly make when
the poor fellow is tied here by his broken leg. Per-
haps the doctor imagined Cyril would think it his
duty to inform the police. There he is mistaken,
Cyril would do no such thing. He would merely rush
over to the Wolf and preach repentance—that is all.”
“He would believe John Ulyett guilty?”
“Of course. That is the distinction between a par-
son and a scientist. The parson believes everyone—
either actually or potentially—guilty of every sin. The
scientist believes in no sin save one—the sin of op-
posing him.”
“I hold with the parson—all things considered.
Though it would be hard on Jack Ulyett to be exhorted
to repentance as a murderer if, as we all think, he is
perfectly innocent.”
“Well,” said Nina reflectively, “I don't know that
that matters much. If a man has not committed the
particular wrongdoing you are aiming at, it is pretty
safe to say he has done lots of other things quite as
bad.”
“Still it is not the same thing. One would not
care to be accused of anything of which one was in-
capable—theft, for instance.”
“True. I am wrong. But if Cyril hears of all this


Wildersmoor 365
he will certainly take his innings, and I do not blame
him. Most people's sins are so silly and monotonous
that it must be a real pleasure to discover a murderer
among one's acquaintances. Anyway, poor Jack Ulyett
is safe for to-night; I never preach.”


CHAPTER XXXIV
HUS it happened that Ulyett had a visitor that
evening, a visitor whom Vose ushered upstairs
with grave satisfaction and extreme politeness. The
landlord of the Grey Wolf was gratified that Mrs.
Paton should take a friendly interest in his unlucky
guest, and himself carried the basket upstairs also,
regardless of Nina's assurances that it could go any-
where.
“Happen Mr. Ulyett 'ud like to see what Mrs.
Fleming has sent him, afore William puts th’ things i'
th’ pantry,” Vose replied, courteous but resolute, edg-
ing sideways up the narrow staircase.
Ulyett was lying with his face turned towards the
open window and the dark moorland beyond. To the
left the lights of the Hall could be seen. Perhaps he
was looking at them. The room was comfortable;
rather large, with a sloping roof; a red drugget cov-
ered the floor, the walls had a cheerful if somewhat
violent paper. A lamp stood on a table by the bed-
side, and a little pile of new papers lay by the lamp.
At Vose's knock Ulyett turned his head, expecting
to see Granny Darlow.
“Mrs. Paton! How truly kind of you! I suppose
McKie told you I was here?” .
“Now do not try to sit up,” said Nina, “I am sure
you ought not. I have been dining at the Hall, and
366


Wildersmoor 369
relationship isn't my fault. Please tell me some more.
What you say is throwing a deal of light on things. I
begin to understand.” -
“There is nothing more to tell. Miss Rusholme
gave me the impression of intending to marry Quentin
Fleming, and Mrs. Holt seemed to be aiding her.”
“I’ve no doubt of it. Just what the old girl would
do. When did Esmé accept Crosier?”
“Just after the Fleming wedding. He got his living
about that time. I assure you, Mr. Ulyett, they are
admirably suited. Esmé is quite the ideal woman for
the post of Vicaress and Lady Paramount of the vil-
lage. She will rejoice in mothers' meetings, and
clothing-clubs, and all the rest of the civilized savagery.
Now, Mr. Ulyett, do not repeat that last remark of
mine.”
The light of laughter came into Jack's eyes.
“I will not, Mrs. Paton. And I entirely agree. But
uncivilized savagery is a trifle worse.”
“Is it? I doubt it. At least you need not pretend
you like it. You can thresh around, and that is a
grand safety-valve. Othello in the stress of domestic
life seems to have found solace from the recollection
that he had once beaten a Venetian.”
“I see. Yes, I admit there is consolation in beat-
ing one's Venetian now and then.”
“Your cousin Esmé will never wish for a Venetian
to beat. This present evil world satisfies her in every
respect. She will be perfectly happy, and so will Mr.
Crosier. It is an excellent arrangement.”
“It is,” Ulyett assented. “Now I perfectly com-
prehend the general state of affairs. Do not go yet,
Mrs. Paton,” Nina had risen from her chair; “I am


Wildersmoor 373
“John,” said Vose's grave voice in the doorway, “I
am na blaming thee fur what thou hast done, seeing
it wur but natural. 'Tis hard fur a mon wi' no light
in his eyes to shift for hissen; therefore I say naught
as to how tha earned owd Elkanah's money this after-
noon.”
“It wur nobbut half o' th' reward,” interrupted
John, “nobbut half | Some woman had getten half
fro’ Elkanah afore I coom, an' I'll lay my life it wur
that besom Rossela.”
“Well,” resumed Vose, “th’ half 'll make thee com-
fortable fur thy owd age, an' I dunnot blame thee,
being blind as thou art. But mark this, John, so long
as Mr. Ulyett stays here at th' Wolf, thou shalt speak
naught of him while thou art in the Wolf too. If
thou conna hold thy peace about him and his business
within these here walls, thou mun stay outside 'em.
For if so be as I hear thee speaking of him or of aught
concerning him here at th' Wolf, I'll not ha’ thee at
th’. Wolf. When he is gone, tha con chunner thy fill.
Till then tha mun either shut thy mouth while thou art
here, or go thy ways. Dost thou understand?”
“Ay, I con understand well enow,” a trifle sulkily;
“but it's all o'er th’ place already.”
“Th’ place dunnot belong to me,” replied Vose with
massive decision, “an' the Wolf does. I care nowt
what's all o'er th’ place. It's th' Wolf I'm talking on,
an’ mind thee doesna forget what I say.” .
John was not likely to forget. To be compelled to
silence on a topic of such interest was hard indeed;
but he could discuss it outside, and anything was better
than quarrelling with Vose, for exclusion from the
Grey Wolf meant social death to Blind John. It was


376 Wildersmoor
upon that evening. As he went up the wide shallow
stairs he thought various things of Mrs. Holt, and
none of them polite. The condition in which he found
his uncle did not tend to soothe him. Had Elkanah
Fleming been conscious, Quentin would have known
what had been said by the old man's unexpected visitors
that day, and so might have been able to nip all inquiry
till Ulyett was safely out of the way. But with El-
kanah lying there in stupor, what could be done?
There was nothing but to sit down and await de-
velopments.
Esmé was there, sitting by the bedside. She rose
as the two men entered, and listened to McKie's re-
marks upon his patient with a really excellent air of
deprecating attention and subdued capability, mingled
with a certain triumphant importance peculiar to wo-
men of her calibre on the eve of marriage. They have
run so many risks, have striven so very hard. For
some odd reason offers do not come readily to those
who greatly desire them; therefore it is no wonder
that Esmé and her sisters behave as though singing
the song of Hannah, “I have gotten a man from the
Lord.”
Esmé contrived to have a word alone with Fleming
before he left the house, before indeed he left Elkanah's
room, for she called him back from the door.
“I hear that I have to congratulate you, Esmé,”
he said, returning, “ and I do so most heartily. Crosier
is a capital fellow.”
“Thank you, Quentin,” with the sidelong glance
peculiar to her, and which Fleming so much disliked;
“I am certainly to be congratulated. I shall marry a
good man,” emphasizing the adjective. “But I wished


Wildersmoor 377
to speak to you about my cousin Jack. Have you seen
him 2 Of course you are aware he has come back?”
“I have not seen him.”
Esmé was puzzled and annoyed. Like all persons
of her type she was totally destitute of imagination,
and therefore not capable of seeing far ahead. From
plebeian feelings of low spite and mean revenge she
had written to Ulyett that Quentin was suspected of
Ralph Fleming's murder, and would probably be ar-
rested on his return home. Also, she had expressed
the hope that Ulyett was not, on the West Coast, amen-
able to English law, lest he should be called back as a
witness; which would be so very unpleasant consider-
ing the assistance he had received from Quentin—
assistance that would certainly be regarded as a bribe
to silence. In thus writing, Esmé had calculated on
Jack's mingled rage and dismay causing him to reply
immediately, becoming explanatory in his surprised
anger—so explanatory that the letter could be sent,
accidentally of course, to a man in Woffendale who
hated the whole Fleming family, and who, therefore,
could be trusted to stir up the police far more effectu-
ally than they would ever bestir themselves.
If, however, Jack kept silence, why then it would
clearly be Esmé's duty to mention her suspicions to
old Elkanah Fleming before she left Woffendale, lest
some innocent person be suspected. But she had
never dreamt of Ulyett's prompt return, and was
puzzled by it. Not afraid. Oh no, persons like Esmé
Rusholme are never afraid of anything. And they are
perfectly right. Nothing will ever seriously injure
them in mind, body or estate. Are they not brands
kept for the burning? Esmé was not afraid, only her


378 Wildersmoor
cousin's unexpected appearance, together with the
elder Fleming's illness, upset her plans. She must
see Jack herself and find out his reason for returning.
And she further resolved that if Quentin's guilt was
not yet common gossip it very soon should be. Still,
she wanted a few points cleared up. -
“Before poor Mr. Fleming was taken ill,” she said,
looking towards the silent figure on the bed, “he was
very excited by two people who came to see him from
Wildersmoor, a woman and a blind man.”
“Both from Wildersmoor?”
“I believe they said so to the servant who showed
them in. I was not here at the time. Mrs. Holt can
tell you. But I wish to know if Jack sent them?”
“Ulyett? no, I should say not. Impossible!”
“Why impossible?” in her prim, chilly, irritating
manner. “Mrs. Holt has heard from one of the maids
whose brother is a railway guard, that a gentleman
broke his leg at Wildersmoor station this morning,
and was taken to the inn close by. I think that must
have been Jack, and these people his messengers.”
It was a natural supposition on her part, and Flem-
ing chafed against the necessity that compelled him to
evade and dodge. Was it worth while to descend to
all this miserable shiftiness? Why not walk to the
nearest police station and give himself up? Probably
he would be compelled to do that in a day or two.
Why not now? But Frances was at the Hall expect-
ing his return, and as yet knowing nothing, and the
need might not arise after all. Ulyett might not be
arrested. So Quentin replied with a question.
“Why should he send messengers here?” Esmé
shot another sidelong glance at him.


Wildersmoor 379
“Because Jack may have something important to
communicate respecting poor Ralph's murder. I feel
sure the gentleman hurt at Wildersmoor is Jack, and
I am coming to the inn to see him, subject of course,
to Mr. Crosier's approval.”
This with extreme affectation of meekness.
“Then I suppose we shall be seeing you and Crosier
at the Hall?” Fleming edged towards the door as he
spoke. “Crosier used to drop in pretty often in my
bachelor days.”
“Thank you, Quentin, but our visit to Wildersmoor
will probably be rather hurried. We both have so
many arrangements to make,” with a simper. Esmé
was oddly old-fashioned in some of her ways.
“Naturally. Good-night Esmé.”
McKie was waiting for him downstairs, listening to
Mrs. Holt, whose conversation possessed interest for
the doctor just now. He wanted to know all that
Elkanah Fleming had said previous to his attack, and
Mrs. Holt was recollecting more fragments to be
pieced together.
“Several times he mentioned John Ulyett's name,
Dr. McKie, though what that worthless fellow has to
do with these people coming, and with my poor
nephew's death, I really cannot imagine. But no doubt
Elkanah's brain was becoming confused. I have al-
ways told him that such giving way to excitement was
positively sinful.”
McKie repeated this to Quentin when they got
outside.
“So ye see, she just knows naething,” he added,
“and so much the better. What did that hizzy say to
ye upstairs?”


38o Wildersmoor
Quentin told him.
“Weel, she's ower deep for me. There's something
she wants to see Ulyett about, and she'll not take
Crosier with her. What it is I canna guess. I have
no opinion whatever of Miss Esmé. But perhaps she
means to warn him, being his cousin. Yet it might
be the reverse; I canna tell. Shall ye see him to-
night?”
“I think not. He mentioned to-morrow in his note.
How is my uncle?”
“I think badly of him—verra badly. He's auld, ye
see, Quentin, and one canna mend that. I shall look
in there again later. Here is the station, and I’ll leave
ye now. I’ll be over early to-morrow to see Ulyett.”
“Come to breakfast, doctor.”
“Thank ye. Mayhap I will.”
Fleming got into an empty carriage and sat looking
into the night as the Wildersmoor train slowly clanged
round the Pike's shoulder. He remembered the night
—not many months ago—when returning from Woffen-
dale by that same train, he had thought over Esmé's
veiled threats, and resolved to fight to the end. Now
he was married, and were it possible, he would fight
harder than ever, for a blow struck at him must needs
also smite Frances. Yet what could he do? Let
Ulyett be arrested? Impossible. It was fate that
struck him—fate using various shapes; first the wo-
man who had seen old Elkanah that afternoon. Quen-
tin rightly guessed her to be Rossela Darlow, who
probably knew when Ulyett came to Woffendale to see
Ralph Fleming, having a grievance against him. Then
Ulyett himself; and Blind John. Surely the demoniac
spirit with which Jeffries credits inanimate nature


Wildersmoor 381
must have suddenly possessed the wood of the Wild-
ersmoor platform and the wood and iron of Ulyett's
train, that he should miss his footing and break his
leg; thus drifting to the Grey Wolf—the one house in
the world where his blind guide would hear and recog-
nize him. There yet remained the one chance—Quen-
tin hated himself for thinking of it—that if Elkanah
Fleming died, Ulyett might go free; for the police
might not care to take action merely on John's word
when Quentin did not stir in the matter. There was
Rossela, certainly. What had Rossela said? Prob-
ably all she wanted was money from Elkanah. No
doubt she had got it, and the matter would end there,
so far as she was concerned. She would not gain
more by handing Ulyett over to the police. At this
poipt the train rounded the Pike and the soft fresh
moorland air smote Quentin's face. Should he tell
his wife or not? Better not. Perhaps she need never
know. Yet in the event of Ulyett's arrest the secret
would come out barely—suddenly. Better tell her.
Aveland had heard it and had not shrunk away, and
Aveland's daughter saw all things with her father's
eyes. Here Fleming caught himself wishing for the
dead man back again. Aveland was the sort of man
to be remembered in time of trouble, as the shadow
of a great rock in a weary land of heat and barrenness.
Scarred and smitten the rock might be, but in its
shadow was rest. Quentin had not missed him much.
A young man does not miss his elders. Had all things
gone smoothly with him, the memory of Aveland
would have become as a pleasant tale that is told—no
more. Now with the threatening storm, the dead man
assumed loftier stature in the eyes of those he had


Wildersmoor 383
as theer wur no reason against it, he-Vose—had
kept it up. And he'd found it rare an' convenient at
times to ha’ a light handy.”
Fleming turned his back upon the Wolf and walked
slowly home. The Hall sparkled with lights, there
was no gloom save in the heart of its master. His
wife was sitting in the room that had been especially
his mother's. The long windows opened down into
the gardens at the back of the house, where the rising
ground of the Pike had admitted of terraces being
made. The windows were both open this warm night,
the lamplight streaming out over the flower-beds. A
curiously-mingled scent of jasmine and fern floated in
with the cool air. Frances sat reading, half in light,
half in shadow; the cat Ptolemy, on the table beside
her, the terrier at her feet. Something in the way the
light fell on her—something in the turn of the head,
reminded her husband of the last time he had seen
Aveland alive; that last evening at Sandhayes, when
Aveland sat writing between lamplight and starlight,
the cat stretching its sleek black length along the table
as now it lay by Frances; the dusk outside, the cool
air—all were the same, save that here there was no
beating of the surf, like the heart of the world puls-
ing in the gloom. For a moment Quentin wished his
wife were not so like her father. The likeness smote
him with compunction. It seemed in some subtle
manner to give her a double personality and yet to
emphasize her loneliness; as though Quentin brought
to the dead man news of evil for his child against
which he was powerless to guard her. Even as the
thought passed through Fleming's mind she turned
and saw him standing in the doorway.


Wildersmoor 385
kindly feeling between Quentin and Jack. Yet Flem-
ing was genuinely astonished by Nina's call at the
Grey Wolf.
“Did she say how Ulyett was?”
“She told me he seemed very comfortable, but ill.
Vose was looking after him in the most fatherly man-
ner, and had sent for Granny Darlow to sit up with
him. Nina and I packed a basket with various things.
How is Mr. Fleming?”
“He is not conscious. Mrs. Holt talked a good
deal. So did Esmé Rusholme, who is there, you
know. McKie thinks seriously of the attack. By the
way, he will be here to breakfast to-morrow.”
“I suppose Dr. McKie is coming to see his patient
at the Wolf. I am sorry your uncle is so ill, Quentin.
Was anything said about Blind John's visit to him.”
“Nothing of any consequence. But John himself
will talk—and others. Esmé says she shall go to the
Wolf to see her cousin. That appears a natural thing
to do, but I distrust her.”
“For her own sake she would not help to betray
him.”
“No. But she has a motive which I do not under-
stand. Of that I am sure. She is dangerous. Your
father and I discussed this the night before he died.
I wish she and Crosier had been married and gone
before Ulyett returned.”
“My father discussed all this?” said Frances, in
astonishment. “Then perhaps it was he who got the
living for Mr. Crosier. The patron was an old friend
of father's. The thought did cross my mind when I
heard of the appointment, but as he had never men-


386 Wildersmoor
tioned the matter in any way, nor seemed to take any
interest either in the Rusholmes or Mr. Crosier, my
idea seemed only a fancy. I remember that a letter
was posted that night; could it have been to ask for
the living?”
“I have no doubt it was so.” Fleming got up and
walked to the open window, looking out into the dusky
garden. He saw how Aveland's last act had been an
effort to protect his child from the possibility of the
storm that now darkened above her. Quentin turned
from the window, and sat down by his wife's side.
In times of stress, one becomes more observant.
Quentin was more sensible than ever of her grave
beauty while he strove to think of some way of telling
her the true history of Ralph's death.
“Why,” she asked, lifting puzzled eyes to his, “ did
my father consider Esmé Rusholme dangerous?”
“Because she either knew, or guessed, who had
killed Ralph. She told me so by hints that I could not
mistake. And she had a great dislike to me. Your
father knew all this. We were talking together that
last night. I told him everything.”
When anyone has lived in clear openness, having
nothing to conceal, anything secret is peculiarly dis-
tasteful. Frances intuitively felt the shadow of knowl-
edge which concerned her, and yet had been hidden
from her. Whatever it was, why had she not known
it? Then she looked at Quentin's troubled face.
“Dear, if it troubles you to tell me, do not. I have
little curiosity. No doubt my father would have told
me had he thought it best that I should know.”
“We both thought you need never know,” replied
her husband with a groan, “and you need never have


Wikiersmoor 387
known but for this unlucky return of Ulyett's. At
any moment he may be arrested—and I cannot let him
be arrested.”
“Could we not manage his escape if that is all?”
“Yes, but he would not be able to return here, and
I have no right to keep a man in hiding because it
would make things easy for me. I have been wonder-
ing for the last four hours how I should tell you, and
I have no better idea now than when I began. But
there is only one thing for me to do—”
Here, to Quentin's surprise, his wife suddenly
asked,
“If you did nothing—said nothing, would your si-
lence cause Mr. Ulyett's arrest?”
“No; but my speaking would destroy the possibility
of it.”
Frances pondered a moment, turned a shade paler—
her glowing colour had faded in the last few minutes
—a slow, dimly-felt conviction was taking possession
of her.
“How did your cousin die? And what had Esmé
Rusholme to do with it?”
“Esmé, I think, would have married Ralph, so
naturally she felt resentment towards the man who
unwittingly caused his death. That is all as far as she
is concerned. How pale you look, my darling!”
“Never mind me. You said she knew the man?”
“Well, she has hinted it. Sometimes I have thought
it merely a guess—sometimes people guess aright. I
do not know. Ralph's death was accidental. I swear
it! Don't look like that. We quarrelled, and he
struck me. I struck back, and walked away, never
dreaming I had done him any serious hurt. When


388 Wildersmoor
he was brought to the Hall I was so amazed and be-
wildered at the unexpectedness of it that—as I told
your father—I turned coward and kept silence. I told
him none knew the truth, unless Esmé's hints meant
that she did. But I could not imagine either how she
knew, or why she guessed. The man who crossed the
moof was Ulyett, but your father and I thought he
would never be identified. That is all.”
He finished with a sudden flatness in his voice.
Good voices, to sensitive ears, reveal every mood-of
their owners. It is only the toneless ones that puzzle,
because their sound is the same whether uttering harm-
less platitudes or the blackest treachery. Quentin's
was a perpetual echo of his spirit, and now took the
flat dulness of dreary expectation. For however he
might strive to show a gallant front, it is not precisely
exhilarating to contemplate one's own condemnation
by one's dearest, with the tolerable certainty of a
felon's cell to follow.
“Oh, my dear, I am so sorry for you!”
“Are you?” Fleming was young; his spirits went
up with a bound under the stimulus of these words,
and the soft clasp of a cool white hand on his hot
clenched ones. “Are you?—then I don't care a
hang!”
Here the unfortunate nature of the expression struck
him, and he flushed dark red, hoping his wife had
not noticed.
“We shall get over it,” he went on, his voice taking
its natural ring. “I shall not be away long. A Wof-
fendale jury is not likely to be very hard on me.”
“There is the judge.”


Wildersmoor 389
“Well, yes, there is the judge,” he admitted. “I
must chance that. Perhaps the jury will let me off!
Who knows?”
“Mr. Ulyett may not be arrested. Surely, Quentin,
you need not speak unless he is?”
“I suppose not. But I had thought of making a
clean breast of it at the Woffendale police-station to-
morrow. One may as well get it over. I could not
stand many more days like this.”
He spoke easily—frankly, deceived as to his wife's
real feelings by her apparent calm. -
“I hope you will not do that, Quentin. I am sure
it would be a great mistake. Mr. Ulyett may not be
arrested, may not even be seriously suspected. Your
uncle is too ill to do anything, and by the time he is
sufficiently recovered to think of these matters, who
can tell how things may have changed. As far as I
understand, there is no one to actually order the arrest,
and it is just possible that Blind John's statement may
never reach the ears of the police. I beg of you not
to act hastily. Besides, you have arranged to see Mr.
Ulyett to-morrow. He may himself have something
to say. Your uncle needs you now that he is helpless.
There remains Esmé Rusholme. Yet she may not
know. In any case
Frances' voice died away. This thing had come
suddenly upon her. She needed a little time—a
breathing space wherein to look steadfastly at this
shadow that had so swiftly arisen.
“No, I am not ill,” she said in reply to Quentin's
self-reproaches; “I am only a trifle bewildered. I
suppose it is because I have never before had anything


390 Wildersmoor
to fight against. Things have hitherto gone so
smoothly with me, and I have as yet hardly realized
this. Of course, an innocent man must not suffer, but
I cannot see the necessity for your speaking unless he
is directly accused—I really cannot, Quentin.”
Fleming stooped and kissed his wife's hand.
“It shall be as you wish. Perhaps my idea was
hasty. I will see Ulyett the first thing to-morrow. I
don't suppose, however, that he has a notion of the sus-
picion attaching to himself. He was out of England,
you know, when all the search was made. Somebody
may have sent him a paper though. Would you like
to send for Mrs. Paton 2–to stay here, I mean. I
should not mind your telling her if it would be any
relief to you to talk it over with her.”
“No, dear, thank you. It would not be any relief.
Putting things into words only makes them worse as
a rule. Besides, though I am quite sure of Nina's
loyalty, I think a secret is best kept by few knowing
it. Its possession would be a trouble and anxiety to
her, having to keep it from her husband.”
“I forgot Paton. He will probably soon know all
though in any case. I am afraid there is no way out
of it. For your sake, how I wish there were !”
“I suppose,” in rather an unsteady voice, “that the
best lives always suffer. If one looks back through
the ages, all the best men and women have suffered
much one way or another. I suppose one ought not to
cry out, thinking of those others.”
“I don't know,” said Quentin, ruefully; “another
fellow's toothache may be worse than mine, but that
does not make mine any better. However, don't you
fret, darling. I shall dree my weird and come out all


Wildersmoor 39 I
right. I wonder what sort of work they will put me
to. Stone-breaking?” He stretched out one arm
and threw his head back. “I think I could make the
bits fly!”
Frances checked him by a swift gesture.
- “Don’t, Quentin' I cannot bear it.”
“Well, darling, I won't. But the old times were
better in crises of life. Then there was always a
refuge. If you killed a man by accident, you paid a
fine to Holy Church and fought niggers. All of
which seems to me much more reasonable than shut-
ting a man up to useless toil.”
He ended with a stifled half-gasp half-groan. The
sudden exhilaration was vanishing, and ugly reality
crowded on his mind. His wife's voice recalled him
from a vision of himself in a felon's dress.
“There may be a way, we cannot tell. Let us keep
hope as long as it will stay with us, not thrust it out.
There must be a way, Quentin.”
“The only way is for nothing to happen, for sus-
picion to die out,” said Fleming gloomily.
“And that is possible—quite possible.”
The piteous eagerness in Frances' voice had never
been there before. She herself was painfully con-
scious of it, and tried to speak in more hopeful ordi-
nary tones. When a hitherto untroubled life is smitten
the general opinion is that the smiting is eminently
wholesome—especially if the smitten life is young and
of promise. Pulling at a bramble is not much fun;
but how pleasant to give an oak sapling an ugly twist
that is likely to remain, and how annoyed we are if
the sapling turns itself straight again. It never oc-
curs to us to express regret at the checking of that fair


392 Wildersmoor
strong upward life. So in like manner was it a pity
that Frances' serene aspiring existence should be thus
suddenly shadowed. That sort of thing does no good
to a sensitive nature; it is merely the twist in the tree;
a pain, a check, and a remembered bitterness.


CHAPTER XXXVII
LL through the quiet summer night Frances
thought, hoped, despaired; then hoped again:
all the while seeing clearly there was no honourable
way out of the coil save the way of confession, of
which Quentin himself spoke. When the stars faded
she rose and dressed, feeling the need of solitude in
the open—that outlying portion of Paradise which is
not closed to us. Fleming was sleeping soundly and
dreamlessly. He was quite certain Ulyett would be
arrested, consequently he had no doubts as to what
would be his own fate; and so he slept well. A vivid
imagination is not always a blissful possession.
Frances looked at him and pictured him on a plank
bed. She had never seen one, but that made no differ-
ence. Then she went softly out into the faint blue
light of dawn.
The sky was clear and growing brighter every mo-
ment; but the hour was so early that the birds were
not singing, only twittering sleepily, and the trees not
yet awake. A thin white mist hung over the moor,
obscuring outline and giving an air of fantastic un-
reality to the familiar landscape. In the near fore-
ground were the dew-laden harebells—the true flower
of the north; so delicate yet so hardy, expressing at
once the northern poetic spirit and the northern
strength; growing tall and giant-belled in the cool
north air, dwindling to pigmy size in the south. There
393


394 Wildersmoor
is as much difference between the harebells north and
south of Derby as between Great Tom of Lincoln and
the muffin-man's little clapper. On Wildersmoor the
harebells grow royally. From August to December
they swing in the free breeze—a wild tangle of soft
pale lavender-blue, changing to pure light when the
sun strikes through them, as a blue diamond glitters.
This warm September dawn the bells hung heavy
with dew; indeed they were not awake any more than
the trees. Anyone who has watched the dawn miracle
out of doors knows how deep in slumber are all things
belonging to the day till the finger from the east
touches them.
Frances had mechanically taken the moorland track
that was nearest the Hall gates. After a few minutes
she turned and looked back. The Hall, with the Pike
rising behind it, was still visible through the mist, but
blurred and shifting, the outlines lost. She sighed and
walked on, trying not to think of that which had been
her thought all night. She was seeking peace, com-
posure, the soothing influence of wild nature. Then
she would think again, and perhaps the calmer spirit
might suggest better hope.
At last she came upon a fallen tree and sat down on
it. To those who have lived close to nature there is
when in trouble even a faint consolation to be derived
from merely sitting on the rough trunk of a fallen tree.
The thing is so absolutely without aggressiveness that
its very harmlessness becomes friendly. It mutely in-
vites us to rest, and there is no treachery in the invita-
tion. We need not be on the alert to avoid a possible
stab. In time of trouble too, the observing powers
seem to be quickened. Frances, resting on the tree,


Wildersmoor 397
quality, may be twisted into a devil's weapon. There
is none good, no, not one. Somewhere in the most
splendid armour of righteousness there is the flaw—
perhaps the only flaw; perhaps, happily, never to be
tested. Yet it assuredly is there. Blessed indeed is
the wearer, and powerful his guardian angel, if the
circumstances of life are so arranged that the spear
of temptation never touches that vulnerable spot. And
blessed too are those who come out of the fight with
their armour only dinted, not pierced through.
The mist round about became thinner—more trans-
lucent, as the light of dawn grew and spread over Wil-
dersmoor. But Frances still sat and pondered, re-
pentant of that sudden evil wish, and fearing the
future. What she dreaded was possible change in
Quentin should fate compel confession. No man comes
out of prison precisely the same as he goes in. It
might be comparatively easy for him to face it now,
but how would he look back upon it? Would he be-
come embittered by the terrible experience? Would
he meet with ridicule and scoffing where now he had
only honour?
A little breeze sprang up from seaward; the lumi-
nous mist lifted—dissolved—vanished in the glory of
the risen sun; and all the world was sparkling green
and full of song and life—infinitely joyous, as the Al-
mighty meant it to be. Well indeed is it that Mother
Nature consoles by her beauty—her eternal youth; for
if she mourned with humanity the whole world would
by this time resemble a railway yard Luckily man is
not the only denizen of this earth, and his wants and
woes are by no means so important as he thinks. Na-
ture has her elder children to sustain and make happy,


398 Wildersmoor
and cannot devote all her attention to the fretful whin-
ing of her youngest born—the prodigal amid his husks.
So the summer dawn broke divinely on Wilders-
moor, as it had broken all through the centuries, no
matter what sorrow it shone upon. Still Frances sat
thinking—thinking. Blue dragonflies shot past; a
bright-eyed inquisitive wagtail ventured near, glanced
at her, and ran away with little short steps and dipping
tail—not alarmed, but disdaining to waste time. A
scarlet gleam floated by and settled on a willow twig;
it was a tiger-moth sunning its black and scarlet and
silver. When last she had seen one of those glowing
little sparks of life her father had looked upon it too,
standing beside her and repeating Keats' lines—
“Innumerable of stains and splendid dyes,
As are the tiger-moth's deep-damask'd wings.”
Memories like these bring the dead most vividly back,
memories of trivial things. Those damask'd wings
spread to the sunbeams brought her loss more keenly to
mind than aught else could have done. She rose from
her rough bark seat and looked towards the north-west
with the vague instinct that urges all wounded animals
to return to the place where they have known most
peace. Sandhayes lay northwest. It was not visible
from where she stood, yet Frances could see the old
house clearly before her. Then she realized that Sand-
hayes no longer existed. The house was there, the
empty shell; but that which had been Sandhayes—the
pleasant life warmed and protected by her father's
presence and affection—this had vanished, as had that
father himself. There was no shelter from the storm.
Nay, she herself must be the shelter; must think and


Wildersmoor - 399
advise and decide what was best to be done, without
having had any serious experience of life. Sandhayes
was gone. She turned away and walked slowly
homewards.


Wildersmoor 4C3
I never imagined I should ever return, and I wanted
to see Sandhayes once more.”
Jack uttered the name softly—lingeringly, and a
light began to dawn on his listener.
“Aveland was the soul of kindness as well as of
honour,” Ulyett went on. “He permitted me to come
to his house, and I appreciated the permission. He
was courtesy itself, the same to every guest. If he
allowed a man to cross his threshold he treated that
man as a friend. It was balm to my spirit when he
kicked Ralph out. He never kicked out me. I am
glad fate enables me to repay my debt to him in some
sort.”
A light dawned on Fleming. He began to regard
Ulyett from another point of view—from Aveland's
point of view. Certainly there had always been a
pleasantness about Jack that had won him friends de-
spite his worthlessness; had, for instance, induced
Fleming to help him at a critical time. Yet Quentin
had done that more because Jack was an old playmate
than from any good opinion of Jack himself.
Ulyett continued:
“So I went to Sandhayes, being permitted; and
then I walked to Riverton by the side of the line, and
thence to Liverpool, feeling myself a comfortably dead
man. Yes, that was it. I had died and was buried.
I had managed to bury myself at last. Thanks to you,
old fellow, I could pass the interval between death
social and death physical in Africa, instead of in
prison. There a Woffendale paper reached me. There
was an account of Ralph's death in it, and the hue and
cry after Blind John's vanished companion. I reflected
a good deal as to whether a tramp had got hold of


4O4. Wildersmoor
Ralph, or whether your quarrel had grown more seri-
ous and you and he had come to blows. In the latter
case I hoped suspicion might still attach itself to me.
Then another paper came, which told me public in-
terest in the case was dying, but that old Elkanah—
excuse me, Fleming—your worthy uncle, had increased
the offered reward.”
“That did all the mischief,” said Quentin. “It kept
people on the look out. Blind John and Rossela Dar-
low got the reward—divided between them—yesterday
afternoon, just before my uncle was taken ill.”
“Upon my soul, that blind fellow ought to be much
obliged to me! Why, I have made his fortune, and the
woman's too. I never gave away so much in charity
before. Never had the chance. Was always the re-
ceiver. Well, I was going to tell you how I came
home. A letter reached me from my cousin Esmé.
Is it permissible, I wonder, to call a woman names?
If so, how many ? And of what sort? The letter
fetched me back. No, I have not got it to show you,”
seeing Fleming about to speak. “I reflected that it
was rather an awkward document to be found on me
if I happened to die before I reached home. So I
burnt it. The gist of it was that suspicion pointed to
you, and your arrest was expected daily.”
“I cannot imagine,” said Quentin, with astonished
emphasis, “what object she could have had in writing
that. So far as I know, I have never been suspected
at all.”
“So I find. What put the idea into Esmé's head?
Was it simply a lucky shot?”
“Once or twice,” said Fleming, slowly, “she has
thrown out hints which might or might not imply


Wildersmoor 405
exact knowledge of Ralph's death. I thought they
did, and therefore ignored them. Sometimes she even
seemed to utter veiled threats. I have puzzled over
them, yet have never come to any settled conclusion.
I told Aveland that I believed she knew something of
the truth, but how she came by the knowledge I had
not the faintest idea.”
“What did he say?”
“He thought that if she married Crosier she would
not be dangerous to me, and he obtained that living
for Crosier in the hope that Esmé would thus be safely
got out of the way.”
Ulyett nodded.
“That was clever of Aveland. But he could not
know her malignancy as I do. The letter was her
parting thrust, given because you very wisely declined
to marry her.”
“How 2 ”
“There, old fellow ! Don't disturb yourself trying
to frame an evasive reply. It is extremely civil of
you, but I thoroughly understand my fair relative and
see her little game from start to finish. I should have
forbidden the banns anyhow. Now listen: Blind
John and that woman Rossela have both denounced
me, and I have practically told Vose I am the man who
struck Ralph down. Also, I have written a confession,
got Vose to witness it, and sent it to old Slough the
lawyer, with instructions to open it when I am dead.
So you see the situation remains where it was, and the
story becomes complete with the final touch of my dis-
covery and repentance.”
“I cannot permit it,” said Fleming, with a gasp of
mingled amazement, remorse, and infinite relief., “For


406 Wildersmoor
what do you take me, Jack, that I should allow an in-
nocent man to be branded for my deed? I xx
“My dear fellow, you cannot help yourself. You
must inevitably leave things as I have arranged them.
I have given you no choice, for I knew exactly what
you would say. If you, in the face of my confession,
proclaim yourself the man who killed Ralph, people
will only suppose you have suddenly gone crazy. No
one will believe you. Whereas everyone will believe
me. Ah, people always strive to impress upon one
the advantages of a good character; it seems to me
there are considerable advantages going with a bad
one.”
Quentin laid his hand on the thin waxen one nearest
to him.
“I thank you from my soul, Jack, but it cannot be.
Wearing a convict's dress would not be half so hu-
miliating to me as letting another man suffer in my
stead.”
“That's all right,” said Ulyett, lightly, “nothing
will fall upon me. I have got a through ticket to a
place where the Comedy of Errors called Human Jus-
tice is never played. My reputation is the only thing
that will suffer, and it is already so battered that an
extra dint or two cannot matter. I have no near rela-
tives—the Rusholmes are the nearest. My father and
mother died when I was a little chap. So there are
none to be troubled by my action in this matter.
Whereas you ! However, you have no choice, as
I said. You simply cannot help yourself. If you told
the truth nobody would believe you. I have observed
that is usually the case when one speaks the truth.”


Wildersmoor 4O7
“You forget Esmé knows, and probably others; for
how did she obtain her knowledge?”
“I do not think she knows. Her suspicions chanced
to hit the mark—that was all. When she hears her
own cousin is the culprit, she will not be inclined to
speak of her former ideas. As for others, there are no
others. Unless Granny Darlow overheard the quarrel.
I stumbled over her, as I told you, when I sheered off
from you and Ralph. If she knows, you can rely on
her silence. She suspects something I feel sure, and
is prepared to assist you to the utmost—even to help-
ing me out of the world if necessary. I see in her eyes
the look of the priest when he laid hands on the
scapegoat.” -
“What
“No, don't say anything to her. It is the old type.
I don't know that we have improved upon it. We
no longer murder for love or hate, but only for money
or science. I prefer the older reasons. They afford
surer footing all round.”
“We will take you over to the Hall, Jack, and nurse
you there. That woman shall not come near you
again.”
“I’d rather she did, thanks. I am not afraid, be-
cause I know my time is so short it is not worth her
while to shorten it. She interests me. She reminds
me of an old nigger woman who poisoned a Portu-
guese on the Coast. He had treated a daughter of
hers very badly. Then he got fever and sent for this
old woman to nurse him. Those fellows think that
the blacks dare not revenge themselves. I went to see
him on business, and the old negress was sitting by
2 ”


Wildersmoor 4O9
brats to the nation. Then I should not have been the
useful dummy I am. Don't mistake me; I am not
scoffing at the virtues. No man serves his country so
well as he who leaves it worthy children. I am merely
estimating the use of the useless—the tares in the great
wheatfield—the ‘pitiful rascals' who, as Falstaff points
out, are, at any rate, food for powder. That is it.
I am a pitiful rascal, Fleming, and therefore a fitter
target than you.” -
Ulyett stopped, laughed, and resumed:
“It is you straightforward fellows who get into the
tightest places. The devil owes you a grudge for not
bowing down in the House of Rimmon. And that
reminds me—is there an old-fashioned parson any-
where about here? If there is, I don't know that I
would not make his life happy by letting him bully
me a little. They love a repentant sinner. But he
must be old-fashioned. I cannot stand either the new-
fangled High Priest in petticoats and biretta, or the
bumptious Evangelical who has little Latin and less
Greek, and paints the future in the guise of a Woffen-
dale furnace. And as for the Broad Churchman—
well, we all know whither the broad way leads. Time
was when parsons were content to be gentlemen first
and priests afterwards. Is there one of that sort hang-
ing about anywhere?”
“I think Paton is a thoroughly good fellow,'
Quentin.
“I am - sure Mrs. Paton is a thoroughly good
fellow,” said Ulyett. “I suppose it would not do to
send for her as the Vicar's deputy, would it? Yet
Kinglake maintained that every man ought to be al-
lowed his Egeria.”
y
said


4 IO Wildersmoor
“My dear fellow, I will send for anybody and any-
thing you please.”
Fleming's voice was not so steady as usual. The
circumstances were not calculated to steady a man's
voice. This was such an entirely new Ulyett.
“No, it isn't a new Ulyett,” said the other, reading
Quentin's thought, “it is only the bottom of me com-
ing up. When a man is dying the effect is that of
deep-sea dredging—it brings up all sorts of unex-
pected things. I begin to feel important too. Do you
know, Fleming, I am thoroughly enjoying all this.”
“More than I am.”
“I know, and am sorry. To you it seems humiliat-
ing to owe anything to anybody. You have always
had life under your feet, as it were. But when a
fellow has been kicked from pillar to post—and per-
fectly aware he deserved it—it's a new and exhilarat-
ing sensation to find himself boss of the show.
Therefore I am enjoying myself amazingly. Don't
spoil my enjoyment by feeling things too much, old
fellow.”
“Anything you wish, Jack.”
Ulyett laughed again.
“Thank you. How surprising that sounds! But
you were always ready to stretch a helping hand. Now
tell me about Aveland's death. Was it sudden P”
“At the last—yes. But he had been failing rapidly
for some time.”
“I wish that I could have seen him again. I re-
spected him very deeply. He had great patience, and
I am afraid he had suffered much—not from illness,
but from life, from poverty.”
Fleming felt the words smite him with the old pain


Wildersmoor - 413
sudden storm. Nothing more to be feared ' And this
security, this happiness, was owing to Jack Ulyett.
Fleming turned and glanced back at the old inn stand-
ing in the sunshine. It was a curious thought that the
Grey Wolf and Jack Ulyett were for ever to be such
landmarks in life to Quentin. Great is the power of
small things. Great also the power of worthless things,
whether for good or for evil.


416 Wildersmoor
“Good!” murmured Ulyett, “‘my poor Ralph' is
good! Very good. Go on.”
Esmé shot a venomous glance at him and went on,
not noticing the interruption.
“You know all about it. You saw Quentin Flem-
ing strike him down, and you took a bribe of a thou-
sand pounds to keep silence. Justice has been delayed
by your concealment”—Esmé was rather fond of copy-
book phrases, she thought they sounded well—“it is
your clear duty to make amends by revealing the
truth.”
“Oh, my soul! What a tale! Now if you had got
it up on my behalf, Esmé, I might have admired it.
As things are, I wish your inventive powers had been
exercised in another direction. That letter of yours
hurried me home. But for it I should have gone out
quietly over there and been dropped into a hole in the
sand, comfortably forgotten. You compel me to retire
from this too respectable sphere labelled murderer in
addition to my other titles of honour. When you more
than hinted of suspicion falling upon Fleming, there
was no other course open to me but to come back and
own up. I am the man, Esmé. Blind John's compan-
ion and all the rest of it. I have written a confession
in case I depart this life before judge and jury can
decide my fate. So there it is, Esmé.”
“It is a plot!” she exclaimed furiously, her grey
eyes narrowing like a snake's, as they always did when
she was enraged. “I know better. Quentin has
bribed you to say this. I will go to the police myself
and expose him.”
“I would not, if I were you,” responded her cousin,
calmly. “As I have already been identified by two


Wildersmoor 419
desirable thing. You will be far too busy playing the
holy domestic part in Sweet Auburn to find time for
worrying your betters—meaning the Flemings. It
was really absurd of you to try to marry Quentin. I
should have felt obliged to tell him of our cheerful
little visit to the moors, and of various other trifles.
So you see, Esmé, you never had a chance of him.
Let that console you, and reconcile you to the worthy
parson and the quiet village to which he is so kindly
taking you.”
“Mr. Crosier is quite as good a man as Quentin
Fleming, and better; so if you object to my marrying
the one you ought also to object to my marrying the
other.”
“Oh no; Crosier has chosen you of his own free
will. Also, as I have said, you will make him an ex-
cellent wife. Neither of these reasons applies to Flem-
ing—see?”
Esmé did see. She perceived her own defeat. Well,
she had lost her revenge, but all was not gone. There
remained Crosier. Ulyett evidently had no intention
of disturbing the happy arrangement existing. Much
consolation was to be found in a comfortable marriage
and the prospect of being chief ruler in schools and
school-feasts, parish meetings, missionary lectures, and
perhaps—glory of glories—entertaining a bishop. All
these visions were so soothing that Esmé, relieved of
her fears respecting her engagement, rose briskly, re-
marking, “I think, Jack, you are the most utterly"
worthless man I ever met.”
“That is the general opinion, I believe,” he replied,
cheerfully; “but I think my two partners—you and
Ralph—ran me pretty close. There was ingenuity too
º


Wildersmoor 42 I
women of the neighbourhood. And, indeed, women of
Esmé's type do undoubtedly make good wives—not
good mothers, but certainly good wives. When their
first youth is passed they are old in thought and feel-
ing, and easily settle down to a routine of new clothes,
domestic trivialities, and small duties, for which they
get much praise; as the stagnant pool, though filthy,
is quiet, and by-and-by covers itself with soft green
blossoming weed. Whereas genius, whether in man
or woman, is as the sea, drawn hither and thither by
the stars; eternally young, eternally restless with the
unrest of strong vitality and quick responsiveness to
the attracting stars. This, doubtless, being the reason
why rarely-gifted men and women are seldom happy
in their marriages. Not many love the sea, its storm
and shine, its wrecks, its sunlit glancing opal, all its
beauty and mystery. Better walk by the slimy pool
and admire the blossoming weed: it is pretty and use-
ful; the tadpoles are content beneath its shadow; the
bitter salt of the sea would not suit them. There is a
use for everything in this world. Even the Helots
served as warnings.


424. Wildersmoor
his right mind and of pairfect understanding. He's a
clever laddie! I didn't think he had it in him.”
“I did not think I had it in me to do an act so
unspeakably contemptible as to save myself at another's
expense.”
“Weel,” said McKie, philosophically, “nae doubt
there's the making of a grand criminal in maist of us.
I would not trouble o'er that, lad. It's none of your
doing. How came Ulyett to know? Did he see ye?”
While Fleming explained and the old Scotchman
listened with the deepest attention, Frances was sitting
in Ulyett's room at the Grey Wolf, trying to put her
gratitude into speech that would convey one half of
what she felt and thought of the matter.
“It is not right,” she said. “We are deeply, un-
utterably grateful to you, but nothing can make it
right.”
“The world is full of wrongs, Mrs. Fleming; here
1s a wrong that does nobody any harm, and is the
only good thing I have ever done. Do not deprive
me of that satisfaction.”
She smiled slightly as she replied:
“You have put it out of my power to do that.”
Ulyett was looking his best just now. The man
was really happy. “Nothing in his life became him
like the leaving it.” To begin with, he had the reck-
lessness and insouciance of the born gambler, to whom
death is but an adverse throw of the dice. Ulyett was
one of those men who properly belong to an earlier
age. As a soldier of fortune, alternately plundering
and fighting, careless of the morrow, snatching gold
with one hand and flinging it to a beggar with the
other, Jack Ulyett would have been in his element.


Wildersmoor 42.5
There is no room nowadays for such men. They will
not learn the modern ways of plundering, and they
get into trouble. But Ulyett's good angel was evi-
dently a capable fellow, and had pulled his man within
reach of a splendid chance at the last. Jack had only
to stretch out his hand and take it. And he did. As
he said to Quentin, he was feeling himself boss of the
show. He was able to do a signal service to the
woman he admired and reverenced; and at the same
time to repay, in better coin than gold, the debt he
owed Quentin Fleming. Also, in the background,
there were his respect for Aveland, his satisfaction in
circumventing his cousin Esmé, and his gambler's
pleasure in holding a winning hand. All these motives
—mingling with a certain lazy kindliness, a dramatic
appreciation of the situation, and a vague hope that at
the Day of Reckoning this one grain of corn among
the husks might be counted to him for righteousness
—all these interwoven thoughts and feelings had ex-
hilarated him. The red rings of his hair curled tightly,
his blue eyes sparkled, his whole being radiated a sort
of amused content that sent a glow to the deathly
pallor of his face, as a light behind porcelain. It was
a kindly arrangement, either of his guardian angel or
of fate, that permitted Ulyett to be last remembered
as he looked then : a long-limbed slender man, with
strong delicate hands that showed his breeding—for
he came of better blood than his cousins the Rusholmes
—hands that would have grasped a sword-hilt well;
with ruddy locks like David the king; and bright eyes,
a little hard perhaps, and puckered at the corners; the
whole face too, a little hard and lined—scorched, it
may be, by too near approach to hell—yet kindly and


426 Wildersmoor
a trifle pathetic. This was Ulyett at the Grey Wolf;
Ulyett just before he died.
Seeing him now, and regarding him with a more
observant glance than she had hitherto bestowed on
him, Frances felt a return of the wave of remorse
which had swept over her on the moor that morning.
She had then wished for Ulyett's death, and had re-
pented of the wish almost before it had taken definite
shape in her mind. Now that she knew the generosity
of this man, knew what he was doing for her and
hers, her repentance of that transient thought became
tenfold stronger—the stronger, perhaps, because the
wish would be fulfilled. Ulyett would undoubtedly die.
A sense of guilt oppressed her and she could not speak
of it. Some confessions only give useless pain. When
that is so, the confession is best not made. Her re-
pentant sorrow went up from her heart into her eyes
and stayed there, since it might not pass her lips.
Ulyett saw the shadow and spoke:
“Do not be sorry for me, Mrs. Fleming. Indeed,
I am a very lucky fellow. I have never before been
of the slightest use to anybody. If you knew what
pleasure it gives me to put things a little straight for
your husband. You have no idea how much he did
for me.”
Here Ulyett devoutly hoped she would never know
the story of the stolen money, and how he had been
saved from a prison cell by Quentin's generosity. Few
people desire omniscience in their friends.
“Whatever Quentin may have done for you must
be trifling indeed to what you are doing for us,” she
said, remorsefully. “I am very glad—I cannot help
being glad, yet I know you ought not to do it and we


Wildersmoor 427
ought not to accept it. I reproach myself for my
gladness."
“Why should you? Let us look at the beginning
of it all. The initial fault was Ralph's, who made
himself so intolerable that no self-respecting man
could help hitting him. The result was just accident—
ill-luck—the natural tendency of things to go crooked
for people who are not so. Had I hit Ralph, nothing
would have happened. As you see, those same crooked
things have turned out well for me, giving me a pleas-
ure of which I am wholly unworthy. Your gladness,
Mrs. Fleming, cannot equal mine.”
She shook her head. There seemed nothing for her
to say. She could not urge his removal to the Hall
in the face of the fact that he was less safe there than
at the Grey Wolf. She could not express a wish to
nurse him back to health when she knew that, humanly
speaking, his recovery was well-nigh impossible; and
that if he did recover, it would be to stand his trial
for a blow he had never struck. Convenient, conven-
tional, pretty lies, did not come naturally to Frances.
She could but wish, with all her heart, that this miser-
able coil had never been twisted. And of what use
was that? The terrible clear-sightedness that had led
her on Wildersmoor to perceive the one way to smooth
all, compelled her even now to see it. Ulyett's death
was the only way out of the tangle. She had told him
his generous self-sacrifice had made her glad. So it
had, in the sense of relief. She need no longer fear
the future for Quentin. Yet as all things bring their
shadows with them, this relief brought its abiding
shadow, the perpetual acquiescence in a lie; a position
wellnigh intolerable to Aveland's daughter, All her


432 Wildersmoor
Which fell exquisitely on Jack's ears. But he an-
swered with his customary light soft gaiety:
“Did I not say I should be scared if I heard that I
should meet with justice? Believe me, I am nothing,
Mrs. Fleming, nothing worth your attention for one
moment. You and your father made me very happy,
wholly undeserved happiness. And I am happy now.
Undeservedly so again.”
“You will try to get well?” she said, almost im-
ploringly, completely forgetting for the moment what
awaited them all if he did get well.
“I doubt whether I should succeed! Better not. I
shall never have another such chance of departing this
life in peace. My star is just now in the ascendant.
Best not wait for its inevitable declination.”
Modern women do not weep. The facile tearful-
ness of old has vanished before freedom. But it was
with a distinct effort that Frances spoke again:
“We will not lose you if anything can save. Quen-
tin is coming to sit with you to-night. He thinks
Granny Darlow is too old. So he and Vose will take
turns.”
“Fleming is very good. I can assure him, though,
that Granny is capable as though she was twenty—
more so, in fact.. I must not be a burden to you.”
“No burden, as you know. I must go now. I will
come again to-morrow, and try to thank you.”
“I am more than thanked by your coming to-day.”
Frances shook her head and smiled, held out her
hand to him and looked round the room to see what
more she could send for his comfort, begging him to
say what he would like. Whereupon he protested there
was nothing he needed; he had all he wished.


Wildersmoor 433
Left alone, Ulyett turned to the window, whence he
could see the road to the Hall. He watched Frances
walking home in the gold of the evening sunshine,
saw Quentin meet her at the gates, then the curve
of the drive hid them both from Jack's sight.


CHAPTER XLI
HEN Vose came in a little later to know his
guest's pleasure concerning dinner, he was
struck by an indefinable change in Ulyett. He seemed
to have suddenly become more transparent, more
pinched about the features.
“Are you not feeling so well, sir?” Wose inquired.
“Because theer's William to go up to th' Hall any
minute fur Dr. McKie. He's dining theer to-night.”
“Oh, I'm all right thank you. Much the same as
usual. Where is Granny Darlow'?”
“Hoo's nigh if so be as you want her, sir. But
Mr. Quentin said he'd coom hissen an' sit with you
to-night. He didna seem to think much o' Granny fur
sitting up. Not but what hoo's wick enow,” added
Vose. He always stood up for Granny.
“I should like to see the old woman for a few min-
utes.”
“I’ll send her up, sir.”
The landlord was edging out of the narrow door
when Ulyett stopped him by suddenly asking, “Vose,
where shall I be buried ?”
The unexpected question was not startling to Vose.
As a true northern man, he held a certain solicitude
about the place of one's burial to be decent and fitting.
He stroked his chin meditatively.
“Well, sir, I reckon that's as you please.”
434


43 6 wildersmoor
missis could tell thee. Th’ bird 'll wait till I’ve filled
my pipe.”
He rammed the tobacco down with his finger, lit it
with a live coal in the tongs, pulled his chair in front
of the fire, turned up his sleeves, and proceeded to
baste the fowl with a dexterity that threw William's
skill into the shade.
Granny had gone cockle-gathering, but might be
home any minute; so William heard from a neighbour.
“That's as well,” said Vose, “fur if theer's any
more talking to be done it's time Mr. Ulyett had sum-
mat to eat first. He's getten a look as worrits me.”
“Happen this 'll fettle him a bit,” observed the
poacher, referring to the sizzling bird.
He turned his head as he spoke to look at a stranger
who was entering, a smooth-shaven, rather heavy-look-
ing man; who ordered ale, and then inquired whether
he could lodge there for a day or two. At this, Poach-
ing Jim half-turned in his chair, caught Vose's eye,
made a rapid circle round his own wrists behind the
new-comer's back, and resumed his care of the fowl.
William pensively seated himself on the bottom step of
the narrow staircase that rose straight out of the living-
room.
“I’ve got noan room fur lodgers,” Vose answered,
a trifle surlily. “I dunnot care about 'em.”
“There's a saying about Woffendale that you've got
one anyways, an invalid gentleman that Blind John
knows. Of course, it's the duty of the police to find
Mr. Ralph Fleming's murderer, so I thought I’d come
here and keep an eye on him without inconveniencing
you, Mr. Vose.”
“I conna say what Blind John may ha’ said or not


438 Wildersmoor
“All right,” said the man, finishing his ale, “most
like I'll be here to-morrow.” He sauntered out of the
Wolf, looked round hesitatingly, then set off towards
the station.
“He'll just catch the Woffendale train,” said the
poacher. “I’ll go an' ask th’ porter if he went by it.”
“Who's the chap? Police?” inquired Vose.
“Nay, he just touts for 'em. Ferrets about an’
brings 'em news. Saves them trouble an' gets summat
fur his. He's keen on rewards. I reckon he's mad at
losing owd Elkanah's. Happen he thought th' owd
chap would give him something if he helped to nab
th’ gentleman.”
“I wish I'd helped him out with my foot!” said
Vose, regretfully. “Why didn't thee think on 't, Wil-
liam P.”
“I did,” replied William, “but I wur feart o' leav-
ing th' stair.”
“Ne'er mind,” said the poacher, “I’ll wring's neck
one o' these days. I'm pretty sure it wur him that
set keepers on to me last toime. What art tha going
to do about th’ gentleman? Theer's th' hut on th’
moor. We might put him theer till we see whether th’
chap brings th’ police here or no in th’ morning.”
“Th’ sea is like a pond this weather, an a boat
would take him to Man safe enow,” replied Vose.
“I’ll up to the Hall an’ see Mr. Quentin about it.”
But when Vose got there he was met by the news
that Fleming and McKie had gone to Woffendale in
the train that had just left the station with the self-
constituted detective in it.
“I wanted to see Mr. Fleming,” said Vose.
He would be back by ten, the servant said. He had


Wildersmoor 439
gone because a telegram had come to say the old gen-
tleman was dead.
“What!—owd Elkanah l’ exclaimed Vose. This
was wholly unexpected. He pondered a moment, then
said, “You needna tell Mrs. Fleming I came. Theer's
no call to disturb her. I'll see Mr. Fleming later.
Tell him I’ve been here.”
And Vose returned to the Grey Wolf with the news.
“That'll settle th' detective chap most like,” said
the poacher.
“I dunno,” said William. “He conna get owt from
Elkanah now, but he might get summat from police.
Me an' Jim's been thinking,” he continued, addressing
Vose, “that if so be as th’ police coom, we might carry
Mr. Ulyett out at th' back to Granny Darlow's till we
could get him off i' th' neet.”
“Ay, that's a good thought. We'll do it. Has
Granny come?”
She had arrived a minute ago and was upstairs, sit-
ting motionless by Ulyett's bedside. He had asked for
his purse, and was looking into it with an expression
of careless dismay. The last few hours had changed
him greatly. The glow had faded out of his face, leav-
ing it pinched and waxen; his voice, too, was weaker.
“Upon my soul,” he said, with his old vivacity,
“there's not enough cash to bury me decently Well,
I've been dipping into other people's pockets all my
life, and it is evident I shall keep it up to the end.
Granny, there's a pound or two for you, with thanks
for your care of me, and yet more thanks for not ad-
ministering that little dose you thought of. You see
there is no need of it.”
“Thou art a good pluck'd un! I shouldna ha’


Wildersmoor 443
as the reward was paid by Mr. Fleming senior, prov-
ing that he at least, was satisfied respecting the evi-
dence. Probably, had Elkanah Fleming lived, we
should have heard more; but as both he and Ulyett
are dead, I think Quentin Fleming is right in letting
the matter drop as much as possible. It must be
very painful for the Rusholmes, and any other relatives
Ulyett may have.”
“I shall never believe Jack Ulyett did it,” said Nina.
“That is nonsense, my dear.”
“Who is to decide what is nonsense? You recollect
Falstaff P ‘Instinct is a great matter. I was a coward
upon instinct.’ I am a believer upon instinct.”
“Only because you happened to like the man.”
“Because I liked the man I understand him better.
I am not sure that one can ever understand a thing
one does not like.”
The Vicar mused.
“That may be so. But I rather liked Ulyett myself.”
“And yet you believe him guilty?”
“And yet I believe him guilty. He must be, or he
would have denied it. He knew he was suspected.”
“I am not sure of that. He may have had some
reason for silence.”
“Mere fancies of yours, Nina. There is no secret
whatever now that Ulyett has been recognized as the
stranger. That was the only secret in the sad affair.”
“My dear Cyril, for thousands of years you men
have been trying to keep secrets from us, and we have
been trying to find them out. Which process do you
think is the more likely to sharpen the perceptions? I
tell you a woman can smell a secret as a seaman smells
ice, though neither can describe how they do it. There
*


A Wholesome, Thrilling Story
Dwellers in the Hills
By
Melville Davisson Post
Author of “The Strange Schemes of Randolph Mason,”
“The Man of Last Resort,” etc.
SOME COMMENTS
“Who does not love a horse? Here is a story chiefly about
horses, but not a little about scenery. . . The author's vig-
orous style well reflects a man's mature but always ardent pas-
sion for nature. Mr. Post's virile, terse, clean-cut sentences are,
with appropriateness, printed clearly.”—The Outlook.
“Mr. Post has written a story that is fresh and wholesome and
quite as full of adventure as the average reader can demand.
He impresses upon his reader with consummate skill the strong
fascinations that the mountains have for men who, like the
writer, have spent many years of their lives among them.”—
N. Y. Journal.
“The ‘Dwellers in the Hills' promises to strike a new note
in the fiction of our country.”—Commercial Advertiser.
“It is evidently largely based upon personal experience, for
no one could well evolve from his unaided imagination such
realistic incidents, so strongly tinged with local color. The
dash for the possession of the cattle . . is vividly described and
is very suggestive of some of the wild scenes in ‘Lorna Doone.”
Mr. Post has entered a new field in literature and we trust he
will exploit it thoroughly.”—Cambridge Tribune.
2d Impression Cloth, 12°, 276 pp., $1.25
G. P. PUTNAM'S SONS
New York London