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THE
MARRIAGE LINES



By the Same Author

PERRIS OF THE CHERRY
TREES
THE FINE AIR OF MORN-
ING
THE TOWN OF CROOKED
WAYS
I’D VENTURE ALL FOR
THEE!
THE HARVEST MOON
MR. POSKITT
ETC., ETC.
PRICE Bs.
EVELEIGH NASH, LONDON


THE
MARRIAGE LINES
BY
J. S. FLETCHER
LONDON
EVELEIGH NASH
1914


8E2;
FQBANUL
CONTENTS
PART ONE
THE GREY SHADOW
PART TWO
THE THORN BRAKE
PART THREE
ecu/W
THE LAW: AND HUMAN NATURE
QJLy fl04jkc $
jW/I-u/
U
PAGE
II
117
223







PART I
THE GREY SHADOW





I
MARTIN MUSCROFT, the tenant of the ancient
windmill that stood, a well-known landmark,
on the sharp edge of a long, low hill which over—
hung a wide valley, was later in returning home
from the neighbouring market-town than he
should have been under ordinary circumstances,
and his niece, Judith, growing anxious about
him, left the fireside of the 01d mill-house and
went into the winter evening to look and listen
for his coming. In the east a full moon had just
risen above a belt of pine-trees which fenced in
house and mill; the high road in the valley
gleamed white in its unclouded radiance ; Judith
could follow that white strip for a good mile,
but she saw no dark figure advancing along it,
nor in the stillness which hung heavily over the
land could she catch any sound of a horse’s hoofs
ringing musically on the frost-bound road. She
turned instinctively towards the great bulk of
the mill, and for the thousandth time saw the
II


12 THE MARRIAGE LINES
grey shadow made whenever the sails were
motionless, and sun or moon shone between
them and the far horizon. And for the thousandth
time she shivered, under the influence of a
strange, nameless fear; the shadow was always
in the form of a cross, and the cross fell athwart
the strip of green which stretched between the
house and the mill. It affected nobody but her-
self, she knew ; she had never heard it mentioned
by Martin, her uncle, nor by Michael, her cousin
and lover, nor by Jael Quince, the woman
who acted as servant and housekeeper and
cherished many superstitions. But Judith always
fancied that the long arm of the cross pointed
to the door at which she and hers went in and
out ; that ceaseless pointing, so steady, so
persistent, seemed to her to be an omen, a.
portent of evil.
It was very still and very cold up there on the
edge of the hill. But Judith, who had spent
fourteen out of her nineteen years of life in the
mill-house and about it, cared nothing for frost,
nor snow, nor rain, and the silence fascinated her.
She drew the old shawl, which she had snatched
up on leaving the house-place, a little more closely
about her head and shoulders, and going to the
low wall of the garden that stretched in terraces
down the hillside, leaned upon its coping and


THE GREY SHADOW I 3
looked into the valley beneath her. The night
was so clear, so frosty, the moonlight so strong,
that she could see all that the valley had to show.
The coppices and plantations which studded the
tops of the opposite hills, two miles away, were
clearly out against the sky ; the moonbeams
shone on the vane of the little church of the only
village, a mile off, which could be seen from that
point; they shone, too, on the frozen surface
of the narrow river, which made a hundred twists
and turns beneath its fringe of alders and willows
before it disappeared amongst the dark woods in
the distance. This was a lonely land ; Mus-
croft’s Mill seemed to be far away from every-
where. True, there, plainly to be seen, was the
little village in the valley; there was another,
a larger village, behind the hill ; three miles
away, its presence indicated by a canopy of
yellow light in the sky, was the market-town,
a place of size and importance. But there were
no homesteads in the valley nor on the long ridge
of the hill ; near Muscroft’s there were no cottages.
Thereabouts there was nothing but the mill itself,
a great, gaunt thing, the foundations of which,
according to clever people, had been laid in
Saxon times, and the old house by it, with its
garden, its orchard, its outbuildings. A by-lane
connected it with the high road—a long, winding,


I4 THE MARRIAGE LINES
narrow, high-banked by-lane; it was a conceit
of the old miller’s to say that nothing could get
up that lane but a three-horsed cart and a merry
wind.
The top of the hill Judith knew as intimately
as she knew the nooks and corners of the old
house in which she had spent childhood and
youth. It was a long hill-top, stretching for two
miles above the valley, and though it nowhere
attained a height of more than two hundred feet,
it was so situated that those who walked upon it
commanded far-stretching prospects. Ancient
people in the adjacent villages affirmed that on
very clear days sharp eyes, looking in the proper
directions, could see from it the Peak of Derby-
shire, the towers of Lincoln, set on their great
hill, the waters of the Humber, the Yorkshire
Wolds, and York Minster. The Peak and the
Wolds Judith and Michael had often made out ;
sometimes a shining and a glory in the east had
made them fancy that they beheld the Humber ;
certain grey somethings on the long horizon
they had taken for York and Lincoln. But what-
ever there might be of thorpe and toft, spire and
tower, river and mead in the blue-grey of the far-
thrown landscape, there was always the mill,
black, forceful, dominating everything.
And near the mill was a feature of the hill-top


THE GREY; SHADOW I 5
which exercised a strange fascination over the
girl. This was a curious hollow, sunk in the
highest part of the hill, and fenced about with
gnarled, twisted, and sinister-looking beech-trees
of great age. Some people considered it to have
been a quarry, but there was nothing to show
that any mineral had been quarried there;
nevertheless, beneath the undergrth of bramble,
and elder-bush, and briar there were still holes
and pits, so deep that some of them were held
to be bottomless. This place, Hobman’s Hole,
was said to be haunted by the ghost of the man
from whom it took its name ; who Hobman was,
however, and why he haunted these cavities
and beeches, nobody knew. Martin and Michael
Muscroft laughed at the notion; Jael Quince
maintained a prudent reserve in speaking of it;
Judith was not sure whether she believed that
Hobman’s spirit came there or not. But it was
certain that whenever a gale came from east or
west there were strange, unearthly noises heard
around the hollow, and that from the concealed
cavities sounds arose which closely resembled the
groanings of a sorely-troubled spirit.
Judith turned from a contemplation of the
valley to look at the dark twisted shapes of the
beeches which ringed—in this mysterious place.
Presently she left the garden wall, and passing


16 THE MARRIAGE LINES
through a small wicket-gate at the end of the
house, walked slowly across the crisp grass, spark-
ling in the moonlight as if a million diamonds had
been sprinkled over it, to the edge of the hollow.
Something in its weirdness, its mystery, seemed
to give her comfort, to afford her company. All
that evening, from the time they had drawn
blinds and curtains and lighted the lamps, she had
felt a strange sensation of loneliness, a heaviness
of spirit for which she could not account. Michael
was away ; they were wanting new machinery in
the mill; he had gone to another part of the
county to see what modern methods were coming
into use. And Martin was late home from the
market town, an unusual occurrence, for he was
not the man to stop drinking and gossiping in
inn-parlours, after his business was done. Within
the mill-house everything was very silent. The
supper-table was laid against the master’s coming ;
a pot which contained a hot stew simmered on
the hob ; in a corner of the long settle Jael
Quince sat silently working away with the bright
knitting needles which she always picked up when
she had no other task on hand. In the opposite
comer there was a pile of sewing, to which Judith
ought to have been giving her attention, but she
had felt herself too restless, too full of some vague
fidgettiness to take it in hand; the mere attempt


THE GREY SHADOW 17
to put thread in needle, she felt, would have
resulted in a loss of temper. There was the
notion in her, indefinite, shapeless, but there,
that something was going to happen‘.
Leaning over the broken fencing which shut
off Hobman’s Hole from the hillside, Judith
stared moodily at the gnarled beeches, the clumps
of bramble, the shafts of moonlight which
quivered through the nearly naked branches
overhead. A light Wind was rising ; it began to
whistle through the time-wom trunks of the trees,
and presently to sob and moan in the concealed
cavities. Judith listened to its sighings with a
pleasure that was chiefly derived from the
mystery of them ; to her the wind was not the
cause of these complaints, but rather a signal
which called forth a response from the spirit of
the hollow. She heard other sounds, too ; some-
where close by her, some living thing rustled away
amongst the dry undergrowth ; in the masses of
dead leaves there were stirrings and shiverings,
as if the things that had made their beds there
were afraid; from the depths of a briar-brake
two specks of fire glared at her. At that her
courage departed, hastened by a loud sobbing of
the wind in the beeches; she turned and went
back to the mill and the house. And with her
hand on the sneck of the door she turned and
B


I8 THE MARRIAGE LINES
looked at the shadow which lay athwart the stretch
of green sward; it was still there, clearer-cut
than ever, and the long arm pointed steadily at
the threshold she was about to cross.
II
BEFORE Judith could open the door a man came
round the comer of the mill-house, softly speaking
her name. The voice was familiar enough, and
she turned slowly and with obvious reluctance
to its owner, her cousin Stephen, Martin’s younger
son, dismissed his father’s house a twelvemonth
because of his dissolute habits. He came
cautiously up to her in the shadow, glancing at
the lighted window as if he feared that his voice
might penetrate glass and curtain.
“ Michael inside? ” he asked, nodding at the
door.
“ Michael is away,” answered Judith, brusquely.
“ He’s away until to-morrow noon.”
Stephen Muscroft, now come into the glare of
the moon, frowned.
“ Damn ! ” he muttered. “ That’s just my
luck. And I want a bit of money, Judith, my
girl. I’ll always say this for old Michael, he’s
never close-fisted. Always has a pound for his


THE GREY SHADOW 19
brother when nobody else has a penny. Flesh
and blood in him, has Michael."
Judith edged away from the atmosphere of
spirits with which Stephen was always clothed.
She lifted her hand again to the sneck.
“ Well, he’s away,” she repeated.
“ Stop a bit,” said Stephen, motioning her to
stay her hand. “ Well—yourself now, Judith,
lass? You see, it’s this way—Sherratt and me,
we’re not over and above well-off, as everybody
knows, and it seems we’ve out-run the constable a
bit at the shop, and the order is, no more without
cash down or something off the old bill. Give
you my word, Judith, we’ve nothing in the house.
If Michael had been at home, now—come, my
girl, you can’t see your own cousin want.”
Judith removed her hand from the sneck.
She looked at Stephen’s weak, handsome face;
the moonlight showed her the blotched cheeks,
the reddening nose, their colour accentuated
by the sharp frost. Under her scrutiny Stephen
smiled—a feeble smile, yet a cunning one.
“ Come on, now ! ” he said, coaxingly. “ Family
ties, you know, Judith.”
Judith hesitated.
“Oh, Stephen!” she said. “ If—if I give
you any money, you’ll only go straight to the
Hooded Hawk with it! You know you will.”


20 THE MARRIAGE LINES
Stephen drew a step nearer.
“ Honour bright, I won’t, Judith ll” he asserted.
“ Sherratt’s waiting down the road there—I
made sure Michael would be at home, you know
—and I’ll give it to her. Come on—I know you
always have a bit put by. There’ll be no supper
for us, if you don’t, my lass. Now, Michael——“
Judith sighed heavily. She knew that Stephen
was speaking the truth as regards his brother.
Michael, himself steady as a rock, contemptuous
of swillers and tosspots, still kept a soft corner
in his heart for the lad to whom drink had been
a curse before he was out of his teens. His hand
was always in his pocket for Stephen’s benefit,
and what he took out of it in that way he never
expected to put back. And, therefore, if Michael
set her the example—Michael, whom she wor-
shipped with a blind adoration. .
“ Come on, Judith, love,” said Stephen, seeing
all her thoughts in her face. “ You were always
a good sort. Make it a couple of pounds, now.”
“ I haven’t got a couple of pounds, Stephen,”
she answered. “ I’ve about twenty-five shillings
put away. Go round to my window and I’ll drop
it out to you.”
Then she lifted the latch, and entered the
house, and went up to her chamber, and finding
a small linen bag, full of silver, in a corner of her


THE GREY SHADOW 21
chest, opened the window, and leaning out,
lowered it to Stephen’s eager hands.
“ Don’t go to the Hooded Hawk, Stephen,”
she Whispered imploringly. “ You know, your
father always hears of it, and then it makes him
harder than ever. Don’t ! "
“ All right, my lass, all right ! ” replied Stephen.
“I won’t—at least,” he added to himself, “ at
least, not until after supper." He looked up in
the moonlight, smiling and nodding. “ I’d do
the same for you, Judith," he said, confidently.
“ I’m not the sort to see old friends go short.
And if ever Michael’s fixed as I am——”
Judith’s pride in Michael flashed up into a
quick reply.
“ He never will be ! ” she exclaimed. “ Michael’s
too—-”
Stephen laughed grimly.
“ Don’t you be too sure, my girl!” he said
“ It’s a queer world this, and you never know
what’s going to happen. Who’d have thought
that I—-—”
“ You’d better go, Stephen,” she said, leaning
further out of the window. “ I’m expecting
your father every minute. He’s not back from
Sicaster yet, and if he finds you here, or you meet
him in the lane, there’ll only be a quarrel. Besides,
you said Sherratt was waiting.”


22 THE MARRIAGE LINES
“ I’m going," he answered, turning away.
“ And you needn't tell him I’ve been or he’ll
be cutting down my allowance, as he calls it.
Allowance l—to his own son.”
He seemed to be about to say more, but then
thought better of it, and turned away with a nod.
Judith watched him cross the stretch of moon-
lighted grass which lay between house and mill,
and as he stepped into the shadow made by the
sails she shivered for the second time that evening.
Closing the window she went away to join the
woman whom, half an hour earlier, she had left
knitting steadily and silently in her usual seat
at the side of the hearth in the house-place.
And as she made her way down the unlighted
stairs and along the dark passages of the old
house, she‘found herself wondering how it was
that on that night she felt what she never remem-
bered to have felt before, in all her life—a strange
sense of loneliness, a strange longing for company.
III
JUDITH entered the house-place to find Jael
Quince sitting back in the corner of the long
settle, staring fixedly at a candle which stood
on the little table drawn closely in front of her.


24 THE MARRIAGE LINES
dropping into a favourite corner of the settle and
picking up an old book that she had been trying
to read earlier in the evening. “ The doctor
said there wasn’t any hope for her from the very
first.”
“ I reckon naught much of what doctors say:
I’ve known folk come round again when doctors
and better doctors have given them up. Besides,
they didn’t say when she was to pass. I knew.
And I know what I heard this morning. And
what I saw, too, when I was tidying up the
master’s chamber.”
“ What ? ” demanded Judith.
“I saw the blind fall. And yesterday it was
that I put that blind on the roller—clean blinds
in all the chamber windows I put on yesterday.
Fell down, without warning—top to bottom."
“ Because the cord wasn’t tight.”
“ The cord was tight. Yes, the death watch
before dawn, and then a fallen blind, and now
this. There’s a death at hand.”
Judith looked at the candle towards which
Jael was pointing a skinny forefinger. There she
saw what the folk thereabouts called a winding-
sheet. And though she was not going to confess
it, she felt a qualm of fear. All her life she had
been listening to tales of premonition and appari-
tion, tales of the Bargest, of the White Rabbit,


THE GREY SHADOW 25
of visions seen in the church porch at midnight,
of voices and mysterious whisperings heard by
folk who walked alone in the woods, and her
mind had become impregnated in spite of herself.
From looking at the winding-sheet in the candle,
she looked at Jael Quince, wondering if the
woman really believed in what she had been
saying. The housekeeper was a little, dried-up,
atom of a person, flat of bosom, virginal of waist ;
the tight stays that enclosed her apparently
fieshless figure were not more rigid than the
lines of her thin-lipped mouth : everything about
her suggested inflexibility, determination, practi-
cal notions about life. Her vinegary expression,
her cold eyes of bluey-green, her attitude, her
very garments, seemed to indicate anything but
a tolerance of mysticism or superstition. Yet
Judith knew her to be as full of talk about signs
and omens as a good egg is full of meat.
“ Whose death ? ” she asked, suddenly waking
up from the reverie into which she had fallen.
“ Whose ? ”
Jael Quince had picked up her knitting;
the bright needles were choking again; from
their polished brightness scintillations of light
shot out, darting here and there as they moved
in her subtle fingers.
“ How can I tell?” she replied. “It might


26 THE MARRIAGE LINES
be you, or it might be me, or the master, or
Michael."
“Or Stephen," said Judith. “ That is, if it’s
to be in the family."
Jane shook her head.
“ Not Stephen. Because he’s no longer under
the roof. The signs are for those of the house-
hold."
Judith laughed, but she stirred nervously in
her seat.
“ You don’t believe it, Jael! ” she said.
“ Three signs together never fail,” answered
Jael Quince, with determination. “ It wouldn’t
surprise me if the master was carried in feet
first, nor to hear that Michael had happened
his death. The last death in the family was
Stephen’s mother. First, there was the magpies.
I saw them—they sat in a row on the rails of
Hobman’s Hole yonder for three days running,
a thing they’ve never done before or since, at
least to my knowledge. Then, Lightforth, that
worked in the mill in those days, saw the White
Rabbit” in the stackgarth—there wasn’t a doubt
about that, for it was a moonlight night, such as
this is, and Lightforth was a sober and serious
man, a chapel-goer, and religious. And that
time, too, there was a winding-sheet in the candle,
as there is now. Then she died.”


THE GREY SHADOW 27
“ But—but,” said Judith, timidly, “ didn’t-—
if as you told me, once—didn’t she die in child-
birth ? ”
“ What’s that got to do with it? The thing
is that she died. First there was the signs and
then the death.”
“ And quite young, wasn.’ t she ? ” asked Judith.
She already knew the whole story by heart, but
she asked the question because she felt a morbid
interest in the fate of one cut off in the spring of
youth. '
“ Naught but a slip of a lass," replied Jael.
“ No older than yourself. In some things
Stephen is the very spit of her—the same light
hair and blue eyes—good-looking, both of ’em.”
“ Michael’s mother must have been dark,
then,” said Judith, reflectively.
“ I know naught about Michael’s mother.
The master never brought her into these parts—
she was gone before he came here. Him and
Stephen’s mother had just been wed when
I came to live with them.”
Judith was familiar enough with the story of
how Jael Quince came to be a member of the
household : the old miller had revealed it to her
when he and she were alone in the house, at the
time when Jael went to nurse John Groom’s
wife in the adjacent village. One winter after-


28 THE MARRIAGE LINES
noon, soon after Martin Muscroft’s second mar-
riage, he, coming in with his cart from a country
round, had found a queer-looking little woman
sitting on a heap of stones at the junction of the
lane and the high road, who asked him if he knew
of any folk thereabouts who needed help in the
house. It so chanced that Martin’s wife was
neither well nor strong; after questioning the
woman and forming an opinion that she was
clean, capable, and strong, he took her in as help,
and soon found that he had got a bargain. Jael
Quince became a permanent feature of Muscroft’s
Mill; she took all the heavy work off the mis-
tress’s hands ; she nursed her when she fell ill;
she brought up the child Stephen when he was
left motherless; she had remained the active
spirit of the place ever since. Judith remembered
that Jael was practical ruler of the household
when she herself came there, left to the care of
her uncle Martin by his brother Matthew, who,
himself a widower, wished her seen to while he
went to try his fortune in America, from which
far-off land he had never returned. Michael
was then a boy of nine years; Stephen of six;
she was four. Jael Quince had mothered them
all, ruling with a rod of steel in all matters
entrusted to her governance. Of the three
only Stephen was readily amenable to her rule ;


THE GREY SHADOW 29
Michael resented any exercise of it, and, as he
grew older, openly defied her, inciting Judith to
follow his example. When the ’teen time came
to all of them there were two armed camps in the
house: Michael and Judith formed one; Jael
constituted the other. It was to Jael’s shelter
that Stephen always turned; she concealed his
boyish sins and his weaknesses from the master.
When he grew up she still shielded him; when
Martin, wearied of his dissolute ways and incensed
by his secret and inadvisable marriage, turned
him out of the house, Jael locked her lips and
maintained a strange silence. Silent enough
she could be, as Martin knew, for, as he remarked
to Judith when he told her how Jael came to the
place, he knew no more of her antecedents after
nearly thirty years than he knew when he brought
her into the kitchen and bade her hang up her
shawl and bonnet. She was, and always had
been, a woman of mystery.
“ She must have been dark, because Michael’s
dark,” repeated Judith. “ Uncle Martin is light,
like Stephen—or, at least, he was.” Then, finding
that Jael made no answer, noticing indeed, from
the added tightness of the thin lips, that the
housekeeper was not going to offer any comment
on Michael’s supposed likeness to his mother, she
said, “ Jael—Stephen was here just now."


THE GREY SHADOW 31
on another, the one’ll go elsewhere for company
It’s poor work to feel yourself left out in the cold."
“ His own fault,” repeated Judith. “ And
Michael works for what he gets. He never went
to sit all the afternoon in public-houses with
toss-pots and gossipers, nor raked out at night
as Stephen did. Stephen’s a bad lot, Jael
Quince ! I gave him my pocket-money, because,
as Michael says,v we can’t see him want, but I’d
lay anything that when he’d given that Sherratt
some of it he’d go to the Hooded Hawk and spend
the rest. And if Michael has been thought of
more than Stephen, you must remember that
Michael’s the eldest, and he’ll be master.”
“ And you—mistress,” said Jael Quince,
quietly.
Judith made no reply. She threw aside the
old book, rose from the settle, and stretching her
arms above her out of sheer laziness of body,
glanced at herself in the great mirror, set in an
ancient oaken frame, which hung above the
mantelpiece. A sudden thought, prompted by
the housekeeper’s observation, flashed upon her
mind—when she and Michael were married, as
they were to be in the coming spring, they would
be the handsomest couple in all the countryside.
No one could question Michael's claim to be the
properest man in those parts ; she thought of his


32 THE MARRIAGE LINES
six feet of height, his thew and sinew, his cheery,
laughing face, his vigorous health, glowing in
cheek and eye—oh, he was as goodly a man,
Michael, as ever a maid could desire 1 And, not
without a warm glow of pride, she recognised
herself as a fitting mate for him. The old mirror
showed her a fine, strapping, buxom lass, dark of
eye, dusky of hair, rosy of lip and cheek, deep
bosomed, generously proportioned, bursting with
the vast, mysterious potentialities of wife and
mother. Her cheek, hot from the blazing fire
of wood logs, glowed more hotly as she eyed her-
self with shy looks and thought of Michael and
marriage.
Suddenly Judith turned and glanced at the
figure which sat so silently in the corner of the
long settle. Jael Quince was paying no regard
to her ; the knitting needles were still at work,
her eyes were fixed on the winding sheet in the
candle, and around her thin lips the ghost of a
smile struggled for existence.
IV
STEPHEN Muscnorr crossed the moonlit patch
of ground between the house and the mill, and
instead of turning down the lane which led to the


THE GREY SHADOW 33
high road made his way through a gap in the hedge
of the mill croft. A meadow lay on the other
side; across this he struck diagonally, striking
a path towards a mass of dark woodland which
rose on its further side. That mass represented a
long avenue of lime and beech which led into the
village beyond the shoulder of the hill, in which
Stephen and his wife Sherratt lived ; somewhere
in the avenue Sherratt was awaiting his coming.
In his imagination, which was a lively one,
Stephen pictured her walking up and down,
wondering if her husband was going to bring back
the wherewithal to purchase some supper. This
was the first time supplies had failed them ;
until then the village shopkeeper, Crawdale, had
given them credit ; that day, however, on Sherratt
delivering an order Crawdale had refused to
fulfil it ; he, like most other people in the place,
had a shrewd suspicion that Stephen spent most
of his weekly allowance on drink, and that old
Muscroft at the mill was unaware of it.
“ He’s thinking,” observed Crawdale to his wife,
“ he’s thinking, is Martin, that if he cuts Stephen
down to thirty shilling a week there’ll not be so
much to spend on threepennorths 0’ gin. But
he doesn’t know Stephen, for all he’s his own son.
Stephen’ll keep the brass in his pocket and get
credit for his butcher's meat and his groceries
c


34 THE MARRIAGE LINES
and for all that he can from such like as us, as
are soft-hearted enough to trust him. But I
shall put the ’stinguisher on before all the candle’s
burnt away.”
In the middle of the field Stephen stopped
and drew out of .his breeches pocket the money
which Judith had given him. It was all in small
silver ; he counted it carefully in the moonlight.
Then, with a low laugh and a sly smile, which
showed his white teeth and gave him a somewhat
vulpine appearance, he separated ten shillings
from the little heap of coins and slipped them
away into an inner pocket of his waistcoat. What-
ever was wanted for the table, or the larder, or
the fire, he himself must not be left short of the
means to treat his own hot palate and those
of his particular cronies.
Climbing a post-and-rail fence at the far bound-
ary of the meadow, Stephen dropped into the high
road beneath the overarching lime trees. From
behind them, his wife, a tall, thin young woman,
came hurriedly to meet him, shivering as she
wrapped a shawl more closely about her shoulders.
Her greeting was as abrupt as her approach.
“ Have you got aught ? " she demanded.
Stephen caused the silver to jingle in his pocket.
His wife made no effort to suppress a sigh of
genuine relief.


THE GREY SHADOW 35
“ That’s something to be thankful for,” she
exclaimed. “ I’m half starved as it is. How
much is it, Stephen? ”
“ None so much, my lass,” answered Stephen.
“ You see, Michael wasn’t there—gone away
somewhere—so I had to borrow a bit from
Judith.”
The woman laughed sneeringly.
“ Borrow ! ” she said. “ It’s fine work borrow-
ing what ought to be your own. Well, what did
you get from my fine madam ? ”
“ Fourteen or fifteen shillings,” answered
Stephen readily, beginning to pull the money out
of his breeches. “ About that, anyway.”
Sherratt uttered a peevish ejaculation.
“ What use is that, except for to-night P " she
demanded. “ It ’ud ha’ been more like if it had
been fourteen or fifteen pounds.”
“ Half a loaf’s better than no bread,” said
Stephen philosophically. “ This’ll do for to-night,
as you say. Here, take it—I’ll keep a shilling for
a glass at the Hawk while you’re getting a bit
of supper ready.”
He counted out fourteen shillings into his
wife’s hand, and ostentatiously retained a couple
of sixpences. Sherratt took the money indif-
ferently.
“ What’s the use of getting supper ready for
m- »‘ -p
m,
w.“ ,1..." .‘_-.;-.H _


36 THE MARRIAGE LINES
you ? " she said. “ If you once get into the Hawk
you’ll stop there till you’re turned out.”
Stephen affected good-humoured laughter.
“It ’ud only be ten o’clock, then, my lass,"
he remarked. “ But you’ll see me in before that.
It's eight now. I’ll be in at nine sharp. A
bit of steak, now, Sherratt? And onions?
I’m hungry myself. And tell that Crawdale, if
you go for any groceries, that I shall pay him
off and go elsewhere.”
Sherratt made no answer; she was becoming
used to Stephen, who invariably manifested ideas
of his own importance which were based on the
airiest of foundations. Husband and wife walked
on in silence until they came to the entrance to
the village—a place of one long, straggling street,
at the head of which stood the Hooded Hawk,
from the gable end of which a swinging sign
projected, glittering in the moonlight. Almost
opposite to it stood Crawdale’s shop; near it,
a single lamp lighted the dead meat lying on the
wooden slabs in the butcher’s shop.
Stephen stopped instinctively at the little
cobble-paved yard which lay in “front of the
Hooded Hawk.
“ Now, nine o’clock sharp, mind! ” he said,
seeming to glance with one eye at the red curtains
of the inn and with the other at his wife. “ I


38 THE MARRIAGE LINES
for Stephen; nothing could have surprised her
more than his return home at any moment
earlier than that in which the portals of the
Hooded Hawk must be closed in obedience to
the law. She would eat and drink and go to
bed, and in sleep forget her injuries and wrongs.
For Sherratt considered herself a much-wronged
young woman. Old Martin Muscroft, of Muscroft’s
Mill, was supposed to be a wealthy man ; at that
time, and all through his time, the com-milling
trade was good, and the old place at the edge
of the hill had a monopoly of it in that neigh-
bourhood. Sherratt, previous to her marriage
a barmaid in the adjacent market-town, had
believed that she was doing a fine thing when she
wedded the rich miller's son ; it had been a shock
to her to find her husband speedily turned out by
his father, given what she called a handful of
sticks wherewith to furnish a cottage, and practi-
cally pensioned off with thirty shillings a week.
And the experience was all the harder to bear
because Martin meted out vastly different treat-
ment to Michael and Judith. Michael had a fine
horse to ride about on, while Stephen trudged
afoot ; Judith, who, to use Sherratt’s phraseology,
was kept out of charity, her own father having
failed to provide for her, went by to church every
Sunday morning in fine feathers, while she herself
4


THE GREY SHADOW 39
was coming in sight of the day when she would
have but one gown to her back. Stephen might
have his faults, but that was no reason why she
should suffer; in her opinion Martin ought to
provide her with a good house, and a servant girl,
and at least five pounds a week.
With Martin, with Michael, or with Judith,
Stephen’s wife had never exchanged speech since
their coming to the village. The folk at the mill
were held to be proud and exclusivc by the village
people ; moreover, Martin Muscroft was still
regarded as an outsider, a foreigner, for it was
scarcely twenty-five years since his arrival.
They came little into the village, except on
Sundays, when they dutifully attended the
church services. Once or twice Sherratt had met
them, singly, on the road between the village and
the town; Martin had ridden by with a strong
look on his face ; Michael, with a reddened cheek
and an expression of discomfort; Judith, with
shy, distressed glances. As for Sherratt, she had
turned up her nose and curved down her lips;
herself the daughter of a farmer who had had the
misfortune to break, she considered herself much
above mere corn-millers. And she hated Martin
and Michael and Judith because they looked
prosperous and were well clad.
Sitting over her supper Sherratt allowed her


THE GREY SHADOW 41
The miller followed his daughter-in-law with
hesitating steps. He left the door slightly ajar,
and taking off his hat, leaned a hand on the table
at which Sherratt sat.
“ I say I didn’t think for to find Stephen in,"
he repeated. “ By all accounts, he spends most
of his time at the Hawk. I wanted to have a
word or two with his wife. You’re aware, mis-
tress, that I make my son a ’lowance of thirty
shilling a wee
“ I ought to be ! " sneered Sherratt.
Martin caught and understood the sneer. He
shook his head.
“ It’s a good ’lowance,” he said. “ Some
would call it a handsome 'lowance, under the
circumstances. He’s no rent to pay for this
cottage ; I gave him proper furnishing for it ; he’s
only two months to fill, and if he liked he could
addle as much as what I give him, aye, an’ more.
Him and you, mistress, should live very comfort-
ably on that money. And yet, I understand—
it's come to my ears, only to-day—you’re in debt.
Is that right, or is it wrong, now ? ”
Sherratt laughed.
“ Right enough ! " she answered.
“ It’s the first time, then, that it could ever be
said of one of our name,” said Martin slowly.
“ We were never for getting into debt, us


42 THE MARRIAGE LINES
Muscrofts ; always t’other way about. Now,
mistress, I can't have it. I will not have my
name dragged i’ the muck, neither here nor
elsewhere."
Sherratt made no reply. She pushed her plate
away from her, folded her arms on the table,
and stared at Martin impudently. The miller
shook his head again.
“ It must stop, mistress." he said.
“ Stop it, then,” exclaimed Sherratt. “ If you
can.“
“ Can and will," said Martin. “ Now, mistress,
you must tell me who you’re owing money to in
the place. Out with it—keep naught back!
I shall pay every man Jack of ’em to-night.
N0 man’s going to have my name on the wrong
side of his books. Out with it ! ”
Sherratt felt an agreeable sense of surprise.
She had no objection to this; if Martin settled
off old scores, she would be able to run up new
ones, for the tradesfolk would argue that if Mr.
Muscroft paid up once he could be expected to
pay up again. She began to consider the extent
of the joint debts of Stephen and herself, wonder-
ing it she might include an item or two in the
market-town—the settlement of one of those items
would mean that she could order a new gown.
“I want the lot,” continued Martin. “ Keep


THE GREY SHADOW 43
naught back—naught ! Never mind the amounts
—give me the names of the folks that brass is
owing to, and there’ll be no brass owing before
the night’s over. Keep naught back, I say—
let me hear it all. I’ll make a clear sweep now
I’ve ta’en the besom in hand.”
Sherratt took courage ; the prospect of a new
gown encouraged her. She reeled off the names
of the creditors. After all, it was no very formid-
able list. And Martin nodded his head at the
name of each, checking the number on his
broad-tipped fingers.
“ Nobody more ? ” he questioned.
“ That’s all—that I know of,” answered
Sherratt.
“ Then, all that’s in this village’ll be paid
to-night,” he said. “ Those that are elsewhere’ll
get their brass to-morrow. And now, mistress,
you’ll hearken to me. There’ll be no more of
this. The first time you or Stephen gets credit,
you’ll get no more ’lowance from me.”
“ How’re we going to live, then? ” demanded
Sherratt. “ You know as well as I do that
Stephen drinks most of the money! I can’t
keep a home going on what he gives me."
Martin shook his finger at her.
“ Stephen ’11 have no money to handle,” he
said. “I will not have my brass wared and


44 THE MARRIAGE LINES
wasted across at you Hawk—at no Hawks, nor
Dogs and Ducks, nor Foxes and Hounds, nor
nowhere 1 What’s to be in future, mistress, is this
—I shall give orders to all them as you’ve dealt
with, butcher, grocer, and such like, to supply
you in reason—you shall be in comfort, and have
no stint—and to send the bills to me every week.
You shall want for naught, you shall live as well
as what I do. I’ll find everything for you.
You shall have a matter of pocket-money for
yourself—I’ll arrange where you can call for it.
But there’ll be no more brass paid out to Stephen ;
if he wants brass to ware on pots and glasses he
can addle it himself. I’ve spoken, mistress."
Sherratt had listened to him carefully. When
he came to an end she shook her head. Then
she laughed, cynically.
“And you’re Stephen’s father, and you don’t
know him better than that l " she said. “ Why,
if he knew I’d pocket-money he’d tease and worry
the life out of me till he got it! Like as not, if
you sent in a piece of beef, or a parcel of groceries,
and he’d no money for drink he’d go out and sell
’em for what they’d fetch. He’ll get money
anywhere—as long as he hasn’t got to work for
it. He gets money from Michael—that house-
keeper of yours gives him money—he got money
Out of your niece, Judith, to-night. Oh ! " she


THE GREY SHADOW 45
added, rejoicing that she had the power to make
him wince, “ you don’t know him, nor half!
If I buried half-a-crown in that yard he’d howk
every stone up to get at it, if he’d naught in his
own pocket and the thirst was on him.”
Martin shook his head wean'ly.
“ I can do no more, mistress,” he said. “ No
more! What more could a man do? ”
Certain memories rankled in Sherratt’s bosom :
despite Martin’s generous offer of complete
provision, she hated him. Her face grew dark
with anger and sullenness.
“ You should treat him as you do the others,”
she muttered. “ ’Tisn’t fair, Mr. Muscroft, to
make a difference ’twixt your own flesh and
blood. Stephen’s as much yours as what Michael
is, for all he’s not the first-come.”
If Sherratt had been looking at him she would
have seen Martin wince. But she was glowering
at the empty plate before her, and saw nothing
of the shadow that stole across his face.
“ I ha’ judged for the best, my lass,” he said,
not unkindly. “ Michael’s been the best 0’ sons
to me ever since he was breeched, and Stephen’s
given me naught but pain and sorrow. It ’ud
be no kindness to Stephen to give him money—
I’ve done it till it’s beyond me to do it longer.
I can but take care that neither him nor you


46 THE MARRIAGE LINES
wants roof nor fire nor your meat—I can do no
more 1 ”
He lingered for a moment as if expecting
some answer or comment from her ; getting none
he turned with a sigh and went out to his horse,
and taking its bridle in his hand, moved heavily -
away across the cobble-paved yard. But Sher-
ratt, when she heard the gate click behind him,
rose from the table and hurried out to follow his
movements. She watched him go along the
street and call in at Crawdale’s shop : she waited
until he came away from it and crossed over to
the butcher’s; in a ray of light which spread
fan-like from the window of the Hooded Hawk’s
parlour she saw him, the butcher done with,
mount his horse and ride slowly up the village.
As he passed out of the light and her field of vision,
she noticed that he rode like a tired man and
with bent head.
Sherratt went back into the cottage. It was
then past nine o’clock. She put a portion of
the steak and onions between two plates and set
the plates on the top shelf of the oven. Then
she sat down—to do nothing, and to wait for
Stephen.
When ten o’clock struck Sherratt heard the
usual sound of heavy boots on the little quad-
rangle which separated the Hooded Hawk from


THE GREY ' SHADOW 47
the street. That was the frequenters of parlour
and kitchen being turned out in accordance with
the rural licensing regulations. The footsteps
went in various directions; but she listened in
vain for the lifting of the cottage gate. And at
last she rose and went out into the yard, looking
across the street. Although the front door was
shut there were still lights in the public-house,
and by them she saw the landlord standing at
the end of his garden, smoking a cigar and
inhaling a breath of clean air as a refresher after
his labours of the evening. Sherratt went across
the street.
“ Seen anything of Stephen, Mr. Gibb? ” she
asked, familiarly.
The landlord removed the cigar, starting as
if the question was a surprising one.
“ Stephen, now, Mrs. Muscroft? Well, I did
see him going off with the gamekeeper and young
Trippett. Heard something about a game of
cards, I think.” Then he added, jocularly,
“ Took a bottle of gin along with ’em, anyway.”
Sherratt made no answer. She turned and
went down the street to the gamekeeper’s cottage.
Stealing softly up to the uncurtained window
she looked inside. There, seated round the table,
under the light of a swinging lamp, Stephen, the
gamekeeper, and a young fellow who looked to be


48 THE MARRIAGE LINES
half asleep, were busy with some simple game.
There was a little pile of small silver and copper
before each man; each pile was flanked by a
glass, and in the middle of the table stood the
bottle to which Gibb had jestingly referred.
Sherratt watched for a minute or two—long
enough to see that the gamekeeper, a smart, sly
fellow, was going to win all the money that the
other men might have about them. Then she
turned homewards, and entering the kitchen
went straight to the oven and took out the plates.
There was a goodly piece of tender steak on the
undermost one, and an appetising mass of fried
onions to keep it company. But Sherratt walked
straight out into the yard and threw both steak
and onions into the pig-tub, laughing maliciously.
That done, she left the door wide open to the night,
and, still laughing, went upstairs to bed.
V
WHEN nine o’clock had come and gone Judith’s
uneasiness would not permit of her remaining
longer in the house. Never, within her memory,
had Martin been so late home from the market-
town. It was his usual practice to be back at the
mill by six o’clock at the latest, the regular hour


THE GREY SHADOW 49
for the family supper. On market nights in
winter, a fire was always lighted for him in a little
parlour which opened out of the house-place:
to this he retired after eating his supper, and spent
an hour in attending to his books and accounts—
a task which he would not share with either
Michael or Judith; they, he said, could attend
to it, on methods of their own devising, when he
was gone. The fire had been duly lighted on
this particular evening, and Judith had twice
replenished it with logs. Now she went in
to the parlour again, threw more logs on, and
looked to the lamp. Then wrapping her shawl
closely about her, she left the house and walked
down the lane towards the high road.
On the level of the high road all was still as
only the land can be still on a winter night.
The moon rode high in the unclouded heavens,
its silvery shafts playing on the rounded cap of
the old mill and sparkling on the panes of glass
in the house windows. Looking in one direction
Judith saw a glimmer of its light on the vane
which topped the spire of the little church deep
down in the valley; in another on that which
surmounted the high grey tower of the church
in the larger village wherein Stephen Muscroft
lived. There was a faint glow of light over the
tree-tops of that village; further away, beyond
D


50 THE MARRIAGE LINES
the shoulder of the rising ground to the north,
a wider glow showed where the market-town lay.
These radiances, and the gleam of the church
vanes, were the only evidences that human life
was in the land; no foot sounded on the road;
no rattle of far-off cart on highway or by-lane
came to break the stillness. That stillness began
to affect Judith, already impressed by Jael
Quince’s talk of portents and omens. She grew
more restless and uneasy, and instinctively
wished for Michael: vaguely she recognised
that there is nothing so desirable or sweet to a
woman as to have a strong man to lean upon in
all matters.
When she had arrived at a state of feeling in
which she was prepared to see a ghost at every
corner and to be confronted by the much-feared
White Rabbit or the dreaded Bargest, Judith
heard the sound of a horse’s hoofs padding steadily
along the frost-bound road. But they were no
sooner heard than she realised that they were
advancing from the village behind her instead of
from the town in front. Never thinking that they
were those of Martin’s horse, and not wishing
to be found wandering about the highway by
any strange horseman at that late hour, she
retreated within the high banks of the lane and
walked slowly towards the house. But the horse


THE GREY SHADOW 5;
turned into the lane behind her, and she ran
back and recognised Martin. The miller looked
down at the anxious face which she lifted
to him.
“ Frightened, my lass? ” he asked.
“ Yes,” she answered. She laid a hand on the
bridle as if to make sure that she had got horse
and rider in safe keeping. “ You’ve never been
home as late as this before—never, Uncle Martin !"
she added. “ I thought something had happened.
And—you came the other way.”
“ I’d a deal of business in town, my lass, and
then I came round by the village yonder—I'd
business there, too,” he said. “ Aye, business,
business that I none liked! ”
Judith knew that the miller was referring to
Stephen’s life and affairs ; she walked on at the
horse’s side, still holding the bridle, and made
no answer.
“ Judith, my lass,” said Martin, “ you’ve been
giving money to yon lad. His wife told me.
You won’t do it again, my girl, nor yet Michael.
As for Jael Quince, if she likes to throw her brass
down a sink, she must do it—it’s no concern of
mine. But you and Michael won’t give Stephen
any more.”
“ We can’t see him want,” said Judith in a low
voice. “ And it was my own money—it was
UNIVERSITY OE
\umons LIBRARY.


52 THE MARRIAGE LINES
what you’d given me out of the duck money,
and you said it was mine.”
Martin reached down and patted the girl’s
hand.
“ Aye, my little lass, aye l " he said. “ And
you’d a right to do what you liked wi’ it, and if
you wanted aught for a good object, you’ve
naught to do but ask me for it and it’s there, on
the nail. But to give you lad money, Judith,
is to throw it down one 0’ them pits in Hobman's
Hole yonder. It all goes to the Hawk, or else-
where of the same nature, or into some 0' them
card-playing fellows' pockets. And as for them
wanting, my lass, I’ve made that all right.
Listen you here.” And as he rode slowly up
to the house he told her all that he had said to
Sherratt, and of the arrangements he had made
with the village tradespeople.
“I shall pay all off in the town to-morrow,”
he said as he dismounted from his horse, “ and
we’ll try a new start. But naught’ll be much good,
my lass, till yon lad is stopped off the drink."
“ I’ll have your supper ready in a minute,”
said Judith, as Martin led his horse away to the
stable. “ Don’t be long.”
“ Why, my lass, to-night I don’t want any
supper,” he said. “ I was kept so long in town
yonder that I had a bite 0' something there.


THE GREY SHADOW 53
Bu ,” he added, with an attempt at a cheery
laug , “it’s that cold that I think I must have
a drop 0’ something, so you can carry in the
little tray, and I’ll have a glass before I get
to them books.”
Then as Judith entered the house and he
turned aside to the outbuildings, Martin groaned.
“_God forgive me for telling the lass a lie 1 ”
he muttered. “Bite? I feel as if a bite ’ud
choke me—the bread ’ud turn bitter in my
mouth.”
He exercised more than his usual care in stabling
and feeding his horse, and in seeing to its comfort
for the night. And when he walked into the
house-place it was with an assumption of cheer-
fulness and a jest on his lips—the jest, as usual,
being on Jael Quince, who still sat in her corner,
steadily knitting.
“ What, at it yet, missis ? ” he exclaimed.
“ Ecod, I think ye might be aiming to supply
all the parish with stockings. And yet ye look a
bit gloomy about it, like.”
Jael Quince looked up, and regarded her
master steadily ; she seemed to search his features
with keen inspection.
“ You shouldn’t go without your supper,
master,” she said quietly. “ It’s bad for you
aftera long day."


54 THE MARRIAGE LINES
-“ I’m going without naught,” answered Martin,
hastily. “ No need to fear. Judith, love, I
think I’ll have a drop 0’ brandy—you’ll find the
bottle in the corner cupboard yonder. Eh,
dear I " he added, glancing at the clock, “it’s
later nor what I reckoned on, and I’ve these
books to see to—I mun be at ’em.”
But when Judith entered the little parlour a
few minutes later, bearing the spirits and the hot
water, she f0und him in his easy chair, still
coated and shawled. He smiled at her feeny
when she uttered a startled exclamation.
“ It’s all right, my gel, it’s all right I ” he said,
reassuringly. “ I’m just a bit overdone, and my
breath’s none so long as it was. Give me a drop
to drink, lass.”
Judith mixed brandy and water for him, and
stood by while he sipped it. There was a vague
fear upon her as of coming evil. And for the third
time that night she longed for Michael’s presence.
“ Don’t do anything at your books to-night,
Uncle Martin,” she pleaded. “ Leave it till
morning, or let me do it. If you told me what
to set down—”
Martin affected laughter.
“ Eh, bless you, my lass, we should get all at
sixes and sevens l ” he said. “ You’d never
understand my ways, and I should never make


THE GREY SHADOW 55
out your fine-lady writing. No, no! I’m all
right now, my lass. Run away, and I’ll get done,
and then I’ll come and smoke a pipe wi’ you.”
But when Judith had gone and had closed the
door, he rose from his chair with difficulty,
and before he attempted to take off his heavy coat
and the thick shawl which he wore round his neck
and shoulders, he helped himself to more brandy,
shaking his head the while.
“ I misdoubt it’s worse nor What he said,” he
muttered. “ I misdoubt it is. Well, I mun do
what I can while there’s time—while there’s
time I "
Judith, returning to the house-place, found
Jael Quince standing on the hearth-rug, her
knitting laid down, her hands planted on her
meagre hips. She looked meanineg at the girl
and shook her head.
“ What is it ? ” demanded Judith, half angrily.
“ What do you shake your head like that for?
You’re enough to frighten a body, Jael, what
with your talk and your nods. What is it P ”
“ There’s need to be frighted,” answered Jael
in a low voice. She inclined her head towards
the door of the parlour. “ I don’t like the looks
of she said. “ But, of course, I knew there
was something. That winding-sheet, and the
blind, and———”


56 THE MARRIAGE LINES
“ It's all nonsense I ” cried Judith. “Don’t
talk so. He’s only tired.”
“ There’s something wrong with him,” insisted
Jael. “ It’s his heart, is my opinion. Mr.
Stubbs, t’other side of the hill—but you’ll not
remember him—he contracted heart trouble,
as they term it, and his face looked just like
what the master’s does now—there’s a drawn look
on the faces of them as gets that complaint
that can’t be mistaken if you once know it, and
they turn puffy and blue, like, under their eyes.
And then him asking for the brandy, too 1—-
strong spirits like that there, when nobody ever
knew him take more nor a drop of gin or so
before going to bed.”
“ I tell you he's tired,” said Judith. “And
I'm not going to be frightened by you, Jael
Quince. You’re always croaking. He’s had a
harder day than usual.”
“ And it’s a bad thing him taking no supper and
sipping spirits on an empty belly,” continued
Jael, imperturbably. “ It’s the worst—”
“ He’s had his supper in Sicaster,” said Judith.
“ He’d got it at the Lion. He said so.”
“ He’d the appearance of a fasting man,”
insisted the housekeeper. “ You can’t tell me—
I’ve eyes in my head. And I shall not go to bed
till he comes out, and then I shall coax him to have
I


THE GREY SHADOW 57
a bowl 0’ soup—I’ve some right good soup ’ats
that rich that you could stand a spoon up in it.”
But when Martin came out of his parlour
twenty minutes later, Jael found her plans upset.
He looked himself again, and his voice was as
strong as usual.
“ Hullo, missis ! ” he exclaimed, glancing at
Jael. “ Not off to bed yet? Come—come!
It’s well past your time; you’re missing your
beauty sleep—ha’ you forgotten that one hour
before twelve’s worth two after! No, no! I
want naught, neither soup nor meat—all I want
is a pipe 0’ bacca and a talk with my niece here
——I’ve a bit 0’ business to talk over wi’ her.
So good-night, missis.”
Jael took her dismissal in silence and went
away. But she had no intention of repairing to
her chamber in a far wing of the old house at
that moment. Between the house-place and the
stone-walled hall from which the staircase
ascended to the upper rooms, there was a roomy
store closet, which had doors opening into it
from both sides. Into this she presently betook
herself, moving as silently as a mouse. She had
proved from long experience that any one hidden
in that place could easily overhear all that was
said in the room in which she had left Martin
and his niece.


58 THE MARRIAGE LINES
VI
MARTIN, the housekeeper being gone, sank down
into the easy chair which was always set for him
before the hearth, and with a look summoned
his niece to her usual place at his side. For a
while he smoked in silence, staring at the leaping
flames and caressing the head which Judith
rested against his knee. The girl began to feel
more satisfied about him: this was a return to
the usual order of things. They had often sat
like that in the last quiet of the evening when
Jael had gone to bed and Michael was out visiting
his friends or putting in an hour at the village
club. But when Martin spoke she was quick
to observe that his voice trembled.
“Judith, my lass,” he said, “ there's a some
thing that I must say to you, my dear. And
happen it’ll frighten you, but you see, my lass,
you might be worse frighted if I didn’t say it.”
Judith twisted herself round and stared at
him with a sudden suspicion in her eyes. And
Martin averted his face, and looked away into
the shadows.
“ You may have noticed, lass, that I’ve not
been—not what I used to be, of late," he went on
after a pause, in which the girl began to hear her


THE GREY SHADOW 59
/
own heart begin beating at a more rapid rate,
and noticed, with a queer sense of unreality, that
it seemed to be racing with the old clock in the
corner, and going at the rate of three to one:
“ there’s been that shortness o’ breath, and that
wanting to sit down after doing aught, and--
and other things. Happen you’ve noticed, joy P ”
“ Yes,” she whispered, “ yes ! ”
“ I been to the doctor, my lass.”
Again Judith looked up. Her eyes fixed
themselves on Martin’s, and this time Martin
met their enquiring gaze with one as steady.
He pressed the girl’s hand and smiled at her.
“ We’ve always been a good lot, us Muscrofts,
for facing matters,” he said. “ Leastways, most
of us. We mun put a good face on things, my
lass, we mun put a good face on things.”
“ Tell me!” she said. “ Tell me! ”
“ It’s the heart,” he answered. “ Very bad
is my heart, Judith. The doctor he said it was
no use concealing the fact—it’s in a very bad
state—has been for some time, he says.”
Judith had got a firm hold of both his hands
by that time, and was holding them as if some-
thing were coming that purposed to drag him
away from her. Instead of speaking, she nodded
her head, meaning to show that she understood.
Martin bent forward and kissed her forehead.


60 THE MARRIAGE LINES
“ That’s a brave lass l " he said. Then,
looking at her gravely, he added in steadier
tones than had come to him so far, “Judith,”
he said, “ I might go at any minute.”
The girl quivered in every nerve: Martin felt
the pulses leap and quiver in the hands that
held his.
“ Any minute,” he repeated. “ Any minute!
It’s a terrible thought, that, lass, when you’re
face to face with it, like. Not that I’m afraid
--no ! But when you come to look straight at a
thing, you know. Hows’ever, it was not that
that I wanted to talk about. But there is things
as I mun talk about, because of the danger.
Any minute, he said, did the doctor. And I
thought—I thought the minute was come when
I got in to-night and the feeling came on. That
was why I asked for the brandy—he said, did the
doctor, to take a sip of that when I were seized,
and to rest quiet for a bit.”
Judith released one of her hands and turning
to the table took up the glass which Martin had
carried in with him, and made him drink. Now
that she looked more closely at him she, too,
saw the symptoms which Jael Quince had spoken
of.—And full of pain and horror at the prospect
before them, she unconsciously cried out the
first instinct of her heart.


THE GREY SHADOW 61
“ Oh ! ” she exclaimed, “ I wish—I wish
Michael was here ! "
Martin put down his glass and stroked his
niece's head again.
“ Aye, my pretty I ” he said soothingly. “ It’s
right that ye should turn to Michael when there’s
trouble. Stick to him, my lass, in all that comes
—he’s a good and a straight lad, is my son Michael,
and a man that any woman can be proud of, I’ll
warrant I But, Judith, I’m glad that Michael
isn’t here—to-night.”
Judith looked at him wonderingly. Knowing
how devotedly fond Martin was of his elder son,
how he leaned on him, relied upon him, loved to
have him about him, these words surprised her.
Martin saw the surprise and shook his head.
“ Aye, my lass,” he continued. “ I’m glad
that the lad’s away—’cause I want to talk to you.
You’ve come to woman’s estate now, Judith, and
you’ve more sense than most women. And I’ve
that to say to you that’s between you and me.
What I’ve got to say, what I’m going to tell you,
you must neVer say or tell to mortal soul—no, not
even to Michael when he’s your lawful wedded
man—never l ”
Judith half shrank away from him.
“ Not even to Michael 1 ” she repeated. “ I—-
I haven’t a secret in the world from him! ”


62 THE MARRIAGE LINES
“ Right, lass, right—and God grant that ye
never may have,” said Martin fervently. “But
-—you must keep this secret from
“ Always P ” she faltered. “ For ever I ”
“For ever. My lass, it’s for Michael’s good.
When I’m gone,” he said, with emphasis, “ When
I’m gone, Judith, there’s not a soul in the world'll
know that secret but you and one other body ’at
it's safe with—safe as it’ll be wi’ you. And you
must keep the secret—keep it, I say, for ever.”
Judith, crouched at Martin’s feet, looked up at
him for a full minute without speaking.
“ Oh I " she said at last. “ But it’s an awful
thing to keep a secret from—from your husband.
And to have to keep it for—for all the years to
come I ”
Martin’s face, bending down to her, grew stem
with purpose.
“ It’s for his own good, my lass,” be repeated.
“ It’s a thing that he mun never know. But
somebody mun know~—or else—”
He ceased at that, and shaking his head looked
fretfully about him until his glance rested on some
old books that lay piled together on the top of an
ancient chest of drawers set against the wall.
“ Somebody mun know,” he said. “ Or else—-
or else Michael ’ud be a beggar.”
“ A beggar l ” she exclaimed, shrinking still


THE GREY SHADOW - 63
further away. “ Michael l—a beggar I And—
your son I ”
Martin moved fretfully in his chair. He pointed
to the old books.
“ Ye don’t understand, my lass,” he said.
“ I’ll strive to make it clear to yer. But you
mun swear to me. Here, take this key, Judith—
there’s an old Bible in the top drawer o’ my desk.
Bring it here.”
There was such an insistence, such a peremptori-
ness in his tone, that the girl rose against her will
and hastened to do his bidding. She found and
brought back the Bible, and Martin signed to her
to unclasp it, and to place her hand on the open
pages.
“ Ye mun say after me,” he ordered firmly.
“ Say the very words. Now then. ‘ I swear
on this Bible never to tell to anybody what my
uncle Martin now tells me unless it becomes
necessary to do so, according to his instructions.’
Say that, Judith.”
He repeated the words again, slowly, and Judith
said them after him, he nodding his head at
each.
“ You mun kiss the Book,” he said. “ That’s
the right way. And if ye ever break your oath
you’ll be damned, mind you that, my lass I
But it’s for Michael’s good, I say.”


64 THE MARRIAGE LINES
“ Oh, what is it—what is it ? ” she cried, sink-
ing down at his knees again. “ I’m frightened.”
Martin laid his hand soothineg on her shoulder.
“ You mun think of your love for Michael,” he
said. “ It’s for him you’ve done this. Put the
Book away, my lass, and come back, and I’ll
tell you everything. I ha’nt never told mortal
man nor woman—’cepting that other that I told
you about, that the secret’s safe with.”
Judith obeyed his bidding mechanically. The
haunting dread which had been on her in the
earlier part of the evening had now returned with
renewed force ; she was quivering in every limb
with hardly-repressed fear at the thought of what
might be told to her, and it was only by a great
effort that she controlled herself sufficiently to
assume and counterfeit an expression of cahnness.
Everything in her was demanding Michael’s
support and protection ; what made her so afraid
was the knowledge that she must hear this thing
alone. And upon that came the added know-
ledge that she might have to keep this secret-—
whatever it was—all her life. It had been her
great dream that she and Michael should never
have anything between them ; she wanted to share
everything with him, in keeping with the policy
which they had pursued ever since their boy-and-
girl days. But now


THE GREY SHADOW 65
“ I’ve promised,” she said, almost apathetically.
“ What is it ? Let me know—I shall feel better
when I know.”
Martin bowed his head over her.
“ It’s hard to tell, my lass,” he began. “ But
there, now, I’m coming to an end with it. I think
the world’s a hard place, in some ways—only in
some ways. Now, I’ll try to put it straight. And
you mun do your best to gather it up, Judith.
Now, to start with, you mun understand that
pretty nearly all I’m possessed on, my lass, is in
what the lawyers calls real estate; with the ex-
ception of maybe five or six hundred pound in the
bank and what’s in the house, it’s all in real estate.
This mill and house, and the fifty acres of land
round ’em, is mine ; yon Hopewell Farm down in
the valley is mine. I bought it and paid for it
twelve year come May-day; there’s two streets
of good house property in Sicaster is mine. And
they're all clear—~there’s no mortgages, nor
naught 0’ that sort on ’em. It’s a niceish bit 0’
property, Judith, for a man to leave”
Judith nodded her head. This was not the
secret. Already she knew all that Martin had
told her.
“ Now then,” continued Martin, “ if so be as I
die without making a will all that there real estate,
according to what they call the strict letter of
E


THE GREY SHADOW 67
that he’d share wi’ Stephen. But—there’s a
danger.”
“ What?” asked Judith, noticing a sudden
change in Martin’s voice. “ Danger of what ? "
For a moment Martin made no answer. Look-
ing up at him, Judith saw that he was staring
into the shadowy part of the house-place, staring
at she knew not what; his hands, seamed and
sinewy, gripped the arms of his chair in a fierce
hold.
“ I shall ha’ to rake up the past days,” he
said in a low voice. “ I shall ha’ to speak 0'
what I wanted to be dead and gone. I mun
speak of the matter whether I like it or no, and
you mun hear, my poor lass, whether you like it
or no. Judith, you’re a grown young woman,
and you’ll maybe understand things a deal
better nor what I fancy you do—nowadays young
folks seems to know a deal more than they used
to.”
“ I'll try to understand whatever you tell
me,” she answered.
Martin looked down at her upturned face.
His own was grave and set.
“ You’re aware,” he said, speaking firmly,
as with a determination to shirk nothing.
“ You’re aware that Michael and Stephen had
different mothers ? "


68 THE MARRIAGE LINES
“ Yes,” she said timidly. “ I know that."
“ You’ve always thought, as all other folks
think, that Stephen were the second wife’s and
Michael the first’s,” he went on. “ Aye l—but
it were wrong! Ye see, Judith, the truth is,
though God knows I loved her as a wife, me and
Michael’s mother, we weren’t—wed. He—he
weren’t born in wedlock l ”
It seemed to Judith that something suddenly
turned all the live, hot blood in her veins first
to streams of molten fire, then to rivers of ice
that bit and stung worse than the flames they
succeeded. In spite of that icy coldness she felt
her face burn to a hot flush ; her temple throbbed ;
the tongue in her mouth turned dry ; her throat
became parched as if it had been filled with hot,
fine sand. Then, as the meaning of Martin's
words slowly forced itself upon her, she experi-
enced a strange sort of sickness, and almost
unconscious of what she was doing she grasped
at the glass on the table and hastily gulped part
of its contents. Martin half rose from his chair,
alarmed, ready to cry out. But Judith waved
her hand at him.
“ Leave me be!” she murmured. “I’m all
right. I—-—”
She stopped, and still crouching at Martin’s
feet, gazed down at the floor on which she knelt.


THE GREY SHADOW 69
She was thinking of Michael, whose head had
always been carried so high, who was so proud
of himself, who—ah, well, to her love for Michael
nothing could ever make a difference! But if
he ever came to know !
She suddenly looked up, seeking for and grasp-
ing Martin’s hands almost convulsively.
“ I’ll never, never tell I ” she protested.
“ Never] I see now why you made me swear.
No—I’ll never tell I Never 1 ”
Martin bent his head over hers until his cheek
touched her brown hair.
“ Aye, lass, but—there may come a day when
you’ll have to tell,” he said. “ You may have
to tell, to save Michael. For although there isn’t
a soul knows but you and me—at least, in these
parts, if indeed anywhere—it might come to light,
yet, and then—then there’ll be none but you to
save the lad.”
“ How—how? ” she asked eagerly.
“ You must hearken a bit more,” he answered.
“ I mun tell it my own way, or I get mazed, like.
You see, Judith, my lass—it Were this way. Me
and Michael’s mother, poor gel, we were ower fond,
and yet there were things kept us from wedding
until it were too late, and then—then she died
when he were born. Eh, dear, it’s a many, many
year since now, but I ha’n’t forgot the trouble on


70 THE MARRIAGE LINES
it I—no, and never shall. Stephen’s mother
were a good lass, and I were getting fond on her
when she were took, but she could never ha’
been like the first—no! Stop you, now—I ha’
a picture 0’ my poor girl i' this old pocket-book
0’ mine that nobody’s never seen, no, not even
Michael. But I’ll show it to you, my lass, and
you mun promise me that when I go, you’ll put
it i’ the coffin—it’s what I’ve kept it for."
He had drawn out from his pocket as he talked
an old wallet, tied about with a bit of the cord
which they used in the mill to tie up the mouths
of the sacks, and from it he presently produced a
silhouette cut out of black paper and pasted on
a card.
“ Done, that was, at a fair at York that the
two on us went to," he said, with a sigh. “ Man
that were there did it for sixpence, wi’ a pair 0'
scissors—it were before the days 0’ this here
photography as they call it. Look how natural it
is l—that’s the very nose and chin of her, and see
how wonderful he did the curls and the bonnet
—it were a white chip, wi’ roses in it. Eh, dear—
it’s a long time ago, my lass.”
Judith gave him the faded and discoloured scrap
of cardboard back and kissed him. A tear fell
from his cheek to hers.
“ But I needn’t be an old fool,” he said, hastily.


THE GREY SHADOW 7r
“ We mun talk—business. D’ ye understand
matters, Judith? ”
“I understand all that you’ve told me," she
answered.
“ Aye, but do ye understand the significance on
it, my lass? ” he cried. “ Do ye comprehend
this—that if ever, by accident, it were found
out that Michael were not my lawful son, he’d
lose all ?—that Stephen ’ud step in and take
everything? That’s the law, my lass, curse it
and those ’at made it! Isn’t Michael my true
and right son as much as t’other? It were the
cruellest thing, the most unfort’nate thing ’at
me and his poor mother couldn’t wed i’ time, as
we fully intended—it’s useless, now, telling how
we were put offen it—but we reckoned each other
man and wife, aye, and in sight of God, too 1—-
we’d given each other our honest words. And
yet, 'cause he were not born i’ wedlock, Michael’s
what the law calls a bastard l ”
Judith cringed under the harsh word. Martin
growled.
“ Aye, so the law ’ud call him 1 ” he muttered.
“ Can’t carry his father’s name, for all his father’s
so proud on him; can’t succeed to his father’s
property, for all he’s a straight man that ’ud do
right by it and everybody. He’s nobody, in the
law’s eyes. I say curse the law, and them as


72 THE MARRIAGE LINES
made it—it’s again all that’s good i’ nature.
Michael’s my son, and my first-born ! ”
Judith held his hand to her bosom between her
own.
“ What am I to do she said. “BTell me.”
“ Nay, lass, it’s what I’m to do,” answered
Martin. “ And I won’t curse and swear, ’cause
I want a cool head. Hark ye, Judith, there’s a
thing ’at can be done, that’ll make all right, if so
be as ever it should come out. For, mark you,
my lass, if it ever did come out, yon Stephen and
his wife ’ud take every yard 0’ land, every brick
and stone and bit 0’ wood and plaster and leave
~ Michael wi’ naught! I know him—and I think
I know her, from what I gathered of her to-night.”
Judith made no answer, for there was only one
to make, and it was too obvious to need words.
She, too, knew Stephen; in spite of Michael’s
generosity to him, Stephen would have no hesita-
tion in asserting his legal rights ; he was selfish
to the last degree ; he would turn Michael adrift.
And the wife, embittered by what she considered
scorn and neglect, would encourage him. She
waited expectantly to hear what Martin said next.
“ I’ve studied the matter all ends up,” he went
on. “ I’ve read pieces in the newspapers, and in
yon old cyclopaedy, and I’ve asked questions,
roundabout fashion, you understand, my lass, of


74 THE MARRIAGE LINES
up for me by a lawyer—one of the cleverest, and
all l—and I’ve already written in, you see, the
proper legal name of who it is that I leave my
property to, and so there’s naught to do but to
sign my name at the end, and to have two wit-
nesses to sign theirs. Oh, it’s all proper and
correct, my lass, is this—this lawyer as drew it up
he understood that I’d fill in the name of the
person I was leaving all to. Now, I'll tell you how
it’ll stand when that’s done. It reads this way—
‘ This is the last will of me, Martin Muscroft, of
Muscroft’s Mill, Hetherington, near Sicaster, in
the county of York. I give the whole of my estate
and effects and the residue thereof to my natural
son, Michael Walgate, now known as Michael
Muscroft, and I appoint him the sole executor of
this my will. And I revoke all former wills and
codicils. Dated this eleventh day of November,
1857. Signed by the testator in the presence
of us, both present at the same time who in his
presence and in the presence of each other have
hereunto set our names as witnesses.’ Now, then,
you see, Judith, there I sign, and there the two
witnesses signs, and then ’tis done. Now them
witnesses, you can be one, lass, and Devery Ball
shall be the other when he comes to his work in
the morning—I’d thought about Jael, but I’m
none particular that she should know I’d made a


THE GREY SHADOW 73
will, for it’s my belief she tells all to Stephen.
So that’s settle .”
“ And then? ” asked Judith. “ What, when
it’s done ? ”
“ Then you’ll take charge of it, my girl, and
lock it away where none’ll find it,” answered
Martin. “I hope you’ll never, never have to
bring it out! Ye see, Judith, as I say, nobody
in these parts ever knew ought about it. It was
a long way off where it happened; when I came
here, bringing little Michael with me, all the folk
thought I were a young widow-man, in the proper
way, d’ye see, so, when I’m taken, there’ll be
nobody to raise no questions. But you never
know what may happen, it might come up, so
then—why, you’d have to bring out this will, to
make Michael safe."
“ And then—Michael will know,” said Judith.
“ Aye, lass—then Michael’ll know,” assented
Martin. “ But you’ll be his wife then, and you
can tell him and he’ll listen. And you’ll tell
him this, too, my lass—that I loved his mother
more nor aught I ever loved i’ this world, aye,
more nor I’ve loved him, and that’s saying a good
deal l—and that it were naught but the cruellest
o’ misfortunes that kept us from wedding in the
lawful way—if we’d been living a few miles
further north, across the Border, Judith, we


76 THE MARRIAGE LINES
should ha’ been counted as wedded lawful. But
ye see, my lass, where man-made laws is con-
cerned, what’s prime and good i’ one land is
wicked and bad in another, though there’s the
same sky above and naught but a ditch 0’ water
between ’em. You’ll tell Michael that, Judith,
if ever there's the ’casion ? ”
Judith suddenly flung her arms round his neck.
“ Oh, why don’t you~ tell him yourself I ” she
cried. “ Tell him, love, tell him 1 ”
But Martin rose, taken with a great trembling,
and put her arms away from him.
“ N0, lass, no ! ” he said. “ If ever it has to
be that Michael knows it, I mun have the grave
between us. It mun be so, Judith, it mun be so 1
It’s best so.”
Then he remarked quietly that he was tired,
and that they would go to bed, and Judith pre-
pared to carry out her last duty for the night—
that of going round the old mill-house and seeing
that all was in order and all the doors and windows
secured. It was a duty which she had taken upon
herself; the men teased her about her scrupu-
lous observance of it ; had they been left to
themselves they would have gone to bed leaving
windows and doors to take their chance. But
Judith loved this last patrol around the old
place; it gave her a sense of importance, and


THE GREY SHADOW 77
she would not consent to share it with either
Michael or Jael Quince. And now she caught
up the candle in which Jael had seen the winding-
sheet, and lighting it at the fire set out on her
round.
The mill-house was a rambling structure, the
original oddity of which had been added to at
various times by successive tenants, who had
built wings or thrown out more rooms according
to the needs of the moment. It possessed as
many doors as there were days in the week ; as
many windows as there were days in the month ;
there were doors into the yard, the garth, the
garden, the orchard ; doors which were reached by
climbing steps, doors to which one descended by
steps; some were secured by primitive bolts
of wood, some by stout iron chains, some by
keys a foot in length. Judith enjoyed making
these stout matters secure; in her girlish days
she had imagined herself a warder of some roman-
tic castle bolting, barring, and chaining against
marauders. But on this night all the old glamour
was gone; she went around the house with
lowered head. And in one room, the window
of which looked out upon the mill, she lifted her
head as she came to the uncurtained window and
through the glass saw, once more, the sinister
shadow formed by the motionless sails of the mill.


78 THE MARRIAGE LINES
She knew then the meaning of the other shadow
that had fallen, so suddenly, so surprisingly
across her life. This was the cross that she must
carry, perhaps for ever. For Judith knew what
Martin did not know, that Michael, a soft-hearted
and tender-spirited man, endowed with an
imagination, had formed a cherished idea of the
mother he had never known, and had often talked
to Judith of his ideas and conceptions of her.
It took some time to make the round of the
house. She had nearly completed it when,
passing the latticed door which opened upon the
deeply worn stone stairway that led to the beer
cellar, her sharp ears caught the sound of a steady
drip of liquid. She pulled the door open and ran
down into the damp vaults, which, long genera-
tions before, had been delved out of the green
sandstone. There she saw what she had expected
to see as soon as she caught the first dripping
sound. The man who worked in the mill, Devery
Ball, had been commissioned to broach a cask
of ale before leaving his work that evening, and
for some reason or other the wooden spigot and
faucet had worked loose, or had not been driven
sufficiently home, with the result that the good
home-brewed, of which the Muscrofts were justly
proud, was dripping steadily over the floor. The
floor, always damp and slimy, was already


80 THE MARRIAGE LINES
VII
JAEL QUINCE let the hand drop as she turned
slowly to Judith.
“ He’s gone,” she said quietly. “ I think he
was gone when I came down. I heard him groan
—twice. So I hurried down.”
Even in that moment Judith mechanically
noticed other matters. She glanced at Jael as
she laid down the mallet, and walked toward
the easy chair.
“ I thought you’d gone to bed,” she said.
“ You’re dressed.”
“I hadn’t gone to bed. I was sitting up,
mending Michael’s stockings. It’s no good,
Judith—we can do naught. He’s gone. I told
you it was his heart. That’s how they go,
sometimes—sudden as that. Well, he’d feel no
great pain. It’s no use, lass—it’s over with
him, poor man. And we must get him into his
chamber and lay him out.”
For the two previous years Martin had used a
room which opened out of the house-place as a
bedroom ; it had taken his fancy because he could
see the mill yard out of one window and his
hillside field out of another. Jael went across
and opened the door, carrying a newly-lighted


THE GREY SHADOW 8r
lamp with her. And Judith bent over the dead
man, looking narrowly at him. But suddenly,
remembering the leaking tap in the cellar, and
true to the instinct which had taught her that all
waste is sinful, she caught up the mallet and ran
back to repair Devery Ball’s carelessness. As she
drove the spigot home she reflected that it was
a good thing the ale had been tapped—it was a
great cask of thirty-six-gallon capacity, and
although much had run away in the crevices of
the floor, there would still be over and above
for the festivities attendant upon Martin’s funeral.
VIII
WHEN Judith returned to the house-place Jael
Quince had already taken out of the great press
which stood beside the chimney corner the linen
necessary for her master’s laying-out. Setting
it down on a table within the bed-chamber she
motioned to the girl to assist her in moving the
body.
“ We must shift him and stretch him before
he gets set, my lass,” she said, assuming a tone
of authority. “ Come, lay you hold of his
shoulders, and I’ll take his feet.”
Judith went forward unwillingly.
F


82 THE MARRIAGE LINES
“ Oughtn’t we to fetch somebody? “ she sug-
gested. “I could run down to the village and
send Devery Ball for the doctor.”
“ All the doctors in the world can do no good,
now,” answered Jael. “ He’s beyond all that.
And we want no Devery Balls round here—you
and me can do all that’s wanted. It'll not be
the first corpse I’ve laid out. Come, now, let’s
to work.”
Thus admonished, Judith lent her aid; she
was young and strong, and could have carried
the dead man unaided. They bore him into the
chamber, and Judith remembered that it was
there that the blind had fallen that morning.
So the omens had been fulfilled, after all! But
up to then the full significance of their accomplish-
ment had not dawned upon her; she felt as if
she were moving in a shadowy world—the only
thing that seemed real in her was her intense
longing for Michael’s presence.
The preparation and laying out of the body
was soon done. Judith proved herself quick to
follow Jael’s instructions. Within an hour of
the time she had left him alive in his chair, the
girl found herself looking at Martin’s quiet face
and still figure, and marvelling at the swift
transition from life to death. And as Jael pre-
pared to quit the chamber she lingered behind.


THE GREY SHADOW s3
“ Go away,” she said. “ I want to stop by
him a bit.”
Left alone she dropped on her knees by the
bedside. She was not sure if she wanted to pray :
if she did, she did not know what to pray about.
But she remained in that attitude, staring at
the rigid form, the set features, until her thoughts
began to wander. And suddenly she remembered
the unsigned will which Martin had replaced
in his breast pocket, and at the thought of it
she started to her feet.
Jael Quince, in Judith’s sight, had folded up
the dead man’s clothes and laid them in a drawer
close by the bed. Judith tore the drawer open,
and pulled out the coat. The old pocket-book
was still there, but the will, which he had carried
in a foolscap envelope, was not. Nor Was it in
any of the other pockets.
Judith suddenly remembered that when she
hastened from the rear of the house, in response
to Jael’s call, she found the housekeeper fully
dressed. She had been surprised at that, and
she had considered Jael’s excuse a lame one,
for she was very particular about her bed-time,
and there was no need for her to sit up mending
Michael’s stockings—a task which she herself
usually undertook. Why, she could not tell,
but Judith instantly suspected some treachery.


84 THE MARRIAGE LINES
The will, as she called it, had gone—some hand
must have removed it. Whose hand could it be
but Jael Quince's ? And Judith, thinking quickly,
reconstructed the actual occurrence—Martin,
after she had left him, had doubtless risen to
put the unsigned will away in his desk in the
little parlour, and had sunk back dying, with the
effort : Jael Quince, hearing him groan, had
run in, seen the paper in his hand and taken it
away. At any rate, the paper was gone—
and Judith had a lively recollection of what was
written on it. Whoever read it would at once
learn the true relationship of Martin and
Michael.
Judith dropped the coat and darted out of the
death-chamber into the house-place. Jael Quince
was making a cup of tea. She turned on the girl
from the hearth.
“ We can’t go to bed now,” she said, “ and a
cup 0’ tea’ll do us good after all that trouble and
shock. You’re leaving the door open behind
you, Judith."
“ Have you taken a paper out of his pocket ? ”
asked Judith.
Jael faced round, the teapot in one hand, the
kettle in the other.
“ Well, I never 1 ” she exclaimed. “ Hity-
tity, I wonder what I shall be asked next ?


THE GREY SHADOW 85
Paper out of his pocket, indeed! As if I’d ha’
had time to see what he’d got in his pockets ! ”
“ Did you take a paper out of his hand when
you found him, or did you pick one up from the
hearth ? ” said Judith, insistingly, coming nearer.
“ You must have done—you must ! ”
Jael set the teapot on the table, poured boiling
water into it, and replaced it on the hob, in silence.
And Judith, after looking at her steadily, passed
her and went into the little parlour.
Her mind was clear enough by that time. The
knowledge that Michael’s future happiness, his
fortune, were at stake, had driven away the
feeling of stupefaction occasioned by Martin’s
sudden death. As she swept out of the house-
place she was thinking rapidly. Had Martin
gone into the parlour? Had he placed the
unsigned will in some drawer of his desk ? Had
there been time? He might have done this as
soon as she left him ; he might have then had a
seizure, staggered back, and died in his chair.
But if that were so she knew in what drawer of
his desk he would have put the paper, and she
hastily produced a bunch of keys which she had
taken from his pockets and unlocked the drawer.
One glance at its few contents, always orderly,
showed her that the will was not there. She
locked the drawer and turned back.


86 THE MARRIAGE LINES
Jael had poured out for herself a cup of tea,
and was slowly sipping it. She looked at Judith
with a furtive glance of defiance. Judith ad-
vanced upon her.
“ Give me that paper, Jael Quince l ” she
demanded. “ You’ve got it-—you know you’ve
got it. No lies, now! Out with it! I’ll make
you give it up.”
Jael backed away from Judith's threatening
eyes and outstretched hand. The Muscrofts,
all of them, were famous for possession of a temper.
It blazed up in a moment and burnt at white
heat while it lasted. And while it lasted, it
was tempestuous and became violent, eVen in
Judith. Jael saw it rising now. But she had
a temper of her own, and a strong will, and
bore dominance and aggression from no one.
She was inclined to give Judith back as good as
she got. Nevertheless, she put the table between
herself and the girl.
“ Who are you talking to? ” she answered,
impudently. “ I’ll teach you to talk to me in
that fashion 1 I never were called a thief before,
and I’ll not be now. You keep a civil tongue
in your head, my lass, or you’ll rue it.”
Judith’s face flamed, and her fingers, strong
and supple as a man’s, began to twitch. She
advanced on the housekeeper.


THE GREY SHADOW 87
“ Give me that paper, this instant I ” she said.
“ I shall give naught,” retorted Jael. She
backed further and further away, encouraged
in her defiance by the knowledge that the door
was behind her. “ Who are you to talk like that
there—brazen young charity bitch I ”
Judith pulled herself up. Her face turned
White where it had been red; her lips formed
themselves into a straight line.
“ Now I know you’ve got the paper,” she said
in a low, tense voice. “ Now, then, hand it over
that table, or——”
Jael’s temper flared up ; the girl’s white face,
her blazing eyes, above all, her twitching hands,
ought to have warned the housekeeper of what
was coming, but she backed still further away,
and the evil spirit in her drove her to taunts and
sneers.
“ Or what, you hell-cat ? ” she screamed.
“ Or what ? Don’t you try to master me.
I’ll be out of this door in a minute, and down to
the village and tell what I know, and then where’ll
you and your Michael be ? Yes, I have the paper,
and it’s where you can’t touch it, and I’ve read
all there’s in it, and written in his hand, too, and
Stephen’ll have it before the light comes, and
he’ll kick you and Michael out! I tell’d you
both that a day ’ud come when I’d have my


88 THE MARRIAGE LINES
revenge on you, and it’s here. I have the paper,
and what’s more, I heard all ’at Martin Muscroft
said to you. What d'ye think 0’ that, ye black
bitch? Hal Ye’ll laugh on the wrong side 0’
your face when Stephen comes to take what's
his own, I'll warrant. And I shall laugh, too,
to see yon proud-spirited bastard turned out 0’
doors. Naught but a by-blow and—"
She had almost backed to the door by that
time, and she was lifting her hand to the latch
when Judith flew at her. The table went one
way, and the chair in which Martin had died
another in that tempestuous rush. Above this
rattle, and the crash of the teapot and crockery on
the stone floor rose Jael Quince’s shrill shriek,
drowned and stifled as the girl’s left hand closed
on her scraggy throat. Her slight form went
down like a straw before that mad rush, and the
solid weight of Judith’s body. And Judith,
mad with anger, twisted the skimpy hair in her
right hand and bent the woman’s head against
the lintel of the door until the groans which came
from the parted lips died into a dull moaning.
The figure beneath her stretched itself feebly,
stiffened, grew still. Judith, blindly foraging,
tore off shawl, bodice, linen, as if she were ripping
open the earth itself to get at a treasure. From
Jael’s corset she drew out the envelope in which


THE GREY SHADOW 89
Martin had placed the will ; in the fierce struggle
between the women the paper had become
creased and partly torn. And as she turned
to the light of the swinging lamp Judith remem-
bered that although she had recovered it, its
secret was lost. She knew that, unsigned, the
will was valueless; nothing could now make
sure to Michael what his father meant him to
have—nothing, at any rate, but Jael Quince’s
silence. Nothing, thought Judith, would keep
her silent. She meant to pay off old scores.
For she had always been at war with Michael
and Judith; had always sided with and petted
Stephen. No, Jael would not be silenced.
But, just then she was very silent. All the
house was strangely silent—silent and still as
Martin Muscroft himself, lying stretched and
cold on his four-poster bed in the chamber within,
the door of which she_ had forgotten to close.
Judith looked up and saw the dead man’s face;
it made her think of the marble statues of famous
men, dead archbishops, great soldiers, old worthies
that she had seen in York Minster when she and
Michael made a pleasure trip to that city. Never
had the old house seemed so quiet ; there was
not a sound in it save the subdued ticking of the
old clock and the slight rustle of the paper which
she refolded into the envelope.


90 THE MARRIAGE LINES
She turned presently and pushed Jael Quince
with the point of her shoe.
“ Get up l ” she said, angrily. “ Get up 1
You’re none so bad as all that, Jael Quince.
Get up and ask my pardon, or I’ll give you some
more, you lying thief l "
But Jael Quince made no answer, nor did her
body respond to the not too gentle touch of
Judith's foot. She lay very still indeed, as still,
it suddenly struck Judith, as Martin himself was.
A sharp exclamation burst from her lips; she
bent down amidst the shadows in which the
woman had fallen and seizing her by the shoulder
shook her fiercely.
“ Jael Quince, I say I ” she cried, as loudly as
if the housekeeper had been in some far-off room.
“ Jael Quince I Come, now-———”
She broke off her appeal as abruptly as she had
begun it, and drawing back looked at the woman
in a rapidly waking sense of comprehension.
Her rough shaking had brought Jael's head and
shoulders within the circle of light, and now
she saw the ghastly expression of the face, the
drawn lips, the glazed eyes, still wide open and
fixed in horror ; more than that, she saw, on the
throat, skinny and loose as a starved fowl’s,
the marks of her own strong and furious fingers.
Those marks were deepening in tint from a dull


THE GREY SHADOW 91
red to a deep blue. And there was a rigidity
about the figure which made Judith think of the
other rigid figure behind her.
She made one bound to the corner cupboard
and snatched from its shelf the bottle of brandy.
Her hands trembled so badly that she could not
draw out the cork; with the frenzy of frantic
haste she seized and drew it with her teeth.
The neck of the bottle rattled against Jael
Quince’s teeth a second later, as Judith tried
to pour the brandy into her mouth. She poured
and poured, and some of the liquor ran down
the woman’s chin and made rivulets across
her withered breast, exposed by the fierce assault
which Judith had made on her clothing in the
attempt to get at the paper which she had felt
sure was concealed there; some ran into the
slightly opened mouth. But no sign followed:
no choking, sputtering, no spasm of throat,
no quiver of lip moved upon contact with the
burning spirit. Judith suddenly realised that
she was trying to restore a dead woman to life.
For a moment a terrible faintness overcame
her. She swayed and reeled above the body
as if she were about to fall across it. But Judith
was not made of fainting stuff; she pulled her
strength together with a great effort, and still
remaining on her knees at Jael’s side, made sure


92 THE MARRIAGE LINES
that she was dead. Once certain of that, she
herself began to tremble violently; she burst
into a heavy sweat from head to foot. That gave
place to an icy coldness which seemed like to
numb and freeze her throbbing pulses. Slowly
she dragged herself up, and once on her legs
stared, horror-stricken, at the motionless figure
which lay at her feet.
“ She’s dead! ” she murmured, unconsciously.
“ I’ve killed her I ”
In the days that followed, in which she had
abundant leisure to think over the events of that
night, Judith remembered that she had no feeling
of compunction as she looked at Jael Quince’s
dead face. Her only instinct, her only thought,
was of Michael and the secret, and of the safe-
guarding of both. And following that instinct,
she turned to the hearth and threw the unsigned
will into what remained of the wood fire. She
watched the paper catch fire, flame up, burn
away in grey ash, and disappear, and then she
dropped into Michael’s easy chair, and propping
her elbows on her knees and resting her chin
in her folded fingers, stared long and hard and
fixedly at the dead body lying between the
hearth and the door.
She sat in this attitude until the clock reminded
her that it was already midnight. During her


THE GREY SHADOW 93
vigil her thoughts flew from one point to another
as if they had been imprisoned things striving
madly to find some way of escape. But always
her eyes remained fixed on the dead woman, and
wherever her thoughts flew they always returned
to a centre point. She must rid herself of Jae!
Quince. And the centre point which she con-
tinually returned to was the hollow on the
hillside above her. She rose at last, and passing
into the darkened death-chamber, drew aside
the window-curtain and looked out on the night.
IX
SINCE Martin’s home-coming the night had
changed. A wind had sprung up from the west-
ward and had brought with it great banked-up
masses of dark cloud, obscuring the moon and
threatening rain. Now the rain was falling:
Judith heard its rapidly increasing patter on the
window—panes and on the lean-to roof outside.
And she was glad of its coming, and of the rising
wind, and of the darkening night. Rain and
wind and darkness made it easier for her to
accomplish the task to which she had set herself.
That task must be done before morning.
During the half-hour which she had spent


94 THE MARRIAGE LINES
staring with dry and burning eyes at the body,
Judith had made up her mind what to do. Michael
must be saved at all costs—there must be no
enquiry into the housekeeper’s death, which
might lead to a revealing of the secret. She must
get rid of what lay there before her, so still, so
terrible. The deep pits in Hobman’s Hole
immediately occurred to her as fitting hiding—
places. She would give out that Jael had gone
away suddenly; she could say that she had
gone before Martin’s death and that his seizure
had been brought on by his being upset by her
sudden disappearance. Anything—any excuse—
so long as she had rid herself and the house
of the dead woman’s presence before Michael’s
return. He would believe whatever she told
him; so, she considered, would everybody.
And there was small prospect of anybody ever
prying into the pits in the coppice—no one,
indeed, could do that without Michael’s permis-
sion, the land now being his, and leave was not
likely to be asked. No, Jael Quince must find
her grave in one of those cavities—the deepest
of them, where the brambles grew—and she must
go down to it unattended by moumers and without
benefit of clergy.
Nevertheless, thought Judith, she would give
the dead woman decent burial—as decent burial


THE GREY SHADOW 95
as she could. And going away from the chamber
in which Martin lay, more statue-like than ever,
she closed the door upon him and commenced
her task. She disposed the body as decently
as she could, and taking a new linen sheet from
the press folded it about the now rigid limbs,
and carefully enfolded the drawn features,
shuddering as she saw the marks which her own
fingers had made on the throat and neck. A dull,
half-savage resentment suddenly sprang up in
her as she busied herself.
“ It was your own fault,” she murmured
sullenly. “ Your own fault, and if you can hear
now, you know it was. You shouldn’t have
done what you did. You listened, and you played
thief, and you threatened my Michael—and
I don’t care if your soul’s in hell, just now I ”
she burst out in audible tones. “ I don’t l
I don’t I ”
But just then the awful helplessness, the
rigidity of the still figure struck her with a sense
of horror, and she began to moan and to rock her
body to and fro as she hastily pursued her task.
“ I killed her—killed her—killed her I ” she
gasped. “ And I did it for Michael’s sake and
now—oh, God l—I’m not fit for Michael to touch.
I’m a murderess l ”
Yet the thought of Michael spurred her on.


96 THE MARRIAGE LINES
Although she knew that when he came back she
would feel as if she must crawl into any crack or
cranny of the old walls, any hole in the hillside
to get out of his sight, she was sterner than ever
in her resolve to save him from the consequences
of any revelation of the secret. From one of the
kitchens she fetched a large piece of sacking
and a pack-needle and stout twine ; she swathed
the linen-covered body in the sacking and care-
fully sewed it up, as bodies buried at sea are
sewn up, and she was conscious of a feeling of
relief when the face was finally hidden from her
sight. And then, having set open a side door
which gave on the field, she lifted the body in
her arms, making nothing of its light weight,
and went out with it into the beating rain.
It was dark enough by that time on the hill-
side. The banks of cloud had increased and
deepened; the moon was altogether hidden, its
light shone nowhere in the heavens. The dark-
ness indeed was so great and the rain fell so
heavily that it would have been impossible for
Judith to have found her way had she not been
so well acquainted with it that she could have
traversed it with her eyes bandaged. She went
steadily on, always climbing, until the dark mass
of the trees which formed a belt around the
depression rose up immediately before her. And


THE GREY SHADOW 97
so intimate was She with every yard of the place
that she walked unerringly to a certain gap in
the fence, and passed through it, and went straight
to what she believed to be the deepest of the
several pits. There was a thin network of bram-
ble over the mouth of that ; in the darkness she
felt for and moved it aside, pushed her burden
across the edge and heard it fall with a dull and
heavy thud into some far depth.
Judith turned at the sound and went swiftly
back to the house by the way She had come.
During her progress up the hillside to Hobman’s
Hole she had been thinking, planning, contriving.
She had not yet determined on the exact story
which she would tell in accounting for Jael
Quince’s disappearance; the details she would
settle later, for she saw nothing before her but a
night of wakefulness. But this much was certain :
she would have to say that Jael Quince had gone.
Now Jae! would not be likely to go without
outer garments ; therefore Jael’s best things must
disappear, too. And if there happened to be
money in her box that, too, must go, for the
woman could not have gone away without money.
So, on reaching the house, dripping and draggled
with her passage through the underwood, she
took a light and went straight to the house—
keeper’s bed chamber. To seize on the dead
0


THE GREY SHADOW 99
as soon as she reached the house-place, too
exhausted to change her soaked garments. She
had believed that nothing but a long vigil of
terrible wakefulness lay before her, but before she
knew it she was fast asleep. And when she woke
with a sudden start, it was the grey of morning,
and Devery Ball was thumping the door and
calling loudly on Jael Quince to give him the
keys of the mill.
X
JUDITH, naturally a heavy sleeper, heard the
knocking repeated again and again before she
rubbed the slumber out of her eyes and understood
what the sound meant. In the same moment she
remembered everything that had been forgotten
in her sleep, and for an instant the terrible sweat
of the previous midnight broke out upon her,
only to be followed by the icy coldness which
seemed to paralyse all her faculties.
“ Oh, God I ” she groaned. “ Oh, God I—
what shall I do?”
The knocking came again, succeeded by the
sound of audible curses and complaints. Judith
dragged herself wearily to the door and drew the
heavy bolt that secured it.
Devery Ball, a little, apple-faced, elderly man,


100 THE MARRIAGE LINES
whose figure was ahnost hidden in an old sack
fastened cape-like around his shoulders, and
whose head was sunk deeply in an ancient sou’-
wester, given to him years before by a seafaring
man who had paid a visit to the village and made
his acquaintance in the kitchen of the Hooded
Hawk, stood, impatient, on the threshold.
Around him and behind him, over the gaunt sails
of the old mill and across the grey land, the rain
was still falling steadily.
“ Lawk-a-massy, Miss Judith, what's come 0’
that theer Jael Quince ? ” demanded Devery
Ball, stepping within. “ I bin here knockin’ and
thumpin’ t’ door and demandin’ them kays for
varry near ten minutes. I don’t know why our
maister doesn’t let me keep t’ kays, i’stead 0’
me hevin’ to wait outside t’ door i’ all sorts 0’
weather for Jael Quince to ’liver ’em up i’ a momin.
And what’s gotten her now—it’s none so oft ’at she
oversleeps herself ? ”
Judith had drawn back as Devery Ball entered ;
she was now leaning against the dresser staring
at him. The little man suddenly looked up
and started at sight of her white face.
“ Nay, God bless us I ” he exclaimed. “ What’s
t’ matter, miss—are ye badly, or is owt wrong ?
Ye look that gashly——"
Judith made an effort and moved her dry lips.


THE GREY SHADOW IOI
Her own voice, when She realised that she was
hearing it, sounded hoarse and far-off.
“ Your master’s dead! ” she answered.
Devery Ball started back, staring.
“ T’ maister ! Dead ! ” he said, slowly. “ Ye
—don’t-—say! God, this is a bad ’un! What
wor it, Miss Judith—a fit ? "
Judith shook her head. She pointed across the
house-place to the door of Martin’s bed-chamber.
“ You can go in,” she said. “ He’s—laid- out.
He’s been dead since before twelve o’clock last
night. And I’ve been alone.”
Ball slowly took off his sou’-wester and his
sack and dropped them at the lintel of the door.
“ Alone?” he repeated. “Alone? Wi’ a
dead corpse in' th’ house? Nay! Why, miss,
where’s Jael, then P ”
Judith turned away and going over to the fire
began to stir the ashes of the logs, which had
smouldered while she slept.
“ Gone off in one of her tantrums,” She answered
abruptly, already rehearsing the part she meant to
play to Michael. “She’d gone when—when it
happened. And of course I had to do all myself,
and I couldn’t leave the house--after-—”
“ That’s t’ warst 0’ this owd mill,” observed
Devery. “ It’s neyther at Land’s End, nor yet
i’ London, which is a way 0’ sayin’ ’at it’s not


102 THE MARRIAGE LINES
clear away fro’ man nor yet i’ t’ midst 0’ human
habitations. Eh, dear, but this is a bad job
—a bad job! An’ me lyin’ peaceful and quiet
all t’ night, and knowin’ nowt about it. An’
Mestur Michael away, an’ all—it'll be a bonny
come-home for him, poor lad."
“Go in and look at him, and I’ll get your
breakfast ready,” said Judith, busying herself
at the fireside. “ And then I suppose you’ll
have to go and tell somebody, Devery ? "
“ Aye, I shall hev' a deal to ’complish, wi’
Mestur Michael bein' away," replied Ball. “ An’
especially seein’ at yon Jael Quince has ta’en her
departure. Not but what I’m a deal better
fitted to do things nor she is, wi' all her long
tongue. They may say what they like, some
folks, but a man’s varry useful about a place
when there’s sorrows and troubles afoot.”
Then he tip-toed over to the door of the death
chamber, and let himself in, and stayed there
some minutes, during which time Judith, glad
to be occupied, spread the table for his breakfast.
When he came out again, he was nodding his
head as if with great satisfaction.
“ Aye! ” he said. “ Aye l I allus did obsarve
’at when our maister come to be ta’en he’d mak’
a bewtiful corpse. Them folks ’at is gifted wi’
high noses and what they call good features to


THE GREY SHADOW 103
their faces allus does. There wor my poor mother
now—she had a varry high nose, like t’ quality
gen’rally possesses, and ye couldn’t ha’ seen a
bewtifuller corpse nowhere nor what she made
when she wor laid out—it wor t’ talk 0’ t’ place,
and folk come t’ see her fro’ a long way t’other
side 0' Sicaster. I never seed a corpse ’at looked
as well as what she did. Not but what our
poor maister there looks well—varry well, indeed,
and it’s a marvel to me ’at ye managed matters
so well, all by yersel', Miss Judith. But where
there’s a will there’s a way.”
Judith motioned him to the table on which
she had set out a round of cold beef, a loaf of
bread, and a pat of butter. She lifted the teapot
from the hob.
“ Get your breakfast,” she said. “ There’s
lots to do. Will you have a drop of rum in your
tea—it’s a nasty raw morning, and perhaps it’ll
do you good? ”
“ Why, thankin’ you kindly, miss,” replied Ball.
“ It’s a rare good thing to keep t' cowd out is a
drop 0’ rum. Aye,” he continued, as he fell
to on the cold beef, “ there will be a sight 0’
things to ’tend to till Mestur Michael arrives.
Back at noon, he telled me he should be. But
we mont wait for him. I mun go down to t’
village when I’ve had mi braikfast, and let t’


104 THE MARRIAGE LINES
news be known. Let’s see now—I suppose I
mun visit Mestur Stivven t’ first P ”
“ I suppose so," said Judith. “ Yes.
Stephen'll have to know.”
“ An, then there’ll be t’ carpenter, to come and
tak’ his measure for t’ coflin,” continued Devery.
“ An' I mun call at t' policeman’s, an' all.”
Judith, drinking a cup of tea as she stood by
the hearth, turned on him in surprise.
“ What’s he got to do with it ? ” she asked.
Devery Ball shifted a mouthful of beef and
bread from one bulging cheek to the other. He
nodded with an air of superior wisdom.
“ 'Cause there’ll hev’ to be a crowner’s 'quest,"
he answered. “ There’s ‘allus a crowner’s 'quest
when folks dies sudden, and there's nowt to show
what they died for, like, and no doctors there,
nor nowt. It's my duty, d’ye see, to inform t'
policeman, and it’ll be t'policeman’s duty to
inform t’ crowner, and then there’ll be what they
call a jury browt together, and they’ll sit on
t'body, as they term it, and give in what it died on.
Oh, aye, I mun tell t’policeman first go off. An’
happen ye’d like somebody out o’ t’ village to
come up and bide i’ t’ house wi’ you, Miss Judith,
while such times as Mestur Michael comes home ?
There’s Mistress Piper, now—she’d come.”
“ Oh, I don’t know,” answered Judith, wearily.


THE GREY SHADOW 105
“ There’s nothing to do. An’ I expect Stephen
and his wife '11 be up as soon as they know.”
“ Aye, I’ll warrant ’im ! " said Devery. “ They
weemt let no grass grow under their feet. They’ll
be wantin’ to know what their inheritance is, as
it’s called. It allus follows, of course, ’at when
a man ’at hes owt dies, his rellytives comes to see
what t’ corpse has left ’em, though nat’rally
t’ corpse itsen can’t tell ’em nowt. But there’s
some satisfaction i’ bein’ on t’ spot to tak’ care
’at nobody else runs away wi’ t’ brass. How-
sumiver, I think I’d better gi’ Mistress Piper word
to come up. Ye don’t look over well, and there'll
be t' dinner to cook, choose what. Folk mun
ate and drink, tho’ other folk be dead and gone.”
Following this precept literally, Devery break-
fasted with a large appetite, drank another
laced cup of tea, and borrowing one of Michael’s
old overcoats, which, in spite of the fact that it
was three times too large for him, made him, he
said, look more fitted for his mission, set out for
the village. The policeman’s cottage was the
first encountered ; Devery delivered his message
there, and then repeated it to Mrs. Piper, who
lived close by ; these folk received the news with
proper astonishment.
“ But I’ll lay owt ’at them ’at I’m goin’ to
now ’11 be more surprised nor what eyther the


I06 THE MARRIAGE LINES
bobby or Mistress Piper wor,” muttered Devery
Ball as he went on his way. “ An' one on ’em,
at any rate, '11 be rare and glad, an’ all, to hear
'at our maister’s departed this life, as t' sayin’ is.
She'll hev her eye on sharin’ what brass he’s
left, will Mistress Stivven, I know."
The door of Stephen’s cottage stood open when
Devery entered the yard ; within the kitchen he
saw Sherratt, unkempt and sullen, striving to
light a fire with damp kindling wood. Hearing
Ball’s footsteps at the door she looked up, and
recognising him as the miller's man, frowned at
him. The only thought she had was that Martin
had sent down some message, probably of no
pleasant nature.
“What do you want? " she demanded with
acerbity.
“ Mestur Stivven, is a gotten up yit P ” asked
Devery.
“ No, he isn’t, nor likely to be,” snapped
Sherratt. “ You didn’t expect to find him up at
this time, surely, a fine gentleman like him I
What is it ? "
Devery folded both hands on the top of his
old stick, and stared fixedly at his interrogator.
“Our maister’s dead,” he answered.
Sherratt, who was holding a pan full of cinders,
let it fall with a crash.


THE GREY SHADOW 107
“ Dead 1 ” she exclaimed. “Dead? What,
Mr. Muscroft P ”
“ Deed i’ t’ middle 0’ t’ night,” said Devery.
“ Sudden.”
“ It must have been sudden,” remarked
Sherratt, meditatively. She was already specu-
lating on two matters—the amount of money
Stephen would get, and the possibilities of com-
bining fashion with mourning. “ Why, what
was it ? ” she asked. “ Was it a fit ? ”
“ Accordin’ to what Miss Judith telled me,
and what I seen, I should say it were some’at 0’
that sort,” replied Devery. “ But t’ policeman
he says ’at it ’ud be what they call t' visitation 0’
God. Leastways, he said ’at that’s what t’
crowner’s ’quest ’11 bring it in—t’ visitation 0’
God, he said, did t’ bobby, and he knows t’ law
i’ them matters. Will ye tell your husband, if
yer please ? ”
“ Aye, I’ll tell him,” said Sherratt. “ I’ll
tell him."
“ There’s nobody there wi’ Miss Judith,” con-
tinued Devery. “ ’Cause t’ housekeeper’s ta’en
one on her tantrums and gone away, and Mestur
Michael’s away an’ all. Howsumiver, Mistress
Piper’s away up to cook t’ dinner. I expect ye’ll
be coming up, ye and your maister ? ”
“ We shall come up,” answered Sherratt.


108 THE MARRIAGE LINES
“ Then I’ll away back then. I have to see
about t’ coffin,” said Devery. “ I hev a deal to
do, wi' Mestur Michael bein’ away: it’s come at
a varry awk’ard time. I hed some flour to 'liver
at Mestur Crook’s this mornin’, but when a
deeath occurs in t’ family it upsets both toil and
pleasure."
When Devery had departed Sherratt went
upstairs. Stephen, having made his way home
at three o'clock in the morning, all his money
being then gone into the gamekeeper’s pocket
and the last drop of gin in the bottle being drunk,
had climbed the stairs, turned into the spare
room, torn off his coat, and thrown himself on the
bed. He still lay there in a half-drunken sleep,
and Sherratt gazed at him with feelings of anger
and rage, not because he was as he was, but be-
cause he was incapable of managing the money
which she belieVed would now come to him. She
shook him savagely by the shoulder.
“ Wake up, Stephen 1 " she shouted in his ear.
“ There’s news for you, if you could only under-
stand it. You dirty swine! _Wake up, I tell
you 1 ”
But Stephen lay like a log, and only showed
signs of awaking after she had fetched cold
water and thrown it over him. Then he opened
his eyes and glared at her.


THE GREY SHADOW 109
“ Wha’s that ? ” he murmured. “ Who——"
“ Wake up, I tell you,” said Sherratt. “ Your
father’s dead 1 ”
Stephen started up from amongst the bed-
clothes, which he had unconsciously clawed
round him in the cold hours of the morning. .
“ It’s a blasted lie ! ” he shouted, wide awake.
“ A damned lie!”
“ True enough,” answered Sherratt. “ Dever-
eux Ball’s just come down to bring the news.
Died in the night. And Jael Quince is off, and
Michael’s away. You ought to be there, Stephen.”
“ I’m going," he answered, leaping off the bed.
He went over to the washstand, poured out
water and dipped his head into it.
“I’ll make a cup of tea,” said Sherratt, and
went downstairs. But when Stephen, having
combed his hair and put on his coat, followed her,
he made straight for the door. Sherratt tore
from the hearth where she was endeavouring
to coax the damp wood into a flame.
“ Where are you going ? ” she demanded.
,“ There, of course," answered Stephen.
“ But I’m going," she said.
“ No ! ” he growled. “ You stop where you
are.”
And he walked out, scowling at her, and Sher-
att, recognising the mastery in his voice, made


no THE MARRIAGE LINES
no answer. But watching him from the window
she saw that instead of going up the road in the
direction of the mill, Stephen walked across the
street to the Hooded Hawk and disappeared
within the door, which Gibb, the landlord, had
opened while she stood at her own talking to
Devereux Ball. At last, with an exclamation of
anger, she threw a shawl over her head and going
out at the back of the cottage, set off to the mill
by way of the fields. She might as well let
Stephen know that even if he had come into his
fortune she, as his lawful wife, was not going to
be put on.
Stephen, walking into the Hooded Hawk, a
veritable manure-heap of foul smells and odours
at that hour of the morning, no windows having
been opened and no beer-stained tables washed,
met the landlord in the passage.
“ Give us a good stiff brandy-and-soda, John,
my lad,” he said in an imperious, off-hand tone.
“ It’ll just go down well, and I can do with it
this morning."
Gibb hesitated, looking at his customer's
shaking hand and red eyes. He knew that
Stephen had had money on him the previous
evening, but he also remembered that he had
gone home with the gamekeeper to play cards.
It was more than likely that all the money was


THE GREY SHADOW III
done, and that Stephen would drink his liquor
and ask for credit. And in the bar there was a
slate on which Stephen’s name figured with a
considerable sum appended to it in plain figures.
He murmured something inaudible, looking
loweringly at Stephen’s toes.
“ My father’s dead,” said Stephen.
Gibb started.
“ What? Martin Muscroft ? “ he exclaimed.
“ Why, I hadn’t heard naught on it.”
“ Nor me, till just now. Died sudden in the
night. Devereux Ball’s just been down to tell
us. I must go up. Give me that brandy and
soda. Have one yourself, with me.”
Gibb hesitated no longer. Everybody knew
Martin Muscroft to be a well-to-do man. Stephen,
of course, would come in for his share of the money.
He took down the best brandy, and poured out
liberal measures. There was good stuff at the
Hooded Hawk; the hunting gentlemen often
called there, and would have naught but the
best.
“ God bless me I ” said Gibb. “Why, that is
sudden! I saw him t’other day, and I thought
how well he looked.”
“ Heart,” observed Stephen, laconically. He
took up his glass, and drank most of the contents
at a draught. “ Gave me a shock, though.”


112 THE MARRIAGE LINES
“I reckon it would,” said Gibb. “ Um, well,
here's my best respects.”
“ Here's luck,” answered Stephen. “ Yes, I
must get up there; Michael’s away. Of course,
there’ll be a deal to see to."
“ Make a nice difference to you, I expect? "
suggested Gibb.
Stephen assumed an air of importance.
“ A considerable difference," he said. “ Of
course, me and the old man hadn't been over
friendly of late, owing to our getting married, but
between you and me, I know how things stand.
Half-shares, of course, between us, you know."
“ Why, that’s as it ought to be,” said Gibb.
“ I don’t believe in making a difference between
t’ eldest and t’ youngest. Share and share alike,
that's what I say.”
“ That’s what it is here,” said Stephen. “ I
know. One as good as the other. Justice, that.
Well, we’ll just have another, John—drop o’ rare
good brandy that I "
Stephen, thus fortified, was pot-valiant when,
nearly an hour later, he walked into the mill-
house. There were three people in the house-
place when he entered it, Judith, Mrs. Piper, and
his own wife, and they all stared silently at him.
He had come in his cups—early cups, but still
cups—to his father’s corpse, and they were too


THE GREY SHADOW n3
astonished, even Sherratt herself, to speak. But
Stephen was now clothed in his grandest manner ;
he was so dignified, so fine of speech, so impressed
with his own importance that he forgot on seeing
his wife that she had disobeyed his commands.
“ Well, Judith, my girl,” he said loftily, “ this is
a serious thing, a terrible loss, though one that I
have anticipated, you know, Judith. I always
knew that my poor father would be removed in a
sudden fashion ; his heart was seriously affected.
Yes, it’s a pity, too, that Michael is away, Judith.
Of course, in his absence, it falls upon me, as his
brother, to take charge of everything. Now,
where are my poor father’s keys, Judith, my
girl ? "
“ Where they're going to stop,” answered
Judith. “ In my pocket.”
Stephen attempted to look dignified reproof,
but he only succeeded in looking angry.
“ As the only representative of the family
present,” he began, “ I say that—”
“ You can say what you like,” said Judith.
“ Everything’s locked up, and the keys are in
my pocket, and there they’ll stop till Michael
comes home. And you’d best not to think of
breaking anything open, for I’ve sent Devery
Ball on the pony for Mr. Marcher, the lawyer,
and he’ll be here before long. And I've locked
H


114 THE MARRIAGE LINES
up the spirits, too, Stephen, and the beer cellar,
and I’ve got the key of both. But if you and your
wife want breakfast, Mrs. Piper’ll get it for you.
I’m going to my own room.”
Stephen's jaw dropped as Judith turned away.
And Sherratt gave him a savage look which half-
sobered him.
“ You damned fool I ” she whispered. “ If
you’d only come straight here, sober, we should
have had the keys out of her. You drunken
swine l it’ll serve you right if he hasn’t left you
a penny."
The day wore slowly on. Stephen and Sherratt
breakfasted, and went away, quarrelling. The
solicitor came, talked to Judith, commended her
action about the keys, and returned to town.
Devery Ball moved about the mill; Mrs. Piper
moved about the house. And Judith watched
from the window of her chamber for Michael’s
coming. It was long past noon when she saw
him and his horse round the corner of the hill.
She left the house and went out to the lane to
meet him, and as she went she wondered if it
was a time of hours or of ages since he had ridden
away.
END OF PART ONE


PART II
THE THORN BRAKE


I
To Judith the time which elapsed between
Michael’s home-coming and the burial of his
father passed as a dream passes. She saw every-
thing and comprehended nothing: all that she
was conscious of was a dull, aching endurance
of pain which weighed like iron upon her and
could not be driven away. Folk came and went
about the mill-house; the village carpenter,
who acted as undertaker, seemed to be in and out
perpetually; the dressmaker and her assistants
were for ever flitting about ; there was an atmos-
phere of bombazine, of crape, a smell that she
for ever after associated with black cloth, black
stuffs; there was a permeating odour of baked
meats, for it was necessary to provide lavishly
in the shape of great joints of beef and mutton,
of cold boiled hams, for the entertainment of the
countryside. People were for ever flocking to
the door to view the corpse ; there were questions
to be answered and things to be done in the
117


THE THORN BRAKE 119
to send Miss Jewdy away somewheer. If it
were t’ summer time it ’ud do her good to go to
t’ seaside, but, choose now, shoo owt to go away.
Ye see, mestur, shoo’s had a shock—I should ha'
felt it mi’sel.”
“ Yes,” answered Michael.
“ Young lasses is varry fanciful," continued
Ann Piper, “ and when they’ve passed through
tribylations, like what Miss Jewdy has, they’re
apt to tak’ up wi’ the melancholics. When t’
buryin’s over, ye mun liven her up, mestur.
Howsummiver, we all hev’ to stomach a bellyful
o’ trouble, as well as ate a peck o’ muck, afore
we’ve passed through this here vale o’ tears, as
they call it.”
Michael was experiencing trouble enough.
The solicitor had informed him that although the
title-deeds of Martin’s property were safely
bestowed in a tin~box at his office he knew nothing
of any will disposing of the dead man’s estate,
nor did he believe that his client had made one.
He advised Michael to summon Stephen, and to
search their father’s desk for papers ; it was pos-
sible that Martin had made a will and put it away
somewhere. But Stephen, on the strength of his
expectations, had contrived to borrow five pounds
from the gamekeeper, and had never been sober
since. And as Michael flatly refused to unlock the


120 THE MARRIAGE LINES
desk until Stephen was present there was nothing
for it but to wait. All that he could do was to
visit his brother, and to beg him to keep off the
drink until their father was buried. And Stephen,
having wept vinously, promised, and in further-
ance of his good motive, took forthwith to his
bed and kept it until the morning of the obsequies,
when he arose, very white and shaky, and had
perforce to be dosed with brandy before he could
proceed to his proper station in the procession.
To Judith the day of the funeral was as a night-
mare. The house seemed to be turned upside
down. Martin Muscroft, having been a much-
respected man, and well-known throughout the
neighbourhood, large numbers of people came
from all parts of the countryside to pay the
last tribute of regard to him, and all expected
entertainment. The parlour, the house-place,
the kitchens, big and little, were filled; eating
and drinking went on from an early hour of the
morning; pipes and cigars were smoked freely;
what with the fumes of tobacco, the smell of
baked meats, the odour of spirits, the place,
thought Judith, was more reminiscent of a
crowded tavern than a respectable house. And
in despite of the presence of death, everybody
talked; true, everybody talked of the dead
man, his virtues, his character, his peculiarities,


THE THORN BRAKE 1:21
his—this-that-and-the-other, but still they talked,
and loudly. It was all distasteful and trying;
so, too, was the funeral procession to the church,
in which she was obliged to walk with Sherratt
behind the two brothers. Sherratt made extens-
ive use of a new black bordered handkerchief,
liberally saturated with the strongest lavender
water, but Judith kept hers in her pocket, and
was unconscious that she had even put it there.
She had not shed a tear since 'Martin’s death—
not even when Michael, meeting her in the lane,
and seeing the agony in her face, had leapt from
his horse and taken her into his arms.
The people who lined the village street and the
narrow lane leading to the church said that
Judith walked to and from the mill like a wooden
image. Certainly the proceedings left her un-
affected, and she was still apathetic and listless
when, the family having returned to the house with
the solicitor, it became necessary to eat the
formal funeral feast in state. By that time the
place was quiet all the folk of high and low
degree who had come to the obsequies had
drunk a last glass to Martin’s memory and dis-
persed in their various different directions.
Michael and Judith, Stephen and Sherratt, were
all the relatives that Martin had on earth, so
far as they knew; the solicitor, of course, they


122 THE MARRIAGE LINES
regarded as much a part of the proceedings as
the sirloin, juicy and well-browned, which Ann
Piper was about to set on the table.
Michael drew Judith aside.
“Judith,” he said, laying his hand on her
arm with a fond pressure, “ you’ve always sat at
one end of the table in my father's time, but to-day
you must let Stephen sit there. It's his right.
I shall take my father’s seat. You'll not mind ?
It'll only be for the day."
“ I don't care where Stephen sits,” she answered.
“ If I could have my way, Michael, I wouldn't
sit down at all. Must I? ”
Michael was naturally old-fashioned and
conservative: to interfere with time-honoured
precedent seemed a serious thing to him.
“ Well, I think you’d better, Judith,” he
answered gently. “It’s always done, and it’ll
soon be over. And—I don’t expect Stephen and
his wife ’11 be for stopping. Then we can talk
-—I’ve scarce seen you since I came back."
Judith made no answer. Talk l—what was
she to talk about ? The one thing that her whole
being was aching to talk about was what must
never be mentioned. Talk l—she felt as if she
had been turned to stone or marble.
Michael took his father's place at the table
without hesitation or comment. He pointed


THE THORN BRAKE 123
Mrs. Stephen and Judith to his right hand ; the
solicitor to his left. Stephen just as naturally
went to the vacant place. And Sherratt, who
had never joined the family circle before, felt
encouraged to anticipate that what she hoped for
would come to pass, and that the presence of the
brothers at head and foot of the table denoted
their equality.
Nobody talked much over the funeral feast;
what conversation took place was chiefly between
the three men. There was a constraint upon it ;
no one spoke freely. But when Ann Piper had
cleared away the last remains, Michael, who was
well accustomed to the countryside ritual on
these occasions, produced the decanters, and
invited them to take a glass of wine with him
while the business that had brought them together
was discussed. And after the final sip of the
generous port which Martin had carefully laid
down many years before, he turned to the
solicitor.
“ Now, Mr. Marcher," he said, “ I suppose
you’ll have something to say to us, sir. But,
first of all, I’ve a word to say to my brother
there. Now, Stephen, Mr. Marcher will tell you
that when I came home t’other day, I found him
here. As you weren’t present, we sealed up my
father’s desk, and I gave Mr. Marcher the key.


124 THE MARRIAGE LINES
The desk hasn’t been opened since. When Mr.
Marcher has said what he’s got to say, you and
me'll open it in his presence. I hope that’s
agreeable and fair."
“ Oh, that's right enough, that is l " assented
Stephen. “ Nobody could say naught fairer
than that."
Michael turned to the solicitor.
“ Well, sir P " he said. “ We’ll waste no time,
then. What have you to tell us ? "
Mr. Marcher, an elderly man of the old-fashioned
type of family lawyer, pulled down his waistcoat
and shook his head.
“ Well, Mr. Michael—I beg pardon, Mr. Mus-
croft, I should have said,” he began, “ the truth
is, I’ve nothing much to say. Of course, we all
know why we’re here. It’s always usual, on
these occasions, for families to meet together in
order to hear the will of its late head read. Well,
now, although I believe I enjoyed my late client’s
confidence to a considerable extent ; although he
entrusted the title-deeds of his property to me
(they’re all in his own box, with its patent lock,
to which I hold a duplicate key; this, always
carried with my own), and although I know to
within a pound or two what he was worth, I know
nothing whatever about his having made a will.
He certainly never gave me instructions for one.


THE THORN BRAKE 125
I have looked through his papers—in the box
aforementioned—as a formality, you understand,
but as I knew, of course, that no will would be
found there, my own impression is that my client
never made a will. I have often said to him, some-
times seriously, sometimes jestingly, that it was
time he made a testamentary disposition of his
estate, but he always put me off. I can only
repeat what I have said ; I know of no will.”
“ He never spoke to me of making a will,” said
Michael. “ Did he ever mention the matter to
you, Stephen ? "
Stephen shook his head. He had managed to
eat a good dinner ; the sound old port was spur-
ring his brain ; he was beginning to think clearly.
“ No, never,” he answered. “ Never spoke
a word to me, at no time.”
Michael turned to Judith, who was listlessly
trifling with the shells of the two or three walnuts
which She had cracked. Although she was not
looking at him she knew what was coming, and
she felt an inward shrinking.
“ Did you ever hear aught about it, Judith?”
he asked.
Judith was seeking for the right word. But only
one word occurred to her. She spoke it listlessly,
apathetically.
“ No,” she replied.


126 THE MARRIAGE LINES
Mr. Marcher sipped his port and smacked his
lips a little.
" Of course,” he remarked. “ Of course, it’s
possible there’s a will in existence. Your father
was candid and frank to a degree, but he also
knew how to keep his own counsel; he could be
as silent as the grave if he chose to be. But I
dare say you know that better than I do. What
I was going to say was this : he may have made
M a will unknown to anybody. He may have
wished that even I shouldn't know all his affairs.
Now, there was nothing to prevent him from
having his will made when he went to York, or to
Leeds, or to Wakefield, as I believe he often did.
Some solicitor may have‘it in keeping, or it may
be in the desk which we scaled up the other day
My advice to you is, open that desk and see
what it contains.”
Michael glanced at his brother across the table.
“ What say you, Stephen? And if agreeable,
we'll do it now.”
“ I’m agreeable,” replied Stephen. “ Of course.
We may as well know .where we are and how
matters stand.”
He was still endeavouring to puzzle things out ;
still asking himself how it would be with him if
no will was found. He had a nasty idea, a vague
impression, chiefly gathered from pot-house


THE THORN BRAKE 127
conversation, that Michael’s priority of birth made
some difference, but he was not sure whether it
was a great or small one. Anyway it was beyond
him to believe that their father could have made
distinction between them, and he was not going
to ask Mr. Marcher’s opinion at that moment, he
would wait the turning out of the contents of his
father’s desk. At Michael’s suggestion he helped
him to lift the desk from the little parlour into the
one in which they were assembled. Mr. Marcher
broke the seal which he had placed upon it, and
produced the key ; the two brothers, side by side,
began their search, the women sat by, silent,
watching. The old solicitor, a glass of port in
one hand, the swallow-tails of his old-fashioned
coat supported by the other, hovered about, view-
ing the proceedings from over the rims of his
spectacles.
Both the young men were well acquainted with
the general aspect of their father’s desk when it
was opened. An old oak bureau of great age, it
had its full complements of drawers and divisions,
and Martin had always been most particular
about keeping it in strict order and scrupulous
tidiness. There were simple books of account
in one place, letters in another. It was evident
that the dead man had posted up everything con-
nected with his business to the very hour of his


128 THE MARRIAGE LINES
v-_ < v -_-____._‘_j__. _. _
I
death. But there was little of a private nature,
and there was no will, nor any memorandum
relating to a will. Within an hour they had
examined every scrap of paper in the desk, and
looked between the leaves of all the account books
without result. And Judith sat miserably by,
knowing that all this was waste of time, and
unable to say so.
“Well, that seems a blank covert,” remarked
Michael, trying to infuse an air of cheeriness into
the company. “ I’m afraid it’s as you say, Mr.
Marcher, unless it’s hidden away somewhere in
the house, which doesn't seem likely."
“You can advertise if you like," said the
solicitor. But his tone indicated that he had no
great belief in advertisement. And presently he
added, significantly, “ Personally, I don’t believe
your father ever made a will.”
There was a brief silence, during which Michael
occupied himself in replacing the books and
papers in the bureau. Stephen sat down again
at the table, and replenishing his glass, thrust
his hands into his pockets and stared at the
decanters. Sherratt kicked him under cover 0
the mahogany; he glanced at her and scowled,
knowing very well what she wanted him to do.
And seeing that he was for maintaining a dogged
silence, she suddenly spoke, a little hurriedly, a


THE THORN BRAKE 129
little tremblingly, her fingers picking at a tiny
crack in the polished surface on which her hand
rested.
“ And—and if there isn’t a will, Mr. Marcher,
what would the effect be?” she asked. “ As
it’s all amongst the family, like, it’s as well that
we shOuld know.”
Michael started a little and glanced at his
sister-in~law sharply. His eyes turned from her
to the solicitor. Mr. Marcher took a sip at his
glass, set it down, and folded his hands.
“ Well, ma’am,” he said, glancing left and
right at the two brothers. “ I was prepared to
make a statement on that point. If Mr. Muscroft
and Mr. Stephen have no objection——”
“ Say on,” said Michael. “ I’ve none.”
“ Let’s be knowing,” said Stephen.
“ Well, I know exactly how your father’s
affairs stand. He was a well-to-do man, but
nearly everything he died possessed of is in real
estate,” continued the solicitor. “ There’s, this
house and land and mill; there’s Hopewell Farm,
in the valley there; there are the two streets
in Sicaster, Muscroft Street and Muscroft Place,
which he built when the town began to spread,
and called after himself. That's the real estate,
land and houses. Then I suppose there’ll be
money lying at the bank and debts owing.”
1


130 THE MARRIAGE LINES
‘YKQ
Michael produced a small account book and a
bank book.
“ There’s about seven hundred pounds at the
bank, and a matter of some eighty or ninety
pounds out,” he said.
“ Say eight hundred pounds in cash,” said Mr.
Marcher. “ Well, the position then is this. If
there’s no will, the personal estate—this money
just referred to, you know—will be divided be-
tween you two young men. As for the real estate,
the property—well, it all goes to the eldest son.”
In the pause which followed this announcement
Michael continued to clear away the papers,
Judith absent-mindedly passing them to him from
the table. Stephen made no remark; he still
sat staring at the decanters. And presently
Sherratt discharged a fierce interrogation into the
silence.
“ What—all the property? " she demanded.
H "
Mr. Marcher bowed his head. He had been
quick to observe the nervous tremor in the
woman’s hands, the terrible frightened eagerness
in her voice.
“ Yes, ma’am,” he answered quietly. “ All."
“ And is that—is that the law? ” she asked.
“ Can—can he,” she jerked her head at Michael,
who had just then turned away from her, “can


I 32 THE MARRIAGE LINES
“ Say naught about our father, Stephen, my
lad,” he said. “ He's dead and gone. You listen
to me. I've a good deal to say, and though I
shall no doubt say it to you again when we’re
by ourselves, I'll say it now before your wife,
and Judith, who’s going to be mine, and Mr.
Marcher. Now, I’d some notion of this—I'd
an idea that there was no will, and I knew how
matters would stand. I had an idea, too, how
my father meant 'em to stand—as they are. He’d
a motive in his mind. He knew that I should
take care of what he left. And so I shall, because
I reckon myself as naught but trustee for it. But
you mun remember this, Stephen, and you,
missis, as you’re Stephen’s wife, for it’s the fact,
as Mr. Marcher there can tell you, what my father’s
left is mine 1 Mine 1 and nobody else’s.”
Michael brought his fist down on the table at
the last words, and looked with a certain defiant
resolution around the faces bent upon him. Then
he smiled.
“ But now I’ll tell you what I mean to do," he
went on. “I’ve thought it all out, more than
once, for I was certain there’d be no will. I’m
not the sort to keep a man, and specially my
own brother, out of what he’s a natural right to.
I intend to share with you, Stephen.”
He stopped amidst a dead silence, stopped, to


THE THORN BRAKE r33
lean forward, looking his brother keenly in the
face and tapping the table with his forefinger, as
if to emphasise every word.
“ But, upon conditions,” he continued. “ Upon
conditions. You’ll stop drinking and gambling,
and living as you do. You’ll work, steady and
regular. If you’ll keep to them conditions for
three years from now, I’ll share everything equal
with you, my lad, and account for every penny
that comes in from now to then. And during
that three years I’ll do what I know my father
had intended. I’ll see that you and your wife
want for naught, neither for meat nor clothes
nor naught proper and reasonable. You shall
be as well done to as I’d do to my own self. And
if things are as I hope they will be at the end of the
three years, why, nobody ’ll be gladder than I
shall! It’s all in your own hands, Stephen, my
lad, to make a man or a mouse of yourself, and
you’ll be a fool, and worse, if you don’t see it in
the right light. But, don't let there be any ill-
feeling about it. I’m doing what I know to be
the right thing, d’ye see, and I want you and your
wife to see it, and all. And now, then, I’ve spoken
out, and let’s say no more about it, for I’m as
fixed on it as our old mill’s fixed in the hillside.
But I wish ye well, Stephen, and—that’s all ! "
Then Michael rose and abruptly left the room,


134 THE MARRIAGE LINES
and presently Stephen and Sherratt walked
away, talking in low tones, and Mr. Marcher fol-
lowed, to find Devery Ball and get his pony, and
Judith, left alone, went upstairs and stared out of
her window at the desolate landscape. Hobman's
Hole and its trees lay directly in her field of
vision, and she knew that even if she shut her
eyes they would never be out of her sight.
II
JUDITH went into the little parlour late that
evening, carrying in her hand a packet done up
in one of Martin's big coloured handkerchiefs.
She laid it before Michael, who sat at his father’s
desk, posting up the affairs of the mill, which had
been somewhat neglected during the previous few
days. It struck her as she entered how quickly he
had settled down to his father's ways and habits.
As she glanced at his broad shoulders bent over the
desk, he reminded her of Martin. And once more
she felt the deadly fear of discovery. Nothing,
nothing, she vowed passionately to herself, must
happen that would turn Michael out of that place
which his father had meant him to occupy.
“ What’s that, Judith ? " he asked, looking
at the small bundle curiously.


THE THORN BRAKE 135
“ It’s your father’s pocket-book,” replied
Judith. “ I took it out of his jacket after he was
dead, and wrapped it up in that handkerchief and
put it away, and I forgot all about it until now.
I suppose it isn’t likely there’d be a will in that,
Michael ? ”
She knew well enough that these were only
idle words, but she wanted words of any sort
just then, and these came to her tongue. Some-
thing had made it difficult for her to tall! to
Michael.
“Not likely, lass,” he answered. “ However,
we’ll look.” And he unwrapped the handker-
chief, opened the pocket-book, and looked hastily
through the papers, most of them faded, torn, and
creased. “ No, there’s naught here,” he con-
tinued. “And I didn’t expect there’d be aught
anywhere. I’d a notion of what my father meant,
Judith.”
Judith lingered. The restlessness which had
been on her ever since the night of Martin’s death
was still there ; she could not remain in one place.
She wanted to go away now; where, she did not
know; she also wanted to stay where she was;
why, she could not tell. So she remained at
Michael’s side, looking over his shoulder at the
figures which he was setting down in an account
book.


THE THORN BRAKE I37
“ Isn’t it expecting him to do a lot after—after
what he’s got into the habit of doing ? ” suggested
Judith.
“ I expect naught unreasonable,” said Michael.
“ I’ve naught against Stephen nor nobody else
taking a pint o’ ale with their dinner nor their
supper, nor having their glass 0’ spirits at nights—
I do it myself, don’t I ?—so long as they do it
like men, and i’ season. What I will not stand to
see is that there sitting for hours together in
places like yon Hooded Hawk, tippling and tossing
good brass away, and going wi’ fellows like yon
gamekeeper, ’at gets chaps into his house when
they’re mazed with bad drink all to win their
money off ’em. If Stephen wants his reasonable
drop at night, let him have it, and if he wants a
hand at cards, why, he can come here and have
one, or we’ll go and have one wi’ him. I want
naught unreasonable ; all I want is ’at he should
steady up and go soberly and behave himself.
However, I’m master, and I will not see my
father’s brass wasted, no, not if I keep Stephen
out 0’ that half-share all his days! I’ll take
care that neither him nor his wife wants for
naught. I know what my father was going to
do, and what he’d started doing, because he’d
given me a notion before I went away, and he
told John Crawdale, too. And I shall do just


138 THE MARRIAGE LINES
what my father was doing. I shall settle these
debts up to date, and give all orders for proper
supplies, but I shall hand out no more money.
And happen Stephen '11 reform—he's not a bad
'un at bottom, if he’s kept away from bad com-
pany. All the same, Judith lass, I don’t think
over and above much 0’ that wife of his. She's
a tongue in her head, has that woman 1 ”
He slipped his arm round Judith’s waist and
drew her passively on to his knee, looking closely
at her.
“ Ye’re that white and drawn, like, lass l "
he said, uneasily. “ I’m troubled about you.
It was too much for you, that night ; it’s given
you a rare upsetting. How came it, Judith, ’at
you old atomy went off as she did ? ”
“ I don’t know," answered Judith feebly.
“ You know what she was like when she took it
into her head. She’d gone before, Michael."
“ Aye, but always to come back," said Michael.
“ An' I should ha’ thought she’d ha’ been sure
to come back when she heard about my father.
Besides, she couldn’t have gone far by the time
she did hear; it u’d be certain to be all over the
countryside next day. What did they start
quarrelling about, lass ? ”
“ Oh, about Stephen,” replied Judith, wearily,
as if she were tired of the matter. “ Your father


THE THORN BRAKE 139
said he wouldn’t have money given to Stephen,
and she said—she said she’d do what she pleased
with her own."
“ Well, I dare say t’old jade had part brass,"
remarked Michael. “ She never spent aught
much, and she’d been here a good while, so she’s
no doubt got a nice penny put away in a bank
somewhere. What is it, Judith? ”
For Judith had unconsciously started. That
was something she had never thought of. If
Jael Quince had money in a bank, some day the
bank people would be wanting to know where
the owner was. And then—but that eventuality
was still far away.
“ It’s nothing,” she said, answering Michael’s
question. “ A stitch in my side, that’s all.”
Michael drew her back to him. He was still
thinking of Jael Quince.
“ And took what brass she had with her, did
she ? ” he asked.
“I suppose so,” replied Judith, with indiffer-
ence. “ She used to keep money in a purse in an
old stocking, at any rate, and when she’d gone
the stocking was thrown on the floor.”
“ Well, I won’t have th’ old beldam back if she
appears,” said Michael. “ I’d about got stalled
of her. I’ve arranged with Ann Piper to stop
till we get wed, Judith. We’ll be wed, lass, as


140 THE MARRIAGE LINES
soon as seems decent after my father’s death.
I know he wouldn’t ha’ had us make any differ-
ence, so we’ll fix it somewhere about as arranged,
just about when Spring comes, Judith."
Judith made no answer. Presently she began
to stroke Michael's hand, softly and with a
certain timidity.
“ Michael," she said, “ do you think I could go
away for a bit? "
Michael suddenly remembered what Ann Piper
had said about the necessity of change for Judith.
“ Eh, why, bless your heart, of course, lass l "
he answered. “ It’ll do you good to have a week
or two off—it’s pulled you down, like, has this.
You shall go where you like, and with as much
brass as ’ud make a frying-pan I But where can
you go, Judith,” he added anxiously, after laugh-
ing at his own small jest. “ It’s not up to much
at them seaside places in winter, and you’d be
lonely.”
“ I don’t want to go to any seaside place,” she
said. “ I want to go where there’s some life, and
some—some bustle. I’ll go and see Tilly Cor-
daker—she’s been asking me to go ever since they
were married, and I’ll go now.”
“ What, to Clothford ! ” exclaimed Michael, to
whom Clothford, a smoke-canopied, overgrown
manufacturing town, represented all that was to be


THE THORN BRAKE 141
avoided. “ Gow, lass, can't you think of a better
spot than that ! ”
“ It isn’t all mills at Clothford,” said Judith,
knowing his thoughts. “ There’s a theatre at
Clothford, and concerts, and a park, and fine
shops.”
“ I misdoubt if theatre—going’s the proper
thing when there’s a death in the family,” observed
Michael, with old-fashioned gravity. “ However,
when you’re in Rome, you must do according as
the Romans does, I reckon. Well, then, lass,
write to Tilly Cordaker and tell her you’ll come
to visit ’em—happen I’ll drive you there myself
—it’s less nor twenty mile.”
He drew her more closely to his side and kissed
her, looking at her fondly. “ Aught that’ll do
you good, lass," he said. “ We can’t have no
pale faces about.”
Judith removed herself from his knee and stood
looking doWn at him.
“ Michael,” she said with sudden irrelevance,
“ there’s a picture of your mother in that pocket-
book.”
Michael nodded. His face, smiling before, grew
suddenly grave.
“ Aye, lass,” he said. “ I know. Not a picture
exactly. One 0’ those figures, like, that they used
to cut out of black paper.”


142 THE MARRIAGE LINES
“ Your father showed it to me, thatlthat
night,” said Judith. She was wondering secretly
why she mentioned this matter; she had not
meant to speak of the silhouette, and yet she could
not repress the words that had sprung to her lips.
“ He—he thought a lot about your mother,
Michael," she added.
“ Aye, I know, I know 1 " said Michael.
“ Aye l ” He pulled out his watch—an old-
fashioned thing that Martin had given him in his
boyhood. “ By Gowd, Judith, my lass l ” he
exclaimed. “ D’ye know it’s past ten o’clock?
Away to bed, this minute—Ann Piper’ll think
we’ve started to turn night into day.”
Judith went away wondering why Michael
seemed as if he did not wish to talk about his
father and mother. At the door she turned.
“ Aren’t you going to bed yourself, Michael ? ”
she asked.
Michael jerked his head towards the still open
bureau.
“ When I’ve finished these books,” he answered.
“ There’s a lot to put straight yet.”
Judith left him staring into the fire. He re-
mained in that attitude until all grew quiet in the
house. He heard Judith go her usual rounds;
he heard her go upstairs ; he heard murmured con-
versation between her and Ann Piper; then all


THE THORN BRAKE r43
grew'still. And at last he went over to the desk,
and sitting down in his father’s chair took up the
pocket-book and began to examine its contents
more carefully.
It seemed to Michael that this was something
like opening a dead man’s coffin and looking at
things which were meant to be sacred. But while
Judith was present he had only glanced at the
papers with which the old book was stuffed;
it had struck him later that there might be some-
thing, some scrap, some memorandum in which
his father had noted down what he meant to be
done, possibly some outline of a will. And so he
looked through everything again with greater
attention, opening out all the papers, scanning
their contents, cutting open two or three closed
envelopes, yellow with age. It was a miscellan-
ous collection which he inspected, and he smiled
more than once as he went through it. There
were a good many newspaper cuttings—an
account of a dinner of the Sicaster Farmers’
Club, at which Martin had made a speech,
another of his success as a prize-winner at a local
agricultural show; two or three relating to his,
Michael’s, prowess as a marksman in shooting
competitions. There was an old letter or two
from people of whom Michael had never heard;
certain promissory notes on all of which Martin


144 THE MARRIAGE LINES
had made some endorsements, signifying that he
had forgiven the debts which they represented.
And there was the envelope in which the silhouette
was kept—Michael placed that aside in a special
drawer, resolving to have the silhouette properly
and handsomely framed. And in a pocket, all
by itself, was another envelope, very yellow, the
flap of which was secured by a great black splotch
of sealing-wax, on which Martin had impressed the
old seal which dangled with other small matters
from his fob.
Michael turned this envelope over and over,
wondering what it contained, and if he ought to
break the seal. It might contain something of
importance. Then he wondered if he had any
right to break the seal and investigate the contents
without Stephen’s consent. Finally, deciding
that he was within his rights, and being sternly
conscious of his own rectitude, he cut the envelope
open and drew from it two folded pieces of paper.
He felt a certain amount of suspense, of wonder,
as he smoothed these out on the desk before him.
He knew at a glance what the papers were as
soon as he looked at them. The first was what
he knew to be a prized thing by all such women
as were met in his walk of life—the marriage
lines of his father’s second wife, Stephen’s mother.
He accounted to himself, without any effort of


THE THORN BRAKE I45
thought, for their presence in the sealed envelope.
The second wife, while she lived, would treasure
them, as all the country women did, like the apple
of her eye ; when she died, Martin had taken posses-
sion of them and put them carefully away. And
the other paper was Stephen’s birth certificate.
Looking at these papers, Michael began to think.
He had a reputation in the family for puzzling
things out; it was well known that if anything
aroused and excited his curiousity he would
never rest until he had arrived at some solution.
And as he sat there, an old puzzle, an old wonder,
that had been dormant for years, re-presented
itself to him. He suddenly rose from his chair
and going into the house-place, took down from
the chest of drawers the old Bible on which,
all unknown to him, Martin had made Judith
take oath to keep the secret. He carried it back,
laid it on the desk, and unclasping its heavy
covers, turned to the fly-leaf.
Michael’s memory went back to a certain Sun-
day many a year before. He himself, a youngster
of seven or eight years, had then learned to read,
and on that day, having repeated some text
that he had been set to learn, his father had
allowed him, as a great treat, to have the big Bible
out in order to look at the pictures with which
it was liberally adorned. He remembered all the
K


146 THE MARRIAGE LINES
circumstances perfectly. Stephen’s mother had
been dead some years—had died, indeed when
Stephen was born—the family was his father,
himself, Stephen, Judith, and Jael Quince. On
that Sunday afternoon Jael Quince, having
dressed the two younger children in their best,
had taken them walking on the hill behind
Hobman’s Hole ; he had remained indoors with his
father, who was smoking his pipe in the house-
place. And when he had gone all through the
wonderful pictures in the old Bible, he had turned
back to the fly-leaves to look at some writing
which he had seen there, and had spelled out for
himself these entries, and had silently compre-
hended them. They were there before him now,
looking no different from what they had looked
twenty years before.
Martin Muscroft: his Bible given to him by
his Father and Mother on his twenty-first
birthday. April 15, 1793.
That was in a man’s handwriting—Martin’s
own. It was on the very top of the fly-leaf.
Lower down, but in the handwriting of a woman,
there were two more entries :
Martin M uscroft and Selina Shepherd, married
at Sicaster Parish Church, fune 12, 1824.
Stephen Muscroft, son of above, born july 5, 1825.


THE THORN BRAKE 147
And Michael, letting his memory have full
play, remembered how, having comprehended
these records, he had suddenly turned on his father,
nodding in his chair over his pipe, and had
plumped him with a direct question, in the blunt
fashion only properly achieved by children.
“ Father, why isn’t my name in the Bible as
well as Stevie’s? ”
Martin had started at that question ; Michael
remembered well his look of surprise and
astonishment.
“ Eh, what—bless the bairn l ” he had ex-
claimed. “ Who’d ha’ thought he could read
writin’ ? Why, you see, Michael, my lad, it
was Stevie’s mother ’at wrote that in—women’s
fond o’ writin’ in Bibles about births and deaths
in the family. Men isn’t.”
And then he had asked another plain question.
“ Why didn’t my mother write in, about being
married, and about when I was born? "
Martin had fidgetted still more at that.
“Ah, I reckon she must ha’ forgot,” he said.
“Suppose she meant to do it, and put it off,
and—and it never got done.”
Then Michael had got solemnly down from the
stool at which he sat, and had fetched pen and ink,
and put them and the old Bible before his father.
“ You write them in, father,” he had commanded,


148 THE MARRIAGE LINES
“ Write them there, under your name—there’s
plenty of room before what Stevie’s mother wrote
about him and her."
And Martin had written and the boy had
watched and read.
Martin Muscroft and Mary Walgate, married at __
Cranby, September, 1819. /
Michael M uscrolt, son of above, born [uly I, 1820.
“ That’s right, father,” Michael had said.
“ It's right I should be in the Bible, first, isn’t
it ? "
He did not remember now what answer his
father had made to that, but he did remember
that he had soon afterwards locked up the old
Bible, and that he had bought the children
another with more pictures in it, many of them
coloured, and had told him, Michael, who was
pertinacious about the first, that family Bibles
were always kept under lock and key. And he
had never seen the old volume again until the
day after his father’s death, when he had noticed
it lying on the chest of drawers in the house-place
and had asked Judith how it came to be there.
Judith had answered that his father had had it
out, and Michael had been too busy to ask more
questions about it. -
But now, as it lay there before him, with the


THE THORN BRAKE 149
marriage lines of Stephen’s mother, and the birth
certificate of Stephen, he began to ask himself
certain questions. Where were his own mother’s
marriage lines, and where his own certificate of
birth ? His father seemed to have exercised great
care in keeping the two papers relating to his
second marriage ; surely he must have exercised
similar care about those relating to the first?
Was it possible that there were documents hidden
away somewhere!
Late as it was, Michael could not forbear a
re-examination of the contents of the old bureau.
He proceeded to go through the ancient thing
again, drawer by drawer, division by division,
looking at every paper it contained, searching
every old account book to see if any document
had been slipped inside cover or between leaves ;
surely, he thought, there must be something that
would throw light on the subject that was
troubling his mind.
It was by simple accident that Michael dis~
covered the presence of one of those so-called
secret drawers with which old bureaus and
desks of the eighteenth-century were often
fitted. There was little in their arrangement that
could rightly be called secret; they were recep-
tacles which could easily be discovered by an
observant eye. Michael pulled this one out


150 THE MARRIAGE LINES
unawares, to find in it a few things which Martin
had evidently prized and had carefully put away,
long years before. There was a knot of faded
ribbon ; there was a little prayer-book with
“ Mary from Martin” inscribed on its fly-leaf.
And within an envelope, sealed, were two locks of
hair, one a woman’s, dark and thick, the other
the fair hair of a child. That was all; beyond
suggesting to him a mystery of the past, these
things told him nothing. And again his memory
went back to that Sunday afternoon of his boy-
hood, and he again heard himself asking the
question :
“ Father, why isn’t my name in the Bible as
well as Stevie’s P “
A sound in the house-place suddenly aroused
Michael from a reverie into which he had fallen as
he looked at the locks of hair, the prayer-book, and
the ribbon. The door of the little parlour stood
wide open ; in the house-place the swinging lamp
still burned. And by its light he saw Judith.
She was descending the stairs from the sleeping
chambers, her nightdress trailing behind her
white and ghostly against the dark oak, her hair
falling in great masses about her shoulders. Her
eyes were wide open, and she was staring intently
into the shadows of the house-place, but Michael,
struck spellbound in his chair, saw that she was


THE THORN BRAKE 15I
walking in her sleep. He had heard that it was
dangerous to awaken sleep walkers, and he
remained motionless, watching her through the
open door.
Judith walked slowly across the house-place
to the door, which opened on the mill yard. She
stopped before she reached it, and stood for some
time looking down at the floor. At last she gave
a deep sigh, and turning away, crossed over to a
window that looked out on the hillside and the
waving trees of Hobman’s Hole, just discernible in
the light of a waning moon. She lifted the
curtain, and drew it aside, and gazed anxiously
into the night, and again she sighed deeply. And
suddenly she spoke, and Michael, leaning forward,
heard the words.
“ Don’t call me, Jael Quince, don’t call me.
Rest quiet, Jael Quince, I don’t want to be
called I ”
She presently dropped the curtain, and turning
away with another sigh, went slowly up the stairs
and disappeared. Michael sat motionless until
he heard the door of her chamber softly close, then
he stirred, rose, and shook his head. He believed
Judith to be dreaming that it was morning, and
that she fancied Jael Quince, always an early
riser, to be calling her.
“ She’s got right upset by all this,” he mur-


154 THE MARRIAGE LINES
a good job you came ; you want ’livening up, and
there's naught like town life for that. I must
take you out all I can, and John'll take us to the
theatre now and then, and when I’m busy you
must go and see the sights and the shops. They’ve
just opened a beautiful museum and a picture
gallery, not ten minutes' walk from us. You can
put in an hour or two at that any time; there's
a deal 0’ fine things to see there."
It was in an alcove of the picture gallery that
Judith eventually did most of her thinking.
There was there a monster cast of a heroic figure,
a man engaged in a life—and-death struggle with a
lion. This fascinated her ; she got into the habit
of taking her needlework to the place, finding a.
quiet comer, and studying the cast and its
suggestions. Somehow, she identified herself
with the figure ; the lion represented the trouble
that tore at her heart. In the man’s face she
saw resolve and yet doubt as to the ultimate
result of the terrible struggle ; in the animal she
saw the relentless cruelty of unreasoning purpose
to rend and destroy. She came to fancy that
the figures were alive, that she was watching a
combat which must surely end, and in death.
Was the man to kill the lion, or was the lion to
destroy the man? And was she herself to be
destroyed by the agony which was tearing at her


THE THORN BRAKE 133
heart every day, or was she to resolutely kill it
and cast it away from her for ever.
As the days passed on Judith began to realise
things more clearly. She had little, if any, fear of
discovery in the matter of Jael Quince. The
woman had come from nobody knew where, and
there was nobody to care as to wherever it was
that she was supposed to have betaken herself.
No, that was not her trouble. Her trouble, her
pain was that she must keep her secret from
Michael, from whom she had never concealed
anything, with whom she had shared every
thought since childhood. Something in her
was crying out insistently for speech, for
confession, for the clearing of her soul, and there
was nobody and nothing but Michael to whom
she could lay bare her heart. And if she did she
saw nothing but blackness and desolation and
great sorrow.
For Judith, ordinary and simple young woman
though she was, unlearned in the ways of the
world and knowing little of human nature, knew
Michael. He was proud, he was stiff-necked and
stubborn in his pride. It would be just like him,
she said to herself, if he discovered the truth, to
give up everything that his father had meant
him to have, to turn his back on the old place
and to go out into the world, a poor man, to make


156 THE MARRIAGE LINES
his own way. That was one thing that had to be
considered. But there was another. Michael
had a great opinion of his father; might it not be
that if he learnt the truth that opinion would
change ? He might—it was conceivable, she
thought—consider that his father had done his
mother a wrong ; he might think—but she did not
know what he might think. All that she was
certain of was that if Michael knew the secret of
his birth all the world would be changed to him
for ever.
It was not within Judith's view of things that
this knowledge could ever come to Michael in
any other way than through her. Martin had
impressed upon her so sternly that she would be
the sole repository of the secret that she could not
conceive of its being revealed save through her
agency. So she felt as one might feel who knows
that by a mere word spoken, a mere touch of a
finger, he can bring about a revolution in ordered
society, or set in motion a force of unknown and
frightful power. The battle within her continued ;
was she to kill her secret or was it to kill her?
Meanwhile the man and the lion battled for life,
silently, yet not the less really, before her. She
used to wish, every time she went to the
museum, that she might find the plaster figures
waked to life; the lion dead, vanquished, and


THE THORN BRAKE 157
the man triumphant, though torn with many
wounds.
IV
STEPHEN MUSCROFT and his wife went away from
the funeral feast and its after proceedings highly
dissatisfied. They had grounds of complaint
which were mutually shared. They had reasons
for dissatisfaction which were individual and
personal. Naturally they felt aggrieved that
Martin had omitted to make a will which would
have insured the equal division of his wealth and
property between the two brothers. And as
Stephen had long been dulled to all sense of fitness,
and as Sherratt cherished a smouldering animosity
against every member of a family which had
cheapened her, as she phrased it, neither scrupled
to express opinion of the dead man’s conduct.
“ I’m none a fool,” remarked Stephen, sullenly,
when they had left'the mill-house behind them.
“I can See as far as mOst folks. Our Michael
was always our old man’s fav’rite. He meant
him to have it all and it’s a wonder he didn’t
take care that I didn’t get a damned penny ! ”
“ He’d plenty of fine talk about us not wanting
aught when he called that night before his death,”
said Sherratt bitterly. “ I wonder where we


THE THORN BRAKE I 59
years 1 ” exclaimed Stephen, sneeringly. “ I’m
not going to lick anybody’s feet. I’m my own
master and I shall do what I please.”
And in proof of that he turned to the Hooded
Hawk when they reached the village. Sherratt
expostulated ; it was impossible to visit the inn
without half the people in the place knowing of
it, and the news would soon get to Michael’s ears.
“ I don’t care whose ears it gets to,” retorted
Stephen, who was mainly conscious that he had
at least four hundred pounds coming to him in
the near future, and that no one, not even the
law, could delay its coming. “ I neither care for
Michael nor for you nor for nobody—I shall do
what I like, d’ye see ? Leave me alone, and go
you home and make the tea.”
And Sherratt, who knew when to hold her
tongue, went. Once inside her cottage, she
cursed Martin and Michael and Judith fervently
and freely. She hated the dead man because
he had not poured money into her lap ; she hated
Michael because he was steady and well-balanced
and strong of character and purpose ; she hated
Judith because she enjoyed and was to enjoy all
that she desired for herself. Sherratt’s eyes were
sharp; she had not been slow to notice the
material comforts of the old house, and she grew
restive at the thought that Michael and Judith


160 THE MARRIAGE LINES
would enjoy them while she dwelt in a labourer’s
cottage on a merely sufficient livelihood.
“ And it'll never be no better,” she murmured,
as she went about the cottage, angry andresent-
ful. “ Stephen’ll never keep straight for three
years! Michael will know what he’s doing—
he might just as well ha’ said that he’d got all
and meant to stick to all. Stephen steady,
indeed ! He'll come home drunk to-night, certain
sure, for all his father’s scarce cold in his grave ! ”
But very much to Sherratt’s astonishment,
Stephen presently came home to demand tea,
and was as sober as he had been all day.
He visited the Hooded Hawk again that night,
and remained there an hour, and again he returned
home in a reasonable condition. The fact was
that Stephen had designs in his head, and had
stubbornly refused to go beyond what was. for
him a very moderate amount of drinking with
his cronies. He kept up this attitude for some
days, during which time he twice visited Sicaster
to consult a firm of solicitors. And one morning,
having had his breakfast at an earlier hour than
usual, he walked up to the mill and surprised
Michael at his.
“ If I’m to do what you’ve been talking about,”
he said abruptly, “ I might just as well come back
here and start working. What's the use 0’


164 THE MARRIAGE LINES
“ Half of that business is mine, and I’m just as
much master as you are."
“ Well? " said Michael. He waited to see if
his brother had anything to add, Stephen just
then remaining silent. “ There’s nothing to
do but carry it on," he continued. “ It’s a good
business, Stephen, and my father worked hard
to make it one—it’ll be a sore do if we let it go
down.”
Stephen made no direct reply to this. But
presently he spoke, with an accent of authority.
“ There’s two or three things that’ll have to
be done,” he remarked. “ All our carts and
sacks are marked ‘ M. Muscroft.’ That’ll have
to be altered, else folks’ ’11 think the business is
yours. It’ll have to be changed to ‘ Muscroft
Brothers,’ or ‘M. and S. Muscroft.’ An’ the
bills’ll have to have that on too. I’m none
going to let folks think ’at I've naught to do
with it.”
Michael resented this unnecessary desire to
rush the new régime, but he reflected that Stephen,
after all, was within his rights.
“ Very well,” he said, “ that’s soon done.”
“ And there’s another thing,” continued
Stephen, growing more dictatorial. “ I don’t
see why me and Sherratt should live down yonder
in a cottage while you live in this house. The


166 THE MARRIAGE LINES
—damn t' law about it !—or it isn’t. If it is,
ye’re cheating me by keeping it back. But I
shall say no more—I know what I have a right
to."
Then he opened the door and walked out,
and a moment later Michael heard him issuing
loud and authoritative commands to Devery
Ball. He realised then that he was not so much
master as he had fancied. .
V
STEPHEN'S remark, “I was born in this house
and you weren't," set Michael off on a train of
thought. He was still wondering and reflecting
about the matters which had made him search
the old bureau so thoroughly; it now struck
him that he would be hard put to it if he were
asked to say where his birth had taken place.
As far as he knew, no such question was ever
likely to be asked of him ; it merely occurred to
him (so he would have put it) as a queerish thing
that Stephen could speak definitely of his birth-
place while he couldn’t. Also, the certificate of
his brother’s birth was in existence ; it lay there
in the old pocket-book, which he had locked up in
the desk with the rest of the papers and little


168 THE MARRIAGE LINES
say more, when asked where he had come from to
that corner of the country, than that it was from a
long way off, beyond York.
Nevertheless, Michael had one clue. In the
entry in the old Bible which his father had made
at his childish request there was mentioned the
name of a place—Cranby. Where, then, was
Cranby P Michael had no notion : it would have
been strange if he had. There was scarcely a
man of his acquaintance who had travelled
further than to the nearest market-towns, or, at
the very furthest, to York ; there were only
two lines of railway in operation in the county,
and their nearest points were at some distance;
cheap maps were not in existence ; folk had but
the mistiest, vaguest ideas of anything outside
their own neighbourhood. He had no idea where
Cranby was, and for all he knew to the contrary
the dialect which his father had used might have
been that of Durham or Northumberland.
He was soon, however, to hear of Cranby again.
On the next market day after his talk with Stephen
he was passing along Sicaster Market Place when
one of Mr. Marcher’s clerks ran up and told
him that the solicitor would like to speak to him.
Michael went back.
“ There’s a matter I forgot to mention to you,”
said Mr. Marcher. “ It slipped my memory when


THE THORN BRAKE :69
you were last in—talking about Stephen put me
out of mind about it. That day before your
father died, now-———”
“ Well ? ” said Michael. “ I remember it.”
“ He came in here, late in the afternoon,"
continued the solicitor, who had interrupted him-
self to search amongst some papers, “ came in
here and told me that some years ago he‘d made a
weekly allowance, paid quarterly, to some woman
who’d once done a service to his family. He also
said that he wasn’t too certain about his health
—you see, Michael, as we’ve since found out,
he’d been that very day to the doctor, and you
know what he told him—and he wanted to arrange
so that this woman would have her allowance
secured to her for life, in case anything happened
to him ; in fact, he gave me instructions to draw
up a settlement on her. As I say, I’d forgotten it.
N ow, do you know anything about it ? ”
“ Naught,” replied Michael. “ Naught.”
“ Well, there it is. Your father was very par-
ticular about it,” said Mr. Marcher. “ He said
the woman had deserved well of him, and he
must see that she was provided for. Now, the
thing is, do you want to carry out his wishes ? ”
“ I know naught about it,” answered Michael.
“ Never heard of the matter. But if he wished it,
it must be done, of course. Who is the woman ? ”


170 THE MARRIAGE LINES
The solicitor was still turning OVer his papers.
He drew out from them a half sheet covered with
notes.
“ Here it is,” he said. “ Martha Deason, now
about sixty years of age. Lives at Cranby on the
Moors.”
“ Where’s that?” asked Michael. “I never
heard tell of it, or of her.”
Mr. Marcher turned to an old map of the county
which hung on his wall. Using the feathered end
of a quill pen as a pointer, he eventually pointed
out the place he had spoken of.
“ There it is,” he said. “ You see—right away
up in the North. Didn’t your father come from
that way ? ”
“ I’ve understood so,” replied Michael. “ He
never said much about it, but I belieVe he did,
and I’ve heard folks say that he used that lan-
guage.”
He was looking intently at the map as he
spoke. He knew little of maps or of what they
conveyed, but he saw that to reach the village
which Mr. Marcher had pointed to, it would be
necessary to travel first to York, then on to
Malton and Pickering, and thence across the
moors, which to him were an unknown world.
“ It looks a rare long way off, that,” he observed.
“ It’ll be a bit of a journey from York, I reckon.”


THE THORN BRAKE 171
“ Well, what do you think of doing? ” asked
the solicitor. “ Am I to go on with it ? ”
Michael picked up his hat.
“ I’ll consider about it,” he answered, as he
turned to the door. “ Of course, my father’s
wishes must be respected, Mr. Marcher. Happen
there’s some mention of it in his papers. I’ll speak
to you again in a day or two. But, if you should
chance to see him, don’t say aught to our
Stephen. Leave it to me.”
Before he had taken many steps along the
Market-place, Michael had made up his mind on
the question of an impulse which had come to him
as soon as the old lawyer had turned to his ancient
map. He would go to Cranby on the Moors
himself: he would see this Martha Deason.
It might be that she would tell him certain things
which he was anxious to know.
It was seldom that folk of Michael’s position
went travelling in those days. He would have
to make the journey on horseback; he would
have to be away from the mill for the better part
of a week. But they were not particularly busy
just then, and as Stephen had returned to take
a share in the work and was so far sticking to it,
Michael considered that he could be dispensed
with. With him, to think was to act ; he
went home, told Stephen that he was going


172 THE MARRIAGE LINES
away on business, and next morning rode off
northwards.
VI
To Michael this expedition to an unknown
place eighty miles away from his own door pre-
sented all the features of interest and excitement
which a young man of these times derives from a
journey to the Colonies. In all his life he had
never been further away from home than York,
and he had only visited York once. Of towns,
great or little, he knew next to nothing ; he knew
little more of villages. Naturally questioning
and observant, he kept his eyes wide open to all
he saw and passed. The highroad which he
followed in his journey to York was still thronged
with coaches, post-chaises, and the private
carriages of persons of condition; the wayside
inns were still busy and gay with life; if the
footpad and the tobyman were vanished the
traveller who like himself rode a-horseback was
plentiful as ever. He journeyed pleasantly,
taking his time, observing the difference between
village and village, asking questions of fellow-
wayfarers about the ancient houses, churches,
and castles which he saw, noting the conditions
of farming and the look of the people. He


THE THORN BRAKE I73
lingered on Towton Battlefield, wondering if it
were really true that red and white roses grew on
the same bush in that blood-stained, grave-
encumbered expanse of swelling upland ; he
idled hours away in such old market towns as
Pocklington and Malton and Pickering; he felt
disposed to take a holiday in the curious, narrow,
overhanging streets of York, and under the grey
shadows of the great Minster. By the second day
of his journey he felt that a vast gap now stretched
between himself and his former life : he had gone
afield and seen something of the world.
But on that second day, Michael, who had passed
the night in Pickering, found himself entering a
country such as he had never seen in his life.
Before he had journeyed an hour from the old
town he was gazing on solitudes and wildernesses
of which he could not have conceived. It seemed
to him that he alone lived in these desolate val-
leys. But now and then he met a dalesman;
sometimes he saw a shepherd, perched high on
the heather-clad moors ; here and there a wisp of
blue smoke betrayed the presence of an otherwise
hidden cottage. The further he advanced into
these solitudes the more he felt indeed a stranger
in a strange land. He scarcely understood the
speech of those to whom he spoke ; they, on their
part, barely understood him. It seemed strange


174 THE MARRIAGE LINES
to him that seeing he and they were Yorkshire-
men they failed to comprehend each other’s
speech, but he experienced a feeling of satisfaction
in recognising the accent which his father had
used.
On that afternoon, too, another experience
came to him. His horse toiled up a stiff bank of
road to the highest point of the hills which had
frowned upon him from either side for a long
distance. There the wind blew keen and cold from
the eastward, and Michael, unconsciously turning
his head to catch it, saw, beyond a broad sweep of
ling and heather, a wide stretch of blue and green
water, on the calm surface of which the winter
sunlight fell in points of fire. Words burst from
his lips as readily as they spring to the lips of
a simple and delighted child.
“ The seal Now if only Judith could ha’
been here i ”
For neither Michael nor Judith had ever seen
the sea, and he regretted keenly that she was not at
his side when he got this, his first glimpse of it.
He drew rein and sat a long time watching this
rare view and a far-off sail that drifted slowly
across it. When he turned away to drop down
into the purpling shadows of the moorlands it
was with a deep sigh of pleasure. The world had
become vaster and more marvellous ; earth and


THE THORN BRAKE 175
sky he had known since understanding came to
his sight, but now he had seen the great waters
and men going down to them in ships.
It was in the dusk of that afternoon that
Michael came to Cranby in the Moors, a scattered
parish, in the centre of which was a church, an
inn, a farmstead or two, a few cottages. He
made himself safe of a night’s lodging at the inn,
stabled his horse and ordered some supper.
While it was being made ready he sat near the fire
to warm himself after his ride. The only other
occupant of the place was a shepherd-looking
man, grizzled and elderly, who stared hard at
the stranger when he entered, and presently, in the
dialect of the district, passed the time of day with
him.
“ You’ll not be a native of these parts, master ?”
he went on when Michael had replied. “ You’ll
come from the south country ? ”
“ Yes,” answered Michael.
“ Aye, by your talk. I’ve heard talk like
yours at York Fair,” said the man, who still
gazed intently on Michael. “ All the same, I
should have said that you came not so far away
from here, if I hadn’t heard you talk.”
“ How so ? ” asked Michael.
“ Because you’re the very spit of a man that I
once worked for,” answered the shepherd. “ The


THE THORN BRAKE 177
ences to his grandfather, but he had already
made his plans as to concealing his identity.
“I’ve never been in these parts before,” he
continued. “ But I’ve heard a good deal about
the horses they breed here, so I thought I’d
take a look round. I want a good ’un.”
“ Aye, why, all the same you’re the very spit
of old Mr. Muscroft of Langborough, master,”
said the shepherd. _
Michael told his host and hostess of his desire
to buy a horse, and appointed next morning to
look at one which a friend of the host’s had for
sale—a pedigree animal, well suited to draught
work. He asked no other questions of them, but
after he had eaten his supper, he went out into
the small village and under cover of the darkness
made enquiry for Martha Deason. Then he
heard that Martha Deason lived up one of the
many small dales which branched off from the
village; there was nothing for it but to wait
until morning before visiting her. He went
back to the inn and was glad to find that the
old shepherd had left it. He had no desire for
further reminiscences or speculations ; if he had
relations living thereabouts, he wanted, just then
at any rate, to know nothing of them.
Michael early next morning, found himself
knocking at the door of a moorland cottage,
m


I78 THE MARRIAGE LINES
which seemed to be the only human habitation
in a wild and narrow dale, in which he had experi-
enced difficulty in finding path and even foothold
for his horse. He had already ascertained that
Martha Deason was a widow who lived a lonely
and solitary life ; he therefore counted on finding
her alone. And he had no doubt that it was
Martha Deason whom he confronted when the
cottage door opened, for the elderly woman who
looked out on him drew back with a start, and her
face blanched and her eyes grew afraid.
“ You don’t know me P ” said Michael abruptly.
The woman shook her head. But Michael
knew that she had recognised something.
“ Is it—is it one of the young Mr. Carvers? ”
she asked.
Michael remembered then what the shepherd
had said at the inn; the daughter of Muscroft
of Langborough had married a Carver. Doubtless
she had grown-up sons.
“ If it is,” said the woman, “ you’ve grown a
deal, sir. I haven’t seen you or your brother
for a many years. You favour your mother and
your grandfather.”
Michael smiled, and Martha Deason started
again.
“ My name isn’t Carver,” said Michael. “ It’s
Muscroft.”


THE THORN BRAKE 179
There was a chair against the dresser which
stood just within the doorway, and Martha Deason
suddenly dropped into it. She stared at her
visitor with questioning, suspicious eyes.
“ For the Lord’s sake, who is it, master?
she exclaimed, in a frightened whisper. “ Mus-
croft—Muscroft? There isn’t a man Muscroft
living, except—oh, good Lord I ” she exclaimed,
breaking off and bursting out again. “ Good
Lord in Heaven l—it isn’t—Martin’s boy? ”
“ What Martin ? What boy ? ” asked Michael.
He had entered the cottage, pulling his horse
up to the threshold, and he now stood confronting
her eagerly. “ What do you mean about boy?
Do you mean his—son.”
The woman suddenly rose, and putting both
hands on Michael’s shoulders, peered anxiously
into his face. She just as suddenly took her hands
away and let them drop into her lap as she sank
back into the chair.
“ God ha’ mercy l ” she said. “ God ha’
mercy. I see who it is. And that you should
come to the house you were born in l ”
Michael turned over the threshold, and leading
the horse to the gate of the garden fastened it
to the upper rail. He walked back into the
house. The woman stared at him, struck silent
by amazement.


180 THE MARRIAGE LINES
“ Now, then,” he said. “ Let’s talk. I’m the
eldest son of Martin Muscroft. You know him.”
Martha Deason nodded.
“ He’s dead,” said Michael abruptly. “ That’s
why I’ve come to see you. He used to allow you
something : so will I. I’ll pay you what he paid.
But—I want to have a talk."
The woman had been watching him with
curious questioning eyes. At the mention of
payment, Michael noticed an inquisitive spirit
steal into her glance.
“ Then he—he’s left you provided for? ” she
said eagerly. “ He’s—done right to you in the
end ? ”
Michael did not answer her as readily as she
had questioned him. During his long ride he
had had leisure to think, and he had been
piecing things together, providing for certain
eventualities, considering what he would do
if a certain suspicion proved to have some founda-
tion. And he had made up his mind that when
he met this Martha Deason, whom he believed
to be in possession of some family secret, or at
any rate of some secret of his father’s, he would
pretend to know as much as she did. So instead
of answering her question at once he laughed
and walking into the cottage took a chair and
nodded at her. She looked him over narrowly.


THE THORN BRAKE I8I
“ Happen,” she said, “ happen he’s done more
nor provide for you ? You look quite the gentle-
man, and that horse you’re riding cost a pretty
penny, I’ll be bound.”
“If you want to know,” said Michael, “I’m
very well off. I’ve come into a fine property.
You shall have your fifteen shillings a week as
long as you live—make yourself comfortable about
that.”
Martha Deason nodded, still staring at him.
“That’s what he promised me,” she said.
“ Aye—and he was sitting in that very chair
when he promised it. ‘ You've done right to my
poor lass and my baim, and you shall never
want for naught as long as ever you live, Martha,’
he said. They were his very words. And so
he’s dead, is he? And—is there nobody but
you, then ? Did he never wed ? ”
“ There’s one more—a brother,” answered
Michael. There was nearly a hundred miles of
country between that lonely dale and Muscroft’s
Mill, and he felt no fear about speaking out.
“And he’s well Off, too—things’ll be divided
equally between us, you see.”
“ Well, and that’s just and right,” said Martha
Deason. “ It’s naught but right, for when all’s
said and done you were his eldest son, for all
you had the bad luck to be born out of wedlock.”


182 THE MARRIAGE LINES
Michael rose and crossed over to the hearth,
affecting to look at an old picture that hung
above it. The woman's last words struck in
upon his consciousness with one sharp thrust;
he caught his breath as he movcd. Well—he
knew now! That explained everything. And,
of course, everything was changed. But—he
knew. He suddenly became aware that the
woman was speaking.
“ And glad I am that he has done right to
you,” she was saying. “ In wedlock or out of
wedlock, right side of the blanket or wrong side,
you were first and eldest, and what’s more, no
man could ha’ thought more of a woman nor what
your father did of your poor mother. Never
shall I forget how he took on when he came home
from America and found what had happened.
He was like a madman at first. I’d a sore job
to quieten him, and he wouldn’t ha’ been quietened
if I hadn’t told him that he’d gotten his bairn
to think about—his bairn. You say he wed-—
well, but I’ll lay aught that he never forgot your
mother.”
Michael had been thinking rapidly. He must
know the story of his birth; he must have it
out of this woman who obviously knew it; he
must get it by diplomacy.
“ He never did,” he answered. “ Never-—


THE THORN BRAKE 183
and so he could never bear to talk about it. I
don’t know much. How did it all come about ?
You can tell me, I expect ? ”
Martha Deason smoothed out her apron.
Like all folk who live in very quiet places and have
few opportunities of using their tongues, she was
glad of a chance to loosen hers.
“ Aye—nobody better,” she answered. “ I
should think not, marry! Well, you see—the
name’s Michael, isn’t it? Yes, of course, and
you must excuse me if I call you Michael—”
“ Never mind excuses,” said Michael. “ Go
on; I want to know.”
“ Well, you see, Michael, it was this way, and
it’s as sad a tale as ever I knew, and I’ve known
some in these parts, and in other parts before I
came into these. You see, old Mr. Muscroft,
of Langborough, t’other side of the hills yonder—
six or seven miles away, happen—he had two sons
and a daughter—that was your father, the eldest,
and his brother, Matthew, and their sister as is
now and long has been Mrs. Carver, as got all
her father’s money. The two young men were
uncommon headstrong, and somehow or other,
they were always quarrelling with their father.
In the end there was a great to-do, and Matthew,
he was as good as turned out of doors ; anyway,
Mr. Muscroft gave him so much money—his


184 THE MARRIAGE LINES
portion, as folks said, and off he set to America
with it. And Martin—that’s your father—
he’d ha’ gone with him, but for one thing: he
were in love with your mother, Mary Walgate.
Now, poor Mary, she were a rare bonny lass ’at
had no parents, and she were in place at a farm
’twixt here and Langborough. Her and Martin
got desperate fond 0’ one another—over fond.
And at last, knowing ’at his father ’ud never give
his consent to what he wanted, he did as his
brother Matthew had done—he asked for his
portion, like, and he went off to America an’
all. An’ it were settled ’at as soon as he’d got
there, and looked round him, and knew what
he was going to do, he were to send for the lass,
and they were to be wed as soon as she reached
him. Aye—an’ it were a thousand pities ’at
he didn’t take her with him ! For ye see, Michael,
they’d gotten as I said, over fond 0’ one another,
—and he’d none been gone long when I found out
’at you were coming.”
Michael made no comment. His only concern
just then was to hear everything. He had taken
a chair in the chimney corner, where his face was
in the shade. He watched Martha Deason as
she brought the story out of the stores of her
memory, folding and unfolding pleats in her
apron as she told it.


THE THORN BRAKE I85
“ Well, I wanted her to go off to him there and
then, but she wouldn’t go till he sent orders.
Of course it took a long time to hear aught. And
she were forced to leave her place. Now, you
see, I’d taken a fancy to the lass with going to
do a day’s work now and then where she lived,
and I were certain that Martin meant to do
right by her, and as me and my husband had no
children we took her in. It were quiet here,
d’ye see—nobody came much this way, and the
truth was that I’d promised Martin to see to
her and to take his letters in for her. Well, there
was one letter came for her, just after he’d landed,
but the next that came was from Matthew, to
say that Martin had got the fever and was in a
hospital. So the lass wouldn’t tell him about
her trouble coming on ; naught should be wrote
to him, She said, about that, till he was better.
Hows’ever, he were ill a long time—and then you
come. And when that happened, though I’m
a poor scholar, I made out to write to him myself
and tell him. There were never an answer to
that letter, for he answered it himself. He came
riding up to that door one morning, Michael,
just as you did a piece back—only in a good deal
more of a hurry. Only—it were too late.”
“ Why was it too late ? ” asked Michael.
“ Because the poor lass were dead. She weren’t


186 THE MARRIAGE LINES
a strong young woman, and her chest were
delicate. And when you were happen five weeks
old, she caught a cold, or a chill, and it settled
on her lungs, and she were gone like the last
snuff of a candle. Oh, deary me i deary me to-
day! Never did I see a poor man carry on as
Martin did ; never did—"
“I don’t want to hear about it," broke in
Michael. “ Don’t tell me. I—-I think I know
that he never forgot. What did he do then?
What about me P ”
“ Why, he left you here for very near three
year,” replied Martha Deason. “ You don’t
remember naught about it, then ? ”
“ Naught l " answered Michael. “ Not a
thing.”
“ Well, happen it ’ud be a bit less—say, two
and a half. Then he came and fetched you
away, and he told me he’d settled down in the
old country after all. And from the first when he
came back and found her dead, he’d allowed me
that fifteen shilling a week, and I’ve always had
it regular, every quarter.”
“ And you always shall have it,” said Michael.
“ And more if you want it." He rose and stood
staring out of the little window across the dale,
bathed just then in winter sunshine. In the
distance he saw the spire of a church ; its gleam


THE THORN BRAKE I87
suggested something to him. “ Where’s my
mother buried ? ” he asked abruptly.
“ In Cranby churchyard,” answered Martha
Deason. “ It’s at the end of the church—there’s
a nice stone over it. He had it put up.”
Michael suddenly turned on his old nurse.
“ There must be folk in the place that re-
member ! ” he said, half fiercely. “It’s none
so long ago.”
Martha Deason nodded.
“ Aye, lad,” she said. “ I dare say there’s
folks as would remember if the matter were
brought up to ’em, like. But there were naught
so very uncommon about the affair, in one way,
and there’s been a deal 0’ things happen since
then. Nobody ever hears aught about it from
me, and never did; I don’t believe that Mrs.
Carver yonder, as got all your grandfather’s
money, ever heard of the matter, nor your grand-
father neither. Ye see, Michael, your father
went clear away when he took you, and nobody
never saw him no more in these parts. But
you’re that like all the Muscrofts, aye, and the
Carvers, that you’d be ta’en for one anywhere
about here. Only there is no Muscrofts left
now-a-days: there’s naught but Carvers.”
Michael remained at the lonely cottage until
the winter afternoon began to close in ; then he


THE THORN BRAKE 189
but afterwards, he was sure, for himself. There
had never been a wrong word between them;
as a boy, and youth, and grown man, Michael
had never known aught from Martin but affection
and trust and confidence. He knew that his
father had relied on him, trusted him, that he
had meant him to inherit; he even began to
comprehend that Martin had been methodical,
purposeful, in his neglect to make a will ; he had
deluded himself with the idea that no one would
ever know that Michael was not his legitimate
son,.and that therefore if he died intestate no
voice could be raised against his succession.
And so far as Michael knew, no one but Martha
Deason did know, and her mouth, he was assured,
would remain closed. But there was the fact,
the truth, ugly and naked before him. He was
staring at it while he stared at the moonlight on
the sea, recognising all its brutality. It mattered
nothing that his father and mother had loved
each other, unwisely, maybe, but still with truth.
The law cared nothing for such matters. And
in the eyes of the law he was Nobody.
He thought, with a bitter laugh, of what his
acquaintance, of what the village folk, of what
the neighbourhood would say if the truth were
known. He imagined the talk at the village
inn; at the ordinary in the market-town: he


190 THE MARRIAGE LINES
could hear the voices of scorn and con-
tempt.
“ So yon theer Michael ’at’s held his head so
high, and ridden about like a gentleman, is nowt
but a bastard! Weel, pride mun allus hev a
fall.”
And he imagined another voice.
“ Weel, all t’ better, then, for Stivven.
Stivven’ll come in for all ’at t’ owd man left—
Michael’ll get nowt, as theer wor no will. That’s
t’ law. A bastard can’t inherit nowt—he's
nobody i’ t’ eyes 0’ t’ law. Stivven’ll come in
for all.”
The moon was suddenly obscured by a great
bank of cloud, and in the gloom that followed
Michael turned his horse’s head and rode sharply
down to the valley. It was dark down there
on that lonely road between the hills, and Michael’s
thoughts were dark, too, and in spite of his love
for Judith and hers for him, he felt as if he stood
alone against the world. He had no title to the
name he bore; he had scarce a penny piece to
call his own; he was no more than a beggar.
According to the law of the land, the mill, the farm,
the substantial streets in Sicaster, were Stephen’s,
who would waste his heritage as soon as he laid
hold of it.
In that darkness amongst the wild hills temp-


THE THORN BRAKE 191
tation came to Michael and gripped him tightly.
No one knew the secret. He was in possession. .
He could sell mill, house, the farmstead and land
in the valley, the property in Sicaster—sell it
to-morrow if he chose. He could take the good,
solid cash, marry Judith, and go far away. What
obligation had he to divide with Stephen ?
Stephen would never reform. He would drink
and gamble everything away. How would
Stephen treat him, if the truth were known?
He thought of Stephen’s wife, greedy, rancorous,
spiteful, and he laughed more bitterly than ever.
The voice of the tempter grew sweeter, more
insidious. Yes—after all, he held the property——
why not make sure of its worth for ever, and let
Stephen go to the devil a little quicker? Why
not ?-—why not?
He had found no answer to that question
when he turned into the inn at Pickering for the
night, and it was still unanswered when he rode
away southward in the raw daybreak of the next
morning
VII
TOWARDS the end of that afternoon Michael
rode into Sicaster on his way home. He had
ridden from York without stopping; his horse


192 THE MARRIAGE LINES
was tired; he was tired himself, as much with
thinking about and debating the subject in his
mind as with the physical exertion of keeping
for three hours to his saddle. And so he turned
into the yard of his usual inn, bade a stable-lad
feed the horse and rub him down, and went into
the house for refreshment. As he sat in the
parlour, warming his chilled hands at the fire,
there entered a man who farmed in the valley
beneath Hobman's Hole, a surly, ill-tempered
fellow at all times, rough of tongue and careless
of what it said, who, seeing him, gave him a
scowling stare and a sharp laugh.
“ Ye seem to be shakin’ a loosish leg down
yonder at Muscroft’s mill now ’at t’ owd man's
dead,” he observed without preface. “ But
I’ve oft noticed ’at that’s t’ case. When them
as has 'tended to a business, and built it up a
good ’un, is takken, them ’at it falls to is sure to
neglect it for their own pleasures. It’s t’ way
0’ t’ world is that theer—t’ fathers builds, and t’
sons pulls down what they’ve builded.”
“ Who are you talking to? ” said Michael,
angrily. “ And what about ? ”
“ I know who I’m talking to, and what I’m
talking about an’ all,” retorted the farmer.
“ Wheer’s that theer hoss-com ’at ye owt to
ha’ ’livered me three day sin’ ? Hows’ever,


THE THORN BRAKE 193
theer’s other millers i’ t’ neighbourhood than
Muscroft’s. I shall go elsewheer i’ future.”
“ I don’t know what you’re talking about
yet,” said Michael.
The man went over to the bar and laid hands
on the glass of hot spirits which he had called for
on entering. He scowled again at Michael over
its rim.
“ Happen not,” he said, sneeringly. “ Ye
can’t be expected to know as long as ye sit there
toastin’ yer tooas ower that fire. But if I’d hed
work trusted to me, I'd be home and see about
it bein’ done—that’s what I should do."
“ You’ve trusted me with no work that I
know on,” answered Michael.
“ Oh I ” said the farmer. “ Oh! Happen
I didn’t send some stuff to be ground fower days
sin’ and hevn’t seen it. I were fast for it—we've
run out o’ hoss-corn at our place.”
“ I’ve been away on business,” said Michael.
“ I know naught about it. But there’s Stephen
and our man there.”
The farmer snorted indignantly.
“ Is there? ” he said, with additional con-
tempt. “ Theer were neyther yeer Stephen
nor yon theer Devery Ball theer a piece back,
for I rode round theer mysen to ’liven ’em up.
T’ owd woman i’ t’ house said theer wor neyther
N


194 THE MARRIAGE LINES
on ’em about t’ place, and hedn’t been all t’ day.
An’ so I’ve hed to traipse round here to Sicaster
to buy some hoss-com. I shall send no more
stuff to be gr’und at yeer mill, so theer. I’ yer
father’s day it ’ud ha’ been done and ’livered to
t’ minute. I’ve no opinion 0’ folk ’at neglect
their business.”
“ Nor me, neither,” said Michael. He rose
hastily and drank off the contents of his glass.
“I’m sorry, but as I said, I’ve been away. It
shall be ground and delivered first thing in the
morning.”
“ Noe, it weern’t,” retorted the irate farmer.
“ ’Cos I shall send one o’ my men wi’ a cart
and boss to fetch it t’ fust thing in t’ mornin’.
I shall send it elsewheer—theer’s other’s i’ t’
neighbourhood ’at can grind corn as weel as ye.”
Michael made no answer to this outburst.
What was the use of arguing with an unreasonable
and angry man? He took his horse from the
stable and rode homeward, sure of trouble awaiting
him. He could not understand how Devery Ball
came to be absent from the mill. As for Stephen
-—-but at the mere thought of him he shook his
head.
“ He’s broken out again,” he muttered. “I
might ha’ known. I never ought to ha’ gone
away. I should ha’ kept by him a bit longer


THE THORN BRAKE 195
till he’d gotten used to settling down. It’s my
fault—~ye can’t expect folk to change all in a
minute.”
All was dark and quiet about house and mill
when Michael rode up. He stabled his horse
and walked across to the nearest door. Ann
Piper was drinking her tea in the kitchen, and at
sight of him she dropped her cup and screamed.
“Eh, deary me, Mestur, but ye did give me a
fright l ” she exclaimed. “ Ye come in as if ye
were a ghost or a goblin. An’ glad I am ’at ye’ve
corned, for such goin’s on as theer’s been I never
want to see agen as long as theer’s breath in my
body. An’ of course, I couldn’t do nowt, ye
know, Mestur Michael—I don’t know how things
stands."
“ What is it?” growled Michael. “ What’re
you talking about ? ”
“ Go in and look round, and ye’ll see what I’m
talkin’ about,” she answered, “ though ye might
see summat here if this here candle gev’ a better
light. An’ it’s t’same all ower t’house. ‘One
hafe of all ’at there is, is mine I ’ he said, did
Mestur Stephen—them were his varry words.
An’, as I say, I couldn’t do nowt.”
With a smothered exclamation Michael snatched.
up the candle and strode into the house-place,
He gazed round it and beyond it into the parlour,


196 THE MARRIAGE LINES
the door of which stood wide open. Then he saw
what the woman was talking about. The old place
had been partly stripped of its furniture. Then
Michael smothered nothing but swore roundly.
“ Who’s done this?” he demanded.
“ Lord bless us, mestur, ye’d frighten t’ Owd
Lord hisself ! ” exclaimed Ann Piper. “ Who?
Why, who’d hev’ a right to do it but yer brother
Stivven? Nob’dy else ’ud come into t’house.
‘ One hafe of all ’at theer is, is mine,’ he said—-
them were his varry words. An’ so, of course, he
took what him and his missus were minded to.
I thowt it ’ud be wi’ yeer consent, mestur, and
’at happen ye’d gone away for a piece to be out
0’ t’ mess on it.”
Michael went from room to room. The de-
spoilers had helped themselves to Whatever they
fancied in the way of chairs, tables, sofas, beds,
pictures, presses. Ann Piper had done her best
to resettle things, to rearrange things, but the
old home looked as miserable and woe-begone as
if it had been a child which, once well tricked out
in brave apparel, had suddenly been stripped of
half its finery by ruthless hands. Michael’s
heart sank as he thought of what his father would
have said; of what Judith would say.
“ When was this done ? ” he demanded,
striding back into the house—place.


THE THORN BRAKE 197
“ When, mestur ? ” replied Ann Piper. “ Why
now, it ’ud be the varry momin’ ’at you sat off
on yer travels. Yes, it were that theer varry
momin ’—I remember it ’cos I see’d t’new moon
through glass t’night afore, and I hoped at it
didn’t mean at ye’d happen surmnat while ye
were away i’ foreign parts, like. Yes—Mestur
Stivven, him and his missis come’d up, and they
said what I’ve telled you, and she started to choose
out what furniture she wanted, and she tell’d me
’at they’d ta’en that theer house down i’ t’village
wheer t’owd steward used to live, and they were
removin’ into it theer and then. An’ all that day
and t’next day, Stivven and Devery Ball were
shiftin’ t’things ’at they picked out, and cartin’
’em down to t’new place.”
Michael swore again, careless of letting Ann
Piper know what his sentiments were.
“ Well, an’ I’m sure it must be varry tryin’ to
yer feelin’s, mestur,” she said sympathetically.
“Of course, I thowt ’at ye knew all about it,
but I gat uneasy, ’cos I saw ’at they were takkin’
t’ best and leavin’ t’warst. An’ then, of course,
I gat put about ’cos there were no business done
at t’mill, and folk kept comin’ for flour, and hoss-
corn, and I don’t know what all, and neyther
Mestur Stivven nor yit Devery Ball ’ud bend
to ’em. Theer was Mestur Scales, out o’ t’valley


198 THE MARRIAGE LINES
theer, he cam’ up this afternoon, not two hour
sin’, and ’cos they hadn’t ’livered him some hoss-
com he used fearful language—he fair made me
dither l ”
“ I’ve seen him,” growled Michael. “ Of
course, it’s none your fault. Say naught about it
to anybody—I don’t want all the village to
know.”
“ Well, I should say ’at all t’village does know,
mestur,” said Ann Piper. “ From what I’ve
heerd, they had a grand house-warmin’ last night,
had Mestur Stivven and his missis, and theer were
fine doin’s. Aw’ yes, I’m afraid t’village knows on
it.”
Michael walked into the kitchen and took down
a lanthorn.
“ Where’s that Devery Ball ? ” he asked, as he
lighted the wick. “ Why wasn’t he here when
Scales came about that horse-com ? ”
“ Nay, mestur, ye mud as weel ask that theer
candle as ask me i ” replied Ann Piper, lifting her
hands. “ I’ve niver set eyes on Devery Ball
this day. He neyther come to his breakfast, nor
to his dirmer, nor to nowt—I niver seen
Michael took the lanthom in hand and crossed
over to the mill. He had felt weary and irritable
when he reached Sicaster ; the encounter with the
irascible farmer had not improved his temper,


THE THORN BRAKE 199
the conditions of his home-coming had driven him
to positive anger. He would look round the mill,
see what had been done and left undone, and
then he would go down to the village and tell
Stephen his mind in no measured fashion. It
was useless to let things of this sort slide by, he
said to himself; as well have over and done
with the row that must come. He would show
Stephen and his wife (whom he shrewdly suspected
to be the prime instigator in the affair of removing
the furniture) that he was master. But when he
was on the steps of the old mill and valorous in
his resolve to pour out his indignation on the
offenders he suddenly remembered everything
that had happened to himself during the last
few days—remembered that if the truth came out
he possessed nothing, and Stephen all.
But he laughed savagely at the very thought]
“ Ne’er mind 1 ” he growled, as he opened the
door of the mill. “ They say ’at possession is
nine points of the law, and I’m in possession.
We’ll see who’s master.”
Then he swung his lanthorn around him, to
ascertain how matters showed themselves in the
mill. It required no more than a glance from his
experienced eye to see that no work had been
done since he went away—there was stuff here
that ought to have been delivered; there was


200 THE MARRIAGE LINES
stuff there that had come in to be ground.
Michael cursed his brother heartily, and then
cursed himself for having left the place.
The ground floor of the mill was widespread and
roomy ; in one section of it an erection of boards
formed a sort of office in which accounts and
tallies were kept. Michael walked into it to see
if there was anything that required his attention
On the threshold he paused: from the darkness
within came the sound of deep breathing, inter-
spersed at regular intervals by heavy snores.
Then, by the light of the lanthorn, he made out
the presence of Devery Ball, who, having fashioned
for himself a comfortable couch by piling together
a number of sacks, was sleeping deeply and
steadily upon them, his chin sunk in his breast,
his hands folded across his stomach. Near him,
on the floor was an empty and corkless bottle
from which proceeded an odour of stale spirits.
Michael set down his lanthorn, and for a full
minute stared at the picture thus presented to
him. Then he stooped down and seizing Devery
by the shoulder he shook him into consciousness
in such a fashion that his victim began to howl
and sob before he was well awake.
“ You damned, drunken swine ! ” shouted
Michael, still shaking him. “ What d’ye mean by
coming to sleep off your liquor in my mill?


THE THORN BRAKE 201
It’s a wondergl didn’t find the place on fire. Get
up and get out, before I kick you down them
steps 1 ”
Devery, released with a final shake that sent
him staggering over his sacks, pulled himself
together, and exchanged his whimperings for a
sullen murmur.
“ There’s no call to knock a man about
i’ that way for hevin’ a bit 0’ sleep,” he
muttered. “ I were doin’ no harm, and I hevn’t
had a leet i’ t’ place—it wor dayleet when I come
in, and I wor bahn to do some work, onnly I
were that tired out ’at I set misen down and fell
asleep. An’ if other folk had worked as hard as
what I hev’ this last two or three days they’d ha’
been tired an’ all. An’ I weern’t be ill-tret bi
nob’dy, so theer ! Our owd maister, he niver lifted
his hand to me all t’ time ’at I been here, an’—-—"
“ I’ll break your neck in two minutes,” said
Michael, “ and your back, too, and kick you from
here to nowhere if you talk to me! What’s all
this stuff doing here unground, and why didn’t
you deliver them sacks ?--they were here when I
went.”
Devery made a show of rubbing the shoulder
which Michael had gripped so fiercely.
“ It were Mestur Stivven’s orders,” he answered
grumpishly. “I understood ’at Mestur Stivven


202 THE MARRIAGE LINES
wor t' gaffer when ye were:' away fro’ home, and
so, oflcourse, I did what I were telled: I allus
hev’ done what I were telled to do, iver sin’ I cum'
to t’ place. He said, did Mestur Stivven, ’at he
wanted to move his share 0’ t’ furniture to you
grand new house ’at he’s ta’en, and I wor to help
him. An’ so, of course, I took mi orders and did as
I wor tell’d ; I nobbut did what wor reight.”
Michael made no answer. He pointed to the
empty bottle, and Devery Ball sheepishly picked
it up. Then Michael took the lanthom and
motioned his man to the door.
“ Now, then, you listen to me,” he said.
“ You’ll be here first thing to-morrow morning
and start on to that work—I shall send a man
up to help. I shall be away again to-morrow,
and ifI come home and find 'at all’s not right,
you’ll find yourself out of a job come Saturday.
So now you know!”
“ And what mun I do if Mestur Stivven comes
and gives different orders?" asked Devery.
“ I’m that placed ’at I don’t know what to do.”
“ Mr. Stephen’ll give you no orders different
to mine,” answered Michael sternly. “ You do
what I tell you, or off you go."
Devery shuffled on the threshold.
“ I’m none agen stoppin’ and workin’ all t’
night if ye like, maister," he said. “I can leet


THE THORN BRAKE 203
a couple 0’ lanterns and bring that theer out o’
t’ stable. Of course, I took mi orders fro’ Mestur
Stivven—-—”
“ No l ” said Michael. “ Go home. And mind
you bring no more bottles 0’ spirits on to my
premises.”
He watched Devery Ball go away, and then he
looked up the mill, put his lanthorn in an outhouse,
and set out for the village. He was going to have
it out with Stephen and his wife there and then :
tired and hungry though he was, he felt that he
could neither eat nor drink nor rest until he had
had his say.
The house to which Stephen had removed was
one of the best in the village—a modern house
built for the convenience of a retired steward
and never occupied since his death. It was large
enough for a family, far too large for a recently
married couple, and Michael attributed the taking
of it to Sherratt’s ambition. He made some
caustic reflections on that matter as he strode
along, thinking how quickly folk that at one
moment were dependent could flaunt and dash if
the next put them in possession of a little money.
Stephen was secure of his share of the ready-
money; it had, at his urgent request, already been
paid over to him; he was also sure of his half-share
in the business; his wife, therefore, must needs be


THE THORN BRAKE 205
Michael. “'I’m talking to you. Now hear
what I’ve got to say. Do you understand that
I’m master? What bit of money Stephen’s
got’ll soon be gone—I know him! As regards
his share of the business, that’ll be worth naught
soon, for there’ll be no business left if he’s aught
to do with it, and I’m not going to carry it on
for his benefit. I’ll have it sold as a going con-
cern first, and take my share and go away. DO
you understand that, mistress ?—any lawyer’ll
tell you I’m right. And do you understand this
—every brick and stone, every yard of land ’at
my father left is mine! Mine to do as I like
with. I’m not bound to share a penny piece with
Stephen—there’s naught and nobody can make
me. If I choose to share, it’s my pleasure; it’ll
be a gift. And I can tell you ’at that property’s
worth better nor twelve thousand pound.”
Sherratt made no answer. She stood watching
him, waiting to know the definite thing that she
knew to be in his mind.
“ Now, then, I’ll say what I’ve come to say,”
he said, clapping his hand on the table by which
he stood. “ And I’ll say it to you, for you’re
no fool, whatever Stephen is. To-morrow mom-
ing I have to go away again on business, and I
shall not be home till night. If, when I come
home, I don’t find every stick of furniture,


206 THE MARRIAGE LINES
every rag of stuff, that you’ve carted out 0' that
house, put back in its place, then never does
Stephen Muscroft see one shilling 0’ what my
father left other nor what he’s already handled.
That’s all, mistress, and what I say, I mean i ”
He turned then, and without further word
strode away from the house, leaving Sherratt
impressed, and conscious that Michael was a.
vastly different man to his brother who lay in a
drunken slumber upstairs.
VIII
MICHAEL saw Devery Ball and the extra hand
settled down to work next morning before he
went off again. Devery, indeed, had presented
himself for the keys of the mill as soon as day-
light broke across the land, and as there was a
lively wind and the other man also came early
to his duties, the lad who came later to fetch
Scales’s corn away found it already ground and
ready for delivery. Ladlike, he began to grumble.
“ Ye’ve gr’und it," he objected. “ Our maister
said I wor to fetch t’ corn ’at I browt t’other day,
and ’at ye wor to grind and ’liver theer and then.
We been twice for it, and ye hedn’t gr’und it,
and now when I come to fetch t’com away,
ye’ve made hoss-corn on it I ”


THE THORN BRAKE 207
“ Why, what dost think we wor bahn to
mak’ on it? ” demanded Devery. “ Pig-meal,
or what ? T’ corn come here to be gr’und, and
it is gr’und. Thee tak’ it home to Master
Scales’s, and be thankful ’at tha fun’ it ready
for tha. We’ve 505. much work i’ our mill ’at
we don’t know which job to start on first.”
That Devery would atone for his lapse by
scrupulous attention to his duties that day
Michael felt well assured. Nevertheless, he gave
him a word of admonition before he rode off.
“ Now then, you don’t allow aught to interfere
with you to-day,” he said with assumed stem-
ness. “ Mind what I say! But if Mr. Stephen
comes up and wants the wagon, and a couple of
horses, he can have ’em, d’ye hear P—you’ll not
be wanting ’em. But you can’t help him—d’ye
hear that, too? If he wants help he mun find
it—you and Simpson there’ll stick to that mill
till I'm home to-night.”
Then he rode away for Clothford, intent on
seeing Judith. He had thought much during
his long ride from the North, much during a
wakeful night. He would tell Judith everything.
Since she had come to young womanhood he
had always told her everything ; he would not,
COuld not keep this great thing back from her.
He would tell her all that he had found out,


208 THE MARRIAGE LINES
and they would put their heads together and
decide on what was to be done. He himself was
doubtful and perplexed and torn with a thousand
wonders ; the temptation which had come to him
in the dark valley was still there, as strong and
insidious as when it first presented itself. He was
for ever reflecting how easy it would be for him
to realise the market value of the property and
to take Judith far away to one of the new countries
across the sea. There would be no need to
consult anyone ; no, not even Mr. Marcher.
Michael knew that the principal landlord of the
neighbourhood would jump at the chance of buy-
ing the mill, the mill-house, their surroundings,
and the farm in the valley; he knew a man in
Sicaster who would buy the town property at
once. And he was more and more assured that
his father had meant the land to come to him ;
he, too, had known that Stephen would make
ducks and drakes of whatever he got. And so——
why not? Why not ?—he did not know why
not.
Judith, taking her change and rest in Clothford,
found that a succession of conversations with
Tilly Cordaker, an occasional visit to the theatre,
a daily inspection of streets and shops, did little
to relieve her mind. She was getting accustomed
to a calm contemplation of the past, and she had


210 THE MARRIAGE LINES
But she knew that she must not, could not, for his
sake.
She looked up from her needlework one morning
as she sat in her favourite comer in the alcove
of the picture gallery, beneath the cast of the
man and the lion, to see Michael advancing to-
wards her. He sat down quietly at her side,
giving her a searching look.
“ Tilly Cordaker said I should find you here,”
he began, without preface. “She said, ‘ Look
for a statue of a man fighting with a wild beast.
you’ll ten to one see Judith sitting by it.’ And
there it is, as large as life. What makes you sit
here, lass? ”
“ It’s quiet,” answered Judith. “ Nobody
ever comes here.”
Michael looked around him and recognised the
accuracy of Judith’s description.
“Aye, well, so it seems,” he said. “And so
it’s a good place to talk. And there’s plenty to
talk about. We’ll sit here quiet a bit, Judith, and
talk. Tilly Cordaker asked me to have dinner
wi' ’em, and I said I would, but it’s not till one
o’clock, and its barely eleven now.”
~ . “ You look tired, Michael,” she said, stealing a
glance at him.
Michael favoured the plaster cast in front
of them with a whimsical glance.


THE THORN BRAKE 2n
“ Aye, lass l ” he said. “ I am a bit tired.
I’ve had a deal to do since you went away, fighting
with one thing and another. I’m about as stalled
o’ fighting as I reckon that chap ’ud be 0’ wrestling
wi’ t’ lion there, if they were alive.”
Judith made no answer. She knew instinctive-
1y that Michael had something to tell her, and
that he would tell it in his own way. She went
on with her needlework, and Michael stared at
the statue, wondering, as Judith had often won-
dered, Whether the man would kill the lion or the
lion kill the man.
“ Judith,” he said. “ You and me never kept
aught from each other, and I mun tell you. You
remember that night after my father’s funeral,
when you left me sitting up in the little parlour ? ”
“ Yes,” she answered faintly. “ I remember.”
“ I got looking at that old Bible that my father '
had kept locked up for so long,” he continued.
“ And I got a queer notion into my head. It’s
best to make short work 0’ these matters, lass, so
I’ll say What it was, plain like. I began to wonder
if my father and mother had ever been wed.”
Judith controlled her hands by a great effort.
She hoped that her voice was steady when she
spoke. But she only spoke two words.
“ Why, Michael ? "
“ Because 0’ one or two things. That old


212 THE MARRIAGE LINES
Bible set it off, like; at least, what had been
written in it. And I began to put one and two
together, and to think a bit, and then something
that Lawyer Marcher told me made me think still
more, and so I set off to that part 0’ the country
where my father came from, and I made some
enquiries.”
Judith bent closely over the needlework,
affecting great interest in it. Her heart was like
to suffocate her, she thought. Was this, after
all, the time when she would have to tell her
secret ! Otherwise she was only able to breathe
an interrogation.
“ Well ? ”
Michael turned his head away a little and
lowered his voice.
“ They never were wed,” he answered.
A deep silence fell between them : it was some
time before Michael broke it.
“ It seems to ha’ been one 0’ them cases where
nobody were in fault,” he said. “ They were
over fond 0’ each other, but he went away, and
didn’t come back in time for t’ wedding ’at ought
to ha’ been before he went, and—and so it was I
I won’t hear a word against either of ’em ; there’s
things in this world ’at can’t be helped. I know
this much, an’ it’s all I want to know—he loved
her and he never forgot her. Naught against


THE THORN BRAKE 213
him will I ever think or hear said, at no
time! ” .
Judith put a hand on one of his.
“ Tell me all about it, Michael,” she said.
“ Tell me everything. Then we shall both know.”
For she was intending at that moment to make
a clear breast to Michael, and she wanted time.
But while her mind kept the prospect of confession
before it she listened carefully to Michael’s story.
He told it plainly and simply, without comment
or motive—to him it was the inevitable that had
happened and nothing could undo it.
“ So that’s where it is, lass,” he said in con-
clusion. “ According to the law, I’m naught
and nobody, beyond What I’ve put by out 0’
what my father allowed me—and it’s a nice bit
now, Judith, for he were free-handed, as you
know. I can’t stand to touch a penny’s worth_o’
what were his. All ’at there is, is—Stephen’s.”
Judith’s thoughts were busy with the will that
was never signed, the will which she had killed
Jael Quince to get possession of. Was she to tell
Michael now? It was on the tip of her tongue
to do so, but Michael began talking again.
“ Stephen’s,” he said. “ And if Stephen takes
hold, it’ll be all gone in a few years! I’d ha’
done aught that I could to pull Stephen round,
but I’m afraid it’s no use, Judith. As soon as


21:4 THE MARRIAGE LINES
my back’s turned he’s like to break out.” And
he went on to tell her of what had taken place
during his absence in the north country. “ So
there you are,” he concluded. “ You never
know. Let him go on as he is doing, and if he
came into what my father left he'll make ducks
and drakes on it.”
Judith was trying to think, to realise, to foresee.
“ Michael I " she suddenly exclaimed. “ What
will you do ? ”
Michael groaned, gazing intently at the plaster
cast.
“ I’m sure I don’t know, lass l " he answered.
“ I’m like that there stone man fighting wi’ 11’
stone lion—I don’t know whether I’m going to
master this or it’s going to master me I ”
“ It’s not like you to be mastered by anything,”
she said.
“ No, no, it isn’t,” he agreed, reflectively.
“ Leastways, it never has been. And it shan’t be
now, in one way. But what’s capping me, Judith,
is, what’s to be done ? ”
“ Well, will nobody ever find out the—the
truth I ” she faltered.
“ Not in a hurry, I should say,” he replied.
“ And happen never. It’s a main long way off,
is yon spot, Cranby, and nobody from our way is
like to go there, and nobody from there’ll be


THE THORN BRAKE 215
like to come ours. And about us nobody has a
notion about the matter. No, I don’t think
it’ll be found out. At any rate, not yet. Lass,
it struck me ’at I could make things so ’at it
wouldn’t matter to you and me if it did happen
to be found out ! ”
“ How? ” asked Judith. “ How?”
“I could sell every stick and stone, every
yard 0’ land 0’ that property,” he answered
slowly. “ I could realise its full value, an’ it’s
well worth twelve thousand pound, every penny—
an’ you and me could get wed, and we could go
right away, Canada or Australia, or somewhere,
and nobody could do naught to hinder us.”
For one moment Judith’s heart leapt wildly at
the thought of release, of freedom. To be away
from what would remind her of Jael Quince!
She was tempted to turn to Michael and bid him
carry out that plan. But Michael had already
begun speaking again.
“ Aye, I thought 0’ that,” he said. “ And I
was sore tempted to do it. I felt tempted all
the way home, and I about made my mind up to
do it last night when I were so vexed wi’ Stephen
and his wife, and I were tempted again as I
rode into Clothford here this morning. But
when I walked into this place and saw you sitting
there, lass, I knew ’at I could never do it! I


216 THE MARRIAGE LINES
should feel as if I’d robbed Stephen of something,
and I can’t do naught bad, ’cause 0' you.”
Judith laid her hand on his again.
“ We could do without the money, Michael,"
she said. “ I’m not afraid, and we’re young and
strong. Other folks have emigrated with less
than what we have—you told me you’d got nine
hundred pounds put by.”
But Michael shook his head.
“ I’m thinking of more than one thing, Judith,”
he said. “ There’s two matters to be remembered.
First is, what were my father’s intentions, and
second is, what would he think 0’ me if I did
aught to see his savings wasted ? Now, I’m
certain sure that my father meant me to take
land and houses, ’cause he knew I shouldn’t
make ducks and drakes on’ ’em. More than that,
he knew I should provide for Stephen. D’ye see,
lass, in his way—not the best 0' ways, no doubt,
but still his way—he did his best to put me in
possession, ’cause he trusted me and knew I
should do what was right. And I will, so
there ! ”
“ What will you do, Michael ? ” she asked.
“ I’ll hold on,” he answered, hitting one fist with
the other. “ I’ll hold on. I’ll do my best to
pull Stephen round. After all, he’s my own
brother on one side, at any rate, and if he’ll only


THE THORN BRAKE 217
be pulled round I’ll keep my word and share with
him. He’s my father’s son as much as I am.”
Judith began to fold up her needlework. When
it was made into a neat parcel she clasped her
hands on it and looked long and fixedly at the
figures before her. Sometimes she pleased herself
by fancying that the combat was real, and that
she saw the lion giving way.
“ And—and if the truth came to be found out,
Michael ? ” she asked suddenly. “ What then ? ”
“ Then I hope ’at Stephen ’ud treat me as I
mean to treat him,” answered Michael. “ I
hope so, I hope so ! "
“ There’s his wife,” said Judith.
Michael shook his head.
“ Aye, that’s so,” he said. “ There’s his wife.
She’s not the sort to give up aught that she’s a
right to. However, there it is. I’ll hold on, and
I’ll do what I can for Stephen. And you mun
help, lass.”
There was no one else in the deserted gallery,
and he bent down and kissed her. Judith nearly
told him her secret at that, but something held her
back ; he had trouble enough then, she thought ;
why should she add to it ?
“ I’ll do aught you wish,” she said. “ Aught
you think to be best, Michael.”
And then she added, but to herself, “ And


218 THE MARRIAGE LINES
I'll tell you everything when the right moment
comes."
Michael stood up and looked at his watch.
“ We’d best be moving towards Tilly Cordaker’s
place,” he said. “ I expect John doesn’t like
to be kept waiting for his dinner.” Then he
nodded at the plaster cast. “ I wonder,“ he said,
slyly. “ I wonder which of them two came out
best in the end, Judith ? Seem to ha’ gone about
pretty lightly clothed i’ them days, I think.
I expect it's a Bible piece, though I don’t recollect
aught about it. Now if I’d set out to fight a lion
I think I should put on one 0’ them suits o’
armour, like Sir Thomas has in his hall. Well,
let’s be going—~and it’s to be like that, lass, is it ?
I’m to hold on, and try to pull Stephen round,
and then to share with him ? "
“ If that’s what you think best, Michael,”
she answered.
“ It’s what I think my father would ha’ liked,”
he said reflectively. “ Yes, I’m sure he’d ha'
liked it. And if we can only steady Stephen——
ecod I but it’ll be as hard work as fighting half-
a-dozen lions, will that. Hows'ever, one can but
make a shot at it.”
It was late when Michael returned home that
night. Ann Piper was standing in the house-place
when he entered, holding the newly-lighted lamp


THE THORN BRAKE 219
in her hand. She glanced at him with a sly
smile.
“ Now then, maister,” she said.
Michael looked round. The old house had
regained its accustomed appearance; the fumi-
ture had been brought back and put in place.
He made no remark, and presently took his
lanthorn and went over to the mill. The arrears
of work had been cleared off, and there were
evidences that Devery Ball and his helper had
spent a busy day.
Next morning Stephen, sulky but quiet, came
to work. He made no reference to what had
happened, nor did Michael. And at night, when
work was done, Michael took his brother by the
arm.
“ Now then, lad,” he said, “ we’ll go in and
have a bite o’ supper and an odd glass after it,
and then we’ll talk about sharing this bit of furni-
ture. It’s as much yours as it’s mine.”
END OF PART TWO


I
ON a spring morning of the next year but one
Michael rode into Sicaster with what the country
folk call a heart-and-a-half. He sang and whistled
as he cantered beneath the budding hedgerows.
And in the great four-postered bed in the best
chamber lay Judith, and pillowed on her breast
the first-born, a man-child.
There had been changes in the condition of
things since Michael and Judith had talked under
the shadow of the man and the lion. They had
married, and they had been happy. If Judith
was grave and thoughtful at times, Michael set
that down to the coming motherhood, and grew
increasingly careful of her welfare. He himself,
naturally cheerful and optimistic, had put away
from him the thought of the secret. He grew
more and more confident that it would never be
revealed; more and more certain that he was
doing what his father would have wished. He
223


224 THE MARRIAGE LINES
would take care of the property ; he would pro-
tect what Martin had got together with labour
and discretion, and in due time he would share
with Stephen. All this seemed to him as it should
be, it was a well-ordered plan. He failed to see
that human ingenuity could have devised any
better one.
And the plan was working out well, for Stephen,
much to the surprise of everybody, had wrought
a reformation in himself. Michael had a secret
and somewhat sly belief that his own firm and
resolute action in relation to the furniture had had
something to do with this reformation. Certainly
Stephen had turned over a new leaf since that
time, and had so far made no blot on it. There
were folk in the village who wagged scornful
heads and said with evil tongues that Stephen
was only holding off his old courses until he had
the handling of the half-share which Michael
was going to give him. Michael held no such
opinion. He had watched Stephen narrowly, and
seen many signs of what he believed to be a
sincere desire to pull himself together and to
amend. They had worked together in the business
with great amity, and they had done well. The
fear that Stephen would waste his patrimony
grew fainter and fainter in Michael’s visions of
the future. He had a peculiar notion, which he


THE LAW: AND HUMAN NATURE 225
never mentioned even to Judith, that his father
knew how things were going, and was well pleased.
That morning, as Michael bent over Judith
and the red and wrinkled atom of humanity which
lay in the crook of her arm, Judith pulled at his
neck by the arm which she had thrown round it.
“ Michael,” she said, half-shyly.
“ My lass ? ” responded Michael, knowing that
she had something to ask.
“ We’ve a deal to be thankful for, Michael.”
“ Aye ! "
“ And I was thinking that, perhaps, as Stephen
is—is all right, now, and—and as we’ve got a son,
Michael, happen the time’s come when you could
do what you talked of doing? For then, you
see, Stephen ’ud know that he’d something that
would come to his own chil
For Stephen and Sherratt had a boy of nine
months, and Stephen had been steadier than ever
since its arrival.
“ Don’t you think so, Michael ? ” Judith added
anxiously. “ Couldn’t you do it now ?—so
long as—-—”
“ So long as what, lass? ” he asked.
“ So long as—as it doesn’t come out,” she
answered. “ You know what I mean.”
“ There’s no fear of that coming out,” said
Michael. “ It’ll never be heard on. I’ll do it,
P


226 THE MARRIAGE LINES
Judith—there’s no reason for putting it off, now.
I consider that Stephen’s a different man. I'll
see Mr. Marcher to-day, and hear what’s right to
be done.”
And so here he was, riding into Sicaster to see
the lawyer and to learn the proper way of bestow-
ing on Stephen one-half of the property which the
world believed to be his. It struck him once as
he meditated on his errand that according to the
strict letter of the law he was only presenting
Stephen with a moiety of what was really Stephen's
own, but he shook his head with impatience of
the thought.
“ It’s what my father would have wished,” he
muttered to himself. “ He held me his rightful
son as much as ever he held Stephen, and he’d
never ha’ seen me wronged. It’s the right way.”
The consciousness that he was doing what he felt
to be right made Michael hold his head higher
than usual as he rode into the yard of the inn at
Sicaster. According to local custom, he turned
into the bar-parlour for the good of the house;
two or three habitués assembled there took his
high looks for parental pride.
“ Hello, here’s t’young feyather l ” exclaimed
one. “ Nah, then, Muscroft, we’ve gotten tha’,
and tha’ll hev’ to weet t’babby heeiid.”


THE LAW: AND HUMAN NATURE 229
Michael, mi lad—-it’ll dew for yon bairn o'
Stivven’s. Lucky for this bairn o’ yeers ’at it’s
gran’feyather deed wi’out a will, ye know,
Michael. It’s a rare thing to be t’eldest son, when
there’s landed property and no will left.”
“ Aye, it is so'a ! ” chorused the rest. “ A
rare fine thing, is that.”
Michael knew that his neighbours were only
indulging in what they believed to be good-natured
and friendly discussion : they were only voicing
what was doubtless the general opinion and talk
of the countryside. But when he left them and
walked off to Marcher’s office, he began to reflect
on some of the things they had said. He remem-
bered, then, that if only his own birth had been
legitimate, all the houses and land which his father
had left would be his, without doubt, and would
in due course pass from him to his son. And
nobody—nobody but an old woman whose mouth
was closed—knew that he was not legitimate;
nobody, probably, ever would know. A strange
feeling that he was in some way about to rob his
and Judith’s firstborn came over him: robbing
him of something, perhaps, the full value of which
he could not properly estimate. For the property
in Sicaster was increasing in value ; he had
already received offers for it which would have
made Martin stare ; there was a probability that


230 THE MARRIAGE LINES
within another twenty years it would be worth
ten times as much as it was worth that day.
And Michael was not above feeling that he would
like his son to be what the cronies he had just left
called a gentleman ; that he would like to send
him to a great school, and to college, and see him
on his way to Parliament. If Sir Thomas's
grandfather had been a baker, why, then—-
“ No l ” he suddenly exclaimed, coming in sight
of the lawyer’s ofiice. “ I’ll do what’s right.
I’ll do by Stephen as I hope and believe Stephen
’ud ha' done by me. There’s plenty for both
baims.”
Mr. Marcher was getting old, and was thinking
of relinquishing his practice to James Markill,
his head clerk, a duly admitted solicitor who had
served him for many years. Marcher and Markill
sat in the same room now, and Michael found them
together when he entered ; the one, old, White of
hair, not so attentive as he had been ; the other,
a smooth-haired, bland-mannered person, whose
eyes were concealed behind spectacles of slightly
smoked glass. Michael, for some reason which he
could not explain, did not like Markill; his low
voice, suave and oily manner, and habit of rubbing
his hands together in conversation irritated him.
And he gave Markill but a curt nod as he advanced
to Marcher.


THE LAW: AND HUMAN NATURE 231
The old solicitor congratulated Michael on the
birth of his son, adding a time—worn joke or two,
at which Markill dutifully laughed. Michael
preserved a grave countenance: it became even
graver when Marcher struck into the topic upon
which the company of the bar-parlour had aired
their views.
“ Heir to quite a handsome property,” obseTVed
the old man. “ This property here in the town
is worth three times as much as it was when
your father got hold of it.”
“ Four times as much,” said Markill with a
gentle air of correction. “ And is increasing in
value every year.”
Michael made no comment. He took a seat by
Marcher’s desk and put his hat on the floor,
and he addressed his remarks to the senior of the
two men.
“ It’s about the property that I came to speak,”
he said. “ I suppose that as Mr. Markill there’s
going to take up your business, Mr. Marcher, I
may as well say to him what I’ve got to say to
you ? ”
“Just so—just so,” replied Marcher. “ Yes,
Markill will attend to whatever you Wish."
“ Aye, but Mr. Markill wasn’t there that time
when you came to my father’s funeral,” said
Michael. “However, you’ll perhaps have told


232 THE MARRIAGE LINES
him that I then said as how, if events turned
out as I could like, I should be for sharing the
property with Stephen.”
“ I didn’t tell him, but he’ll understand what
you mean,” said Marcher. “ Yes, I remember
that you said so. Certain conditions there were,
of course.”
“ Well,” continued Michael, “ I consider that
the time’s come when I can safely make that
promise good. There’s no need to go into family
matters, but I’m satisfied with Stephen. So I
want you to do what’s needful in the legal way—
at once."
The old lawyer pushed his spectacles back on his
forehead and looked at Michael with a whimsical
smile.
“ God bless me ! ” he said. “ You don’t really
mean to carry that out ? Of course, I know what
you said at the time, and it was all very handsome
and so on, but—dear me, it’s a most Quixotic
thing to do, you know.”
Michael flushed all over his brown face, and his
features slowly drew into a frown.
“ I don’t know what that word means," he said,
with something of a growl. “ But I know what
my word means. And I mean to keep it. I said
I’d share, and I’ll share.”
“ You’ve got a son now, remember,” said old

~_-_¢-_—


THE LAW: AND HUMAN NATURE 233
Marcher. “ When he grows up he’ll not thank you
for giving away half his patrimony, you know.”
“ Then he’ll be like to thank me for naught ! ”
retorted Michael with some Show of temper.
“ If a son of mine dared to say aught of that sort
to me, I should be like to show him the nearest
way to my door, sir ! But I’ve no fear of that—
I’ll bring him up differen .”
“ Well, well ! ” said Marcher. “ Of course, do
what you like. But as you’re eldest son, and have
a son, it’s a pity to divide a nice little property
that’s increasing in value. You could haVe made
it up to Stephen in some other way, given him
a handsome annual allowance out of the rental.
You’d have been in command then. AS it is, if
Stephen takes hold of half, why, it's his to do
what he likes with.”
And he spread out his hands as if indicating
that it was highly probable that Stephen, having
come into wealth, would proceed to throw it
broadcast on both sides of him.
“ I’ll stand by my word,” said Michael. “ It’s
what I’ve always intended. And as you’ve
mentioned Stephen I may as well say that I’ve
confidence in him now. No need to say aught
much, but there it is.“
“ Oh, of course, do as you like,” observed
Marcher. “ I hope Stephen will appreciate your


234 THE MARRIAGE LINES
generosity. Well, we’d better go into what you
want doing. As I said, it’s a nice bit of property,
and a pity to break it up.”
When Michael left the private office half-an-
hour later, Markill walked with him to the street
door. And there he stopped him.
“ I’ve been wanting to have a talk with you,
Mr. Muscroft,” he said, looking narrowly at
Michael.
“ What about ? ” asked Michael abruptly.
“ Well, it’s about your property there in the
valley—the farm," replied Markill.
“ Aye, and what about it ? ” demanded Michael.
Markill glanced at the clock of the parish church,
the spire of which towered above their heads.
“ I can’t tell you now, for I’ve an appointment,”
he answered. “ But to-morrow afternoon, that
being our half-holiday, I shall be taking a walk
in your direction, and I’ll call on you, if con-
venient. Then I can say what I have to say.”
Michael hesitated. He had no great inclination
to receive Markill in his house, and he wondered
what business he could have with him. But he
was not the man to be inhospitable, and he made
haste to offer an invitation.
“ Oh, I shall be there,” he answered. “ Come
and take a glass and a cigar. You’ll find me in
any time.”


THE LAW: AND HUMAN NATURE 235
“ I shall call between three and four,” said
Markill, and went back into the office to make
a note in his diary.
Michael rode home wondering what Markill
had to tell him. But he had forgotten all about
that matter by the time he reached the best
chamber and his wife.
“ Judith,” he said, bending over her, “ I’ve
arranged it. And it’ll all be done in a day or two.
Shall I tell Stephen when he comes in to his supper
to-night, or wait till it’s settled ? ”
“ Oh, tell him now, Michael! ” she answered.
“ Tell him. I want everybody to be as happy as
I am.”
Then they both looked at young Michael. He
was still new enough to be a source of wonder and
of something like awe.
II
OVER the pipe and glass which the two brothers
always shared when the day’s work had been
rounded off by supper, Michael told Stephen of
what he had done that afternoon. Marcher and
Markill now had the matter in hand; in a few
days one-half the property would be legally trans-
ferred to the younger brother.


236 THE MARRIAGE LINES
“ I’ve never had but one aim and idea about
the matter, Stephen, lad,” he wound up. “ I want
to keep together what my father put together,
and you mun think about it as I do.”
“ I’ll see to it,” said Stephen. Then with a
characteristic turning away from the subject,
which Michael understood and knew to result from
a shy dislike to talk about intimate personal
affairs, he said : “ We mun have something done
to that mill cowl, Michael: the rain’s coming in.”
“ Send Ball for t’ carpenter, then," answered
Michael. “ Send him to-morrow morning. I
dare say it does want seeing to—it’s four or five
years since it was new boarded."
“ I’ll see to it myself first,” said Stephen. “ I’ll
go up sometime to-morrow and see what’s wanted.
I reckon that last storm blew some boards loose.”
Then Stephen went home, and Michael went
to bed feeling that he had done the right thing.
All fear of discovery of the secret had left him by
that time ; he had shared as he felt he ought to
share, and now that Stephen had steadied down
he looked forward to quiet and prosperous years.
Above all, he had done what he believed to be in
accordance with his father’s wishes. Everything
was well.
Markill came to the mill-house in the course of
the next afternoon, according to his promise. He


THE LAW: AND HUMAN NATURE 237
found Michael in the lower chambers of the mill,
staring upward through the floors to the topmost
storey, where Stephen and Devery Ball, moving
cautiously about in the baulks and timbers of the
cowl, were examining the slates of the domed
roof. Outside, the hill and the valley lay bathed
in the soft sunlight of the spring afternoon, and
Markill paused to admire the prospect as Michael
led the way to the house.
“ A nice view you’ve got from here, Mr. Mus-
croft,” he said, waving a hand towards the
valley ; “ a very nice view.”
“ It’s right enough," answered Michael, with
tacitum lack of sentiment. “ Hasn’t changed a
deal, that I know of.”
“ I was never up here before, though I’ve
often walked past your lane-end,” said Markill.
“ I’d no idea you commanded such a prospect;
why, it’s what the artists would call a fine land-
scape! Now that,” he continued, pointing to a
farmstead which lay half hidden by a ring of elrns
and poplars in the valley, “ that’s your farm,
isn’t it ? ”
“ That’s it,” replied Michael.
“ Nice old place,” remarked the solicitor.
“ Truly rural, eh ? Not a Sign of industrial
labour, no traces of manufacture hereabouts, no.
Except your own, of course—and com-milling


THE LAW: AND HUMAN NATURE 239
When Markill had been attended to he attended
to himself, and wishing the lawyer good health
and offering his best respects, sat down in the
comer of the settle with a cigar between his
teeth and his thumbs in the armholes of his waist-
coat, and looked at the visitor expectantly. Mar-
kill had said that he wanted to see him on business.
Michael, unused to delay or to finesse where
business was concerned, supposed that he would
come to business at once. But Markill, sipping
his whisky and water, and smoking his cigar with
an air of enjoyment, talked of anything but
business. He spoke of the pleasures of country
life ; of how it had always been his great desire
to live in an old-fashioned house ; of how much
more smoothly life seemed to roll in really rustic
surroundings than in even a little market-town.
It was only by gentle degrees that he led the
conversation—which was “entirely one-sided—
round to the valley that lay stretching away from
the foot of the hill.
“ And you think there’ll not be much change
in fifty years’ time in the appearance of
things round here? ” he said softly, smiling
gently at Michael, as if he asked him a delicate
question.
Michael stretched his big frame and yawned.
He had taken no particular interest in the lawyer’s


240 THE MARRIAGE LINES
talk of country sights and sounds, and did not
know what he was aiming at.
“ I see no appearance on’t,” he answered.
“ Nay, I should think there’ll be no great changes
hereabouts, Mr. Markill."
Markill laughed quietly, and bending nearer
to his host, tapped the table with a long lean
forefinger.
“ Ah I ” he said, mysteriously. “ And what
would you say if I acted the part of prophet and
told you what I see in this valley in fifty years—
and less ? Eh ? ”
“ I don’t understand you,’
bluntly.
Markill laughed again and cleared his throat
as if he meditated a speech.
“ Roughly speaking,” he said, “ roughly speak-
ing, Mr. Muscroft, the population of that
valley, including the little village, is not above
two hundred souls, at present.”
“ About that,” said Michael, wondering what
his visitor was after. “ A few more or less.”
“ A few more or less, as you say,” continued
Markill “ Well, what would you think if I told
you that in my opinion, the population of that
valley, say between Elmsby Hill, which is as far
as you can see one way, and Sicaster, which is
the limit to which you can see in another, will be
answered Michael,


242 THE MARRIAGE LINES
“ You mean to do it P You mean to give up
one-half your property to your brother? ”
“ Aye ! ”
Markill smiled.
“ A man ought to know the full value of any-
thing before he gives it away to anybody,” he
said.
“ I’ve had it valued,” answered Michael.
“ It’s worth between twelve and thirteen thousand
pound. Mr. Marcher has a note about th’
value.”
“ I know. Twelve or thirteen thousand
pound l ” exclaimed Markill with a contemptuous
smile. “ A mere flea-bite, my dear sir i ”
“ Well,” said Michael, “it was valued by
Streggles’s folks. They’d ought to know.
Happen you know better.”
“ Yes,” responded Markill, confidently. “ I
do. Streggles’ don’t know all that I do. Few
people do—in Sicaster.”
“Oh?” said Michael. He took this for a
piece of vainglory and liked Markill no better
for it. “ Oh i Aye ? ” he repeated.
“ Yes,” said Markill, more confidently than
before. “ All that Streggles would see is what
lies on the surface. I see beneath the surface.
Do you understand what I mean, Mr. Muscroft ? ”
“ No l ” answered Michael. “ I don’t.”


THE LAW: AND HUMAN NATURE 245
Markill. “ And you’re the first that I am telling
this to. I have opportunities of hearing things
—opportunities that Marcher never had. Well,
there’s certain people been prospecting in the
valley—never mind who they are—they’ve had
experts with them—mining experts, experts in
geology and so on. And their opinion is that the
whole valley is full of coal—right away from
Elmsby Hill to Sicaster. In fact, they say that
it’s right in the thick of the great seam which
runs north and south hereabouts. They’re certain
of it.”
“ Well? ” asked Michael.
Markill looked at him significantly.
“ Your rights as owner of so much land there
don’t merely comprise the surface of the earth,”
he said. “ What’s under the surface is yours
as well as what’s on it. The surface value of
that land is nothing compared to the value of
the mineral rights.”
Michael remained silent for a while, taking in
what he conceived to be the full significance of
this. '
“ You mean,” he said at last, “ you mean that
whereas yon land may be worth, we’ll say three
thousand pound now, it ’ud be worth a vast
sight more if so be as it’s true that there’s coal
beneath it P ”


246 THE MARRIAGE LINES
“Just so,” answered Markill. “ It would be
worth, as you say, a vast sight more—a vast
sight 1 ”
Michael continued to ruminate.
“ I once heard my father say something of
that sort,” he remarked, after a pause. “ Well,
if it is so, it is so. As for myself, I hate them
colliery districts, and it’s a licker to me how any-
body can bide in 'em. But I know very well
that if coal’s found, coal has to be got. Then
these folk that you talk about’ll be wanting to
start a mine? "
Markill, watching his host closely, nodded
silently.
“ And they’ll want to buy the land, I reckon,”
continued Michael. “ Well, that’ll be so much
more for Stephen and me. We’d ought to have
Stephen in and tell him. I’ll call him."
Markill stretched out a hand.
“Wait,” he said. “ I came to talk to you.
You’re owner, you know, at present. And
there’s something else. I’ve heard of another
thing beside the coal.”
“ What ? ” asked Michael, resuming his seat.
“ A railway,” replied Markill. “ There’s to
be a line between Chilsley and Sicaster, to connect
with the line they’re making now from west to
east, that’ll run through Sicaster at the top side


248 THE MARRIAGE LINES
heard, had never met, and had never believed
to have any existence—men free from selfish
cupidity.
“ After all,” he repeated. “ You’re the elder,
as I said before. Why shouldn’t you reap the
benefit of this knowledge? I thought you’d
be only too pleased to get the news from me
in good time. I—-I could have told your brother,
but I preferred to tell you. Because—~”
He paused again, and Michael after watching
him silently for a moment, spoke.
“ Aye, and why did you prefer to tell me? ”
he asked. “ Because of what? ”
“ I thought you might divide before this comes
off," answered Markill, boldly. “Give your
brother, say, that house property in Sicaster,
and do you stick to the land in the valley. Eh ? ”
He favoured Michael with a cunning look, for
he was still sceptical as to his disinterestedness.
Michael replied with a hard stare.
“ You’ve a son upstairs, you know," said
Markill in a whisper.
Michael frowned, and then suddenly laughed.
“ It strikes me, Mr. Markill, ’at you don’t
know me very well,” he said, half-sneeringly.
“ I’m not t’ sort 0’ man to do that sort 0’ thing.
When I said I’d share, I meant what I said. If
so be as this land’s going to have added value


250 THE MARRIAGE LINES
“ What ? " exclaimed Michael, sharply.
“ Where ? ”
“ Out 0’ t' cowl, maister,” faltered Devery.
“ An'—I'm afraid he’s sore hotten. Ye'd better
come, maister.”
Michael looked at Markill. The lawyer rose in
silence, and followed his host and Devery Ball
across the yard.
III
IN after days Michael often reconstructed the
scene which met his eyes as he approached the
mill that afternoon. At the foot of the wooden
steps which led up to the door stood a horse and
cart which had brought corn to be ground ; the
farm-lad who had come in charge of them hovered,
irresolute and frightened, just within the door,
looking alternately at the three men who hurried
from the house and at something within the mill.
And Michael knew that that something was
Stephen, and he knew why the faces of Devery
Ball and the farm-lad were white.
OVerhead, the great sails of the mill were
whirring steadily round before a fresh wind.
Their cheerful persistency, the irresistible swing
of their advance gave rise to sudden irritation in
Michael.


THE LAW: AND HUMAN NATURE 251
“ Stop them sails I " he commanded as he
sprang up the steps. “ A man can’t hear himself
speak. Now then—”
He hurried forward to where Stephen lay
stretched out on a pile of sacks, to which Devery
and the lad had evidently lifted him. And before
he reached him Michael snapped out orders.
“ Here, you I ” he exclaimed, pushing the farm-
lad towards the door. “ Run to the stable there,
get my horse, and ride for the doctor. Off you go
—sharp. Mr. Markill, go to the house and get
the brandy—it’s in the corner cupboard i’ th’
house-place—and a spoon. An’ tell the old
woman to keep her tongue still.”
Then as Markill and the lad hurried off he knelt
down by Stephen and lifted his head. But
Stephen’s head hung heavy and dropped back on
the sacks like a dead weight, and then Michael
noticed a slight flow of blood from one ear. He
looked up at Devery Ball, who had stopped the
rush of the sails and come to bend over the still
figure.
“ How was it ? ” demanded Michael almost
fiercely. “ What was he doing ? ”
Devery Ball shook his head and pointed up to
the gloom high above them. '
“ Naay ! ” he said. “ I doant know what he
wor doin’, maister. I wor 0’ one side 0’ t’ cowl


252 THE MARRIAGE LINES
and he wor at t’other—he seemed to be scram’lin’
among the baulks, and he wor all reight then, for
he wor whistlin’ a tune. An’ all of a sudden I
heerd summat give waay like, and as if he slipped,
and he screamed once—gow, it mak’s me dither
to think on't l—and then I see’d him down here
on t’floor. Yon theer lad o’ Grice’s had just come
up to t’ mill, an' him an’ me ligged Mestur Stivven
down here—he wor all crumpled up, like—and
then I fetched ye. Is it ower wi’ him, maister ? ”
“ He’s breathing,” answered Michael.
Markill came running with the brandy. He
and Michael forced a teaspoonful between
Stephen’s lips: Markill, calling to mind what
had been done in a trap accident in which he
had figured, began to rub some of the spirit on
the injured man’s forehead.
“ I’m afraid he’s badly hurt,” he said in a
whisper. “ Hadn’t you better send for his
wife ? ”
“ He's moving,” said Michael. “ Give him a
drop more.”
Stephen gradually opened his eyes, and at last
fixed them on his brother with a look of recogni-
tion. His lips moved a little, and Michael bent
down to them.
“ Now, lad? ” he said.
All that Michael caught was a faint whisper;


THE LAW: AND HUMAN NATURE 253
the only distinct words he made out were “ Sher-
ratt " and then “ bairn.” He pressed Stephen’s
hand, and as he did so saw his face suddenly
change and heard Devery Ball, who was watching
intently, catch his breath sharply.
“ It’s ower, maister,” he whispered. “ He’s
gone ! ”
Michael drew himself up on his knees and stared
at his brother as if he were some unreal thing.
Then he looked up at the lawyer as if he, too,
were a vision. Just then he could realise nothing.
Only a few minutes—six, seven minutes—before
he had been setting Out to fetch Stephen to listen
to the news of the coal mine and the railway, and
here was Stephen lying before him, dead.
IV
HALF-AN-HOUR later Markill walked slowly to-
wards the village to break the news to Stephen’s
widow. Michael was afraid of leaving the mill-
house, lest Judith, who was not over well that day,
should be suddenly upset ; he readily accepted
the lawyer’s offer of assistance. Moreover, Mar-
kill, as a Sicaster man, knew Sherratt ; he would
break the news to her gently and quietly, better
than Devery Ball or Ann Piper. So Michael


THE LAW: AND HUMAN NATURE 255
Then he turned to the immediate task, that of
breaking the news to Stephen’s widow. He
remembered Sherratt—she had been barmaid at
the inn at Sicaster to which Markill, following the
time-honoured custom of the town, went every
day about eleven o’clock to take his morning
glass. As a highly respectable solicitor and
managing clerk he had never formed one of the
crowd who hung about over the glass; men of
business capacities drank standing and hurried
away, leaving it to loafers to dangle at the bar and
gossip in comers. But he had a memory of Sher-
ratt as a young woman of fine figure, handsome
face, self-sufficient manners and a ready tongue,
and he had a notion that she was not the sort
to make a scene nor to fall into hysterics when
evil news was announced.
Sherratt herself met Markill at the door. She
had seen him coming across the garden. No
other thought crossed her mind than that Markill,
being a solicitor, had come to call on business.
Perhaps there was some old forgotten debt of
Stephen’s still outstanding at Sicaster. Remem-
bering that Markill was one of her old customers
she favoured him with a smile as she opened the
door.
“ Can I have a word with you, Mrs. Muscroft ? ”
he said.


256 THE MARRIAGE LINES
“ Come in, Mr. Markill,” she answered. “ I
expect you want to see Stephen, but I dare say
I shall do as well.”
She led the way into a sitting-room, wherein lay
a baby in a cradle, and Markill, for a reason only
known to himself, glanced at it with a sudden
sense of speculative interest. He laid down his
hat and gloves, and having taken the chair which
Sherratt offered him waited until she had re-
sumed her own, near the child.
“ Yes,” he said. “ Yes71 dare say you will do
as well. But I have seen Mr. Stephen—at the
mill, you know.”
“ Yes, I knew he was there,” remarked
Sherratt.
“ Yes. The fact is," continued Markill, who
by this time had heard women’s voices in the
adjacent kitchen and had thereby satisfied himself
that help was at hand if he needed it, “ the fact is,
I’ve brought a message—not from your husband,
but about him.”
Sherratt looked up from the needlework which
she had taken in hand. Her face became
suspicious.
“ The fact is, Mr. Muscroft—Michael, you know
—sent me. I’m sure you’re a brave woman, Mrs.
Muscroft, and you’ll bear what I’ve got to say.
Stephen has had an accident—a fall.”


THE LAW: AND HUMAN NATURE 257
“ An accident—a fall? ” she repeated, staring
at him. “ What—serious P ”
“ Very serious,” he answered gravely. “It’s
very serious—very.”
Sherratt dropped the needlewOrk into her lap,
and gave him a steady look.
“ See here, Mr. Markill,” she said abruptly.
“ I’m not the sort to scream and faint, whatever
comes. You’d better out with it. I’ll stand it,
whatever it is. I can see something in your face.
Now, then—is he dead? ”
Markill bowed his head.
“ I’m afraid that’s the truth,” he answered.
“ It was sudden. He fell from the top of the
mill. He only recovered consciousness just to
mention you and the child to Michael. I’m sorry
to bring such news. Shall I leave you, now? ”
Sherratt had folded her hands on the dropped
work, and was staring steadfastly at the fire.
She made no immediate answer, and Markill,
rising from his chair, walked over to the window
and looked out into the garden. And presently
Sherratt spoke.
“ Mr. Markill,” she said, quietly, “ There’s no
need to go away. I’m—of course, it’s a heavy
blow, a shock, but I know what I’m doing and
saying. I must set off up there, of course. But
—sit down again.”
R


THE LAW: AND HUMAN NATURE 263
considerable surprise to him that Stephen should
have thought it necessary to make a will; he
himself had never entertained the notion. “ A
will, eh? Why, he never said naught to me
about it."
“ It was Hellinthwaite that put him up to it,”
continued Sherratt. “ Him and the gamekeeper
were in here one night, playing cards, just after
I’d got about again, and they were talking about
the baby. And Hellinthwaite said that as
Stephen was a family man now, he ought to make
a will. And then he offered to draw one up for
him.”
Michael frowned. Hellinthwaite, in his
opinion, was a bad lot. He had been a solicitor
in his time, and had been struck off the rolls for
misconduct, and since then had returned to his
native village, where he earned some sort of a
living by collecting rates, taking the census,
doing secretarial jobs for whoever cared to employ
him, helping farmers and tradesmen with their
accounts and spunging on his relatives and friends.
“ Hellinthwaite was a lawyer, and I dare say
he knows how to make a will as well as anybody,"
he observed. “ It was made then ? ”
“ There and then,” replied Sherratt. “ There
was no time like the present, Hellinthwaite
said, and he drew up some writing, and Stephen


264 THE MARRIAGE LINES
signed it, and Hellinthwaite and the gamekeeper
signed it, too.”
“ That ’ud be for witnesses,” said Michael.
“ I know that much, though I don’t know a
deal about making wills. Let’s see it, Sherratt,
if you’ve no objections.”
Sherratt placed the old tea-caddy on the table,
and having unlocked it, took out numerous
papers.
“ Receipts, mostly, are these,” she said. “ I’ve
been particular about business and money matters,
Michael. There isn’t a penny owing, I’m thankful
to say. Here’s the will."
She handed across the tea-cups a folded docu-
ment on which was inscribed Will of Stephen
Muscroft in a clerkly hand.
“ Aye, that’s Hellinthwaite’s fist, right enough,”
said Michael, unfolding the paper. “ Let’s see
what it says, now—‘ This is the last will of me,
Stephen Muscroft, of Wisteria Cottage, Hethering-
ton, in the county of York. I devise and bequeath
all my estate and effects, real and personal, which
I may die possessed of or entitled to, unto my wife,
Sherratt Muscroft, absolutely. And I appoint
my said wife Sherratt to be sole executor of this
my will. Dated this twelfth day of August,
1858. Stephen Muscroft. Signed by the testator
in the presence of us both present at the same


THE LAW: AND HUMAN NATURE 265
time, who in his presence and in the presence of
each other, have hereunto set our names as wit-
nesses: John Hellinthwaite, of Hetherington,
gentleman. Robert Crimple, of Hetherington,
gamekeeper.’ Oh, so Hellinthwaite puts himself
down as a gentleman, does he? ” concluded
Michael, with a grim laugh. “ I should ha’
written him down ‘ odd-job-man,’ I think I ”
“It’s all right, though, isn’t it, Michael? "
asked Sherratt.
“Well, I’m no lawyer, you know,’ answered
Michael, “ but I should say from what I can see
that it’s as right as a trivet. Of course, he’d
know how to draw up a will, would yon Hellin-
thwaite. I reckon poor Stephen paid him for
this, Sherratt ? ”
“ Paid him!” exclaimed Sherratt. “ Aye,
paid him a dozen times over, I should think.
He’s had plenty out of Stephen, has that ! ”
“ Well,” said Michael, “ you’ll have to what
they call prove this will. And I’ll give you a piece
of good advice. Don’t ask no questions of
Hellinthwaite. You’d best go to our lawyers.”
“ I’ll see Mr. Markill about it,” answered
Sheratt.
“ Aye,” said Michael. “ I’ve no doubt Markill
can do all that’s needful. Not that there’ll be
aught much to do, I should think. As I said,
I


268 THE MARRIAGE LINES
There’ll be a steam-worked mill before long,
and ours ’ll be what they call out-of-date.”
“ You'll be independent of it, Muscroft !
Let's see, how many acres have you in the
valley ? ”
“ Just about a hundred, sir.”
“ Well, you’ll have no need to stick to your
mill,” observed Sir Thomas, who knew that
Michael was already well off. “ You’ll be a rich
man. But I suppose you’ll have to make pro-
vision for your brother’s widow and child.”
“ I shall do just what I was going to do with
him,” answered Michael. “ It was all being
settled when he died. Share and share alike.”
“ That’s handsome of you—very ! ” said Sir
Thomas. “ Well—we shall all be better off,
though it’ll spoil the look of the old neighbour-
hood. I don’t know what my father would have
said ! ”
“ Nor mine,” responded Michael with a laugh.
“ I expect I shall have to pull the kennels down,”
said Sir Thomas ruefully. “ And I shall see
smoke and steam from my windows. However,
as you say, Muscroft, the old days are over.
But you take a piece of advice from us—now’s
our time for making a bit. Stand out for all you
can get. These big companies can afford to pay.
And you’re a family man now.”
I


270 THE MARRIAGE LINES
it’s on my business he can take a trap at my
expense.”
Markill drove up in a fly after dinner and
found Michael busily employed in the mill. He
smiled half contemptuoust as he went up the
stairs into the flour-laden atmosphere.
“ So you think looking after a few sacks of
corn more important than looking after the sale
of a piece of land ? ” he said, by way of greeting.
“ I think getting done what happens to be i’
hand the first thing to be done,” retorted Michael.
“ I ne’er start on to one job till that before it’s
finished, Mr. Markill. I haven’t finished this yet
—-when it's done, I’ll attend to yours.”
“ Yours, you mean," said Markill. “ I didn’t
come out on my own business. Don’t hurry
yourself—my time’s yours.”
“ I reckon it is, as long as I pay for it,” said
Michael drily. “ I shall be a bit yet—will you
step across to th' house and sit down, or will you
walk around, like ? ”
“ I’ll stop where I am,” answered Markill. He
sat down on a pile of clean sacking and watched
Michael and Devery Ball weigh up a quantity of
flour which had just been ground. He noted
Michael’s absorption in his work ; it amused him
to see it. Here was a man who owned—or,
at any rate, he reminded himself, held possession


THE LAW: AND HUMAN NATURE 271
of—land that was being wanted at fancy prices
by a coal-mining syndicate and a railway com-
pany, working away at manual labour as if his
very head depended upon it ! And yet, reflected
Markill, that was how old Martin had made his
money. Something told him that it was how
Michael would go on making his. “ You’re fond
of a bit of work,” he observed, with a laugh.
Michael gave him no more than a grunt by
way of answer, and continued to toil until the
last sack had been duly tied up and placed in the
cart which waited at the foot of the stairs. Then
he raised his arm, brushed the sweat off his fore-
head, and turned to the lawyer with a grin of sly
satisfaction.
“ There’s an end 0’ that, anyway,” he remarked.
“ Now, then, Devery, off you set wi’ it. We’ll
go across to the house, Mr. Markill. You see,”
he explained, as they walked over the stretch of
greensward, “I couldn’t go in to Sicaster this
morning, because we’re that throng just now,
and of course it makes a diff’rence, wi’ losing Ste-
phen. However, it’ll do you no harm to ride out
here. Come in and have a glass.”
He led the lawyer into the house-place and made
him at home, and once more they faced each other
in front of the fire. So they had been sitting,
thought Michael, on that aftemoon—only a few


274 THE MARRIAGE LINES
Markill felt that the time to speak had come.
He suddenly bent nearer and glancing round
him as if to make sure that they were alone,
tapped Michael on the knee.
“ Yes i ” he said. “ Yes—but only if I hold my
tongue 1 ”
Something in Markill's look gave Michael a
quicker conception of his meaning than he was
able to gain from his words. He stiffened in his
seat, and drawing himself up, stared at the lawyer
with eyes which grew more and more defiant.
“And what might you hold your tongue, or
not hold your tongue, about, pray? ” he asked
with a short laugh.
Markill reflected before speaking. He came
to the conclusion that he was already committed,
and that it was best to show a bold front.
“ You know as well as I do,” he answered.
“ It’s no use blustering or trying to domineer
over me. I know what I know. And you know
what I mean.”
“ And happen I don’t,’ retorted Michael.
" Let’s be plain in speech, then, if you wish
it,” said Markill. “ I—”
“ I’ll take care we’re naught else,’ interrupted
Michael. “ It’s best, if you begin to talk about
tongue-holding.”
“ Very well,” said Markill. “ Then, to be
i


278 THE MARRIAGE LINES
“ About as much as I understand most lawyer’s
talk,” answered Michael, “ which is not over
much.”
" I said I can keep it. Listen,” continued
Markill, leaning forward and speaking in lower
tones : “ it is true that I found out the truth, but
I don’t believe that there’s the least fear of any
one else doing so. To begin with, no one con-
cerned has the slightest suspicion in the matter.
Your brother certainly never had; his widow
hasn’t. No one hereabouts has. Over there,
in the dales, everything is forgotten, except by
your old foster-mother, who will never tell.
People from our part of the country never go
up there; people of those parts never travel
down here. Unless some great and particular
reason arose for searching into the matter, I don’t
believe the secret of your birth will ever come to
light. And you’re in possession at present.
And unquestioned and unsuspected.”
Markill paused and laughed. Some idea seemed
to afford him amusement. Michael sat silent,
watching him.
“ Yes,” Markill said presently, still amused.
“ I think that secret’s safe, like a lot of others.
If the immediate antecedents of some folks who
sit in the seats of the mighty were vigorously
searched into, there would be some revelations


THE LAW: AND HUMAN NATURE 279
to which yours, by comparison, would be as
nothing! But let that pass. The question is,
what do you propose? ”
“ Propose about what? ” asked Michael with
seeming innocence
“ About this? About the secret ? ” replied
Markill.
“ Why, you’ve just said it was safe ! ” exclaimed
Michael, affecting great surprise. “ You’ve just
said that you didn’t believe anybody would ever
find it out ! ”
“ Just so,” said Markill. “ But I’ve found it
out.”
“ Then, of course, as my solicitor and an honour-
able man, you’ll keep it to yourself,” said Michael,
with deep irony. “ I should never expect aught
else of a gentleman like you, that’s been brought
up all his life in Mr. Marcher’s office, and that’s
come to succeed him. I’m glad the secret, as
you call it, has fallen into such honourable
hands, sir.”
Markill bent his head to conceal the wry face
which he could not avoid pulling.
“ That’s all very well,” he muttered, “ but it’s
no good talking a lot of sentimental gush in
matters of this sort. I can hold my tongue if I
like, and I can wag it if I like. And to make
my meaning plain—-—-”


THE LAW: AND HUMAN NATURE 281
“ I’ve no right to aught on land, in house, or
mill, or aught ? Is that so ? ”
“ That is so. You’ve no right to anything.”
“ Not even to a share in the business—what ? ”
“ Not even that. The rightful owner can
make you Show an account of the affairs of the
business since your father’s death. The goodwill
of that passed, like everything else, to Stephen
Muscroft when Martin Muscroft died. I tell you
once again, in the eyes of the law, so far as inherit-
ing anything from your father goes, you have no
more rights than a Hottentot who lives in Tim-
buctoo has, and perhaps not so much, for he might
be a relation, however distant, and in law you’re
none.”
“ And it comes to this,” concluded Michael,
“ Everything that there now is, land, houses, mill,
business———”
“ Is the property of Stephen Muscroft's widow,”
answered Markill.
Michael nodded his head.
“Aye, well, it’s best to know,” he said. “ If
that is the law, why, it is the law. There’s one
damned good job, though: even if that be the
law, it doesn’t alter the fact that I’m my father’s
eldest son, and that he always held me to be such !
I’d rather bear that in mind, Mr. Markill, nor
have all this here property which the law says


282 THE MARRIAGE LINES
isn’t mine. That’s a fact l—help yourself to a drop
more whisky on t’ strength of it.”
“ But—but ! ” exclaimed Markill. “ You
don’t mean to say that—"
“I mean to say that you’ve told me that
naught’s mine, and so of course naught is mine,”
answered Michael. “There’s naught else to be
said.”
“ But, you won’t let it go i ” demanded Markill!
“ I can’t keep hold of what I’ve got no hold
on,” said Michael.
“ But I can tell you how to keep hold,” said
Markill, hurriedly. “ Listen—nobody, I tell you,
knows; nobody suspects. Take the offer that
these companies will make you for that land in
the valley; get the money into your own pocket.
What’s to stop you? You were talking about
sharing with Mrs. Stephen; she can’t make you
share. Put that off, any way, till you’ve com-
pleted the sale. When you’ve got that money
in your own hands you can—why, you could clear
out of here and go live wherever you liked. If
you want to give her something, give _her this
mill and house and the land round them ; that?
a handsome gift. Don’t you realise, man, that
you’re in possession? You can sell that valley
land to such advantage as you little dream of, and
you can stick to what you get. I tell you I don't


THE LAW: AND HUMAN NATURE 283
believe that secret will ever come to light. I
had to ferret it out skilfully, if you want to know,
and I’m not ashamed of it, and I shan’t give you
away, I’ll promise you."
“ If I make it worth your while?” said
Michael, quietly, as if he were asking an ordinary
question.
“ Well, of course, it’s only right that I should
be paid,” replied Markill. “ That’s natural.
What I want you to realise—”
Michael suddenly rose from his seat. He thrust
his hands into his pockets and pulling himself
up to his full height, looked down at his visitor.
“ I’ll tell you what I realise,” he said. “ I
realise that you’re a blasted scoundrel! And
you’re a damned fool an’ all, Markill. D’ye
think ’at I’m going to put my neck in a halter
for ye to hold t’other end on ? If I did what you
suggest, I should be at your mercy. You’d none
be satisfied with the first hush-money I gave
you, not you ! You’d come for more, and more,
and more—the doorstep ’ud never cool 0’ your
feet—I know the likes 0’ you. At your mercy—-
no, by God! I’d rather be at anybody’s mercy
nor at t’ mercy of a fellow like you. So there!
And that’s my answer. You’ve found out what
you call the secret—now then, you can go and
make what you like of it ! ”


284 THE MARRIAGE LINES
' ’ Do you know what you’re saying ? ” exclaimed
Markill. “ You can’t—”
“ I know what I'm saying," answered Michael.
" And I know what I’m just going to say. It’s
this. That’s t' door 0' this house. Get outside
it—and quick! ”
Markill, who had risen, turned very white.
He made a backward step or two and then turned
and glanced evilly at Michael.
“ You'll be'sorry—” he began.
“ I said—quick ! ” repeated Michael.
Markill walked to the door and opened it.
On the threshold he looked back.
“ You’ll walk out of it yourself before long,”
he said, and went slowly away.
VII
DEVERY BALL, journeying village-wards with his
cartload of flour sacks, became suddenly aware
of a compelling thirst. He had been toiling at
high pressure amidst the fine dust of the mill
since an early hour of the morning, and the pint
of ale which he had consumed at his twelve
o’clock dinner seemed to have done no more
than slake the surfaces of his throat and palate.
His mission was to deliver so many sacks of flour


THE LAW: AND HUMAN NATURE 285
at the first farmstead in the village; then to
leave one sack at Mrs. Stephen Muscroft’s ; then
to go beyond the village to a lonely place amongst
the woods, where a supply of horse-corn and pig-
meal was urgently desired. He executed the
first of his errands with promptitude, the farm-
stead being directly in his path. But before he
reached Sherratt’s house the swinging Sign of
the Hooded Hawk loomed large before his eyes,
and as he came up to it his thirst increased in
intensity. He felt in his breeches pocket, and
finding several coppers there he drew rein.
“ I shall god in to hev an odd pint,” he mur-
mured. “ Mistress Stivven, shoo’s noan fast for
t’ flour, and as for them creeaturs away at
Ogsthorpe yonder they mun bide till I come. I’m
noan bahn to goa about wi’ a dry throit for noa-
body, an’ our maister’ll noan be comin’ this way,
’cause he’s agaate o’ talkin’ wi’ Lawyer Markill.”
Thereupon he attached his horse to the chained
ring which depended from the wall of the Hooded
Hawk, and walked into the inn with pleasurable
anticipations of a full pot. It was the middle of
the afternoon; the old house was peaceful and
quiet ; through an open door at the back came
the scent of spring flowers and the song of birds,
mingling with the hum of the landlord’s bees.
And in the inn parlour, lazily occupied with


THE LAW: AND HUMAN NATURE 287
“ It isn’t in Sir Thomas’s power to allow or
disallow,” said Hellinthwaite, with accents of
authority. “ He’ll have to sell his land whether
he likes it or not. These railway companies,
d’ye see, they get what they term compulsory
powers of purchase. That’s an Act of Parliament
which enables them to buy up what land they
require all along the route they’ve fixed upon.
Of course, a price has to be agreed upon. But
the landlord has to sell.”
“ Hesn’t no choice i’ t’ matter?” said the
gamekeeper.
“ No choice at all. If he and the company
can’t agree, then a third party, mutually agreed
upon, fixes the price,” said Hellinthwaite. “ Such
is the law.”
“ I reckon they get fancy prices for land ta’en
i’ that way, then? ” asked the landlord. “Over
and above t’ common, like ? ”
“ They do,” replied Hellinthwaite. “ It’ll be
a fine thing for all owners of land in that valley.
They’ll come out well.”
“ Why, there is but Sir Thomas,” said the
gamekeeper. " He owns about all down that way.”
“ Nay, there’s t’ miller,” remarked the land-
lord. “ Yon there Hopewell Farm belongs to
him—a good hundred acres, in all. And that’s
right i’ t’ middle 0’ t’ valley, as it were.”


THE LAW: AND HUMAN NATURE 293
railroad coming through the valley and wanting
the Muscroft land, Mr. Markill? I expect you
know.”
Markill rubbed his hands and showed his
teeth. He was thinking that Sherratt looked
very well in her black gown and white cuffs and
collar—a fine, smart, handsome woman.
“ Yes—I know,” he answered, slily
“ And you’ll tell me ? " she said.
Markill smiled again and glanced at the table.
“ Supposing,” he said, suggestively, “ suppos-
ing you give me a cup of tea! Supposing I tell
you—over the teacups. For the truth is, I’ve a
great deal to tell you, and I came down specially
to tell it.”
Sherratt looked at him a moment, and then
turned and went quickly out of the room. A
minute later he heard the rattle of china and the
poking of fire in the kitchen.
Markill smiled at his reflection in the mirror
before he sat down in a rocking-chair which stood
by the fireside. Once seated he began to rock
himself gently, and as he rocked he nodded his
head.
“ Yes,” he murmured to himself. “ Yes, this
is indeed a far better plan—far, far better ! ”
And he turned to smile again at Sherratt, who
came bustling in with a well-filled tea-tray.


294 THE MARRIAGE LINES
VIII
EVER since she had lain in the great four-poster
bed in the best chamber Judith had had time to
think. There were few things else to do. The
young Michael claimed a good deal of attention ;
the other Michael came tiptoeing into the room
at intervals to see if the world was going well in
that comer of its wide stretches. There was
eating to be done, and many spells of slumber had
to be taken, and there were chats, desultory and
of small moment, with the nurse and with Ann
Piper, and with such village matrons as were
admitted to the presence. But there was abund-
ant time for thought, for Judith was no reader,
and for the most part of her waking time she lay
staring at the tapestry with which the old bed
was hung, or looking out of the long low window at
her side, and thought until she was weary of
thinking longer.
Judith came to know every foot of the tapestry
by heart. It represented a hunting scene, or
rather a succession of hunting scenes, worked
in coloured threads on a background of green
and blue. There were people going to the meet ;
there was the meet itself ; there were jolly dogs
taking a morning draught at the door of a wayside


THE LAW: AND HUMAN NATURE 295
inn before the throw-off. There were fine and
healthy squires, and beplumed ladies (for the
tapestry was ancient and before the time of
tailor-made habits and top-hats), and horses with
very straight tails, and hounds with perpendicular
stems, and a huntsman who blew his breath out
of bursting cheeks into a big horn; there they
all were when she opened her eyes in the morning
and when she closed them at night. But Judith
was much more interested in the fox than in the
two-legged and four-legged animals that desired
his blood and bones. She had a great sympathy
for him. There he was, breaking cover, disgust
and apprehension writ large upon him. Now he
was crossing a ploughed field, fairly leisurely;
a solitary hound had just come tumbling over
the hedgerow in the distance; a solitary horse-
man was forcing his mount to the leap in rear
of the hound. Now the little gentleman with the
sharp nose was swimming a narrow stream, and
a determined field was in full pursuit. ~ In this
way the chase went all round the testers of the
big bed, but always the fox was being pursued,
and the pursuers were drawing nearer and nearer
to him. And at last came the final scenes,
wherein he was pulled down, and ruthlessly
deprived of his life, and broken up, and a fine
lady with red silk cheeks and blue bead eyes


THE LAW: AND HUMAN NATURE 301
’cause he’d happened to find out that I wasn’t
entitled to aught of it—not to a halfpennyworth !
And then wanted to know how much I’d pay him
to hold his tongue. Damn such-like ! ”
Judith made no answer. She was thinking of
Martin and the unsigned will. And Michael’s
next words made her think of both still more.
“ I’ll tell you how t’ ferret—for that’s what
Markill is !—had found things out,” he con-
tinued. “ It seems that my father’d been sort of
pumping Markill with questions about how to
make a will, and t’ feller had begun to smell a
rat. Then he’d found out about the money that’s
been paid to the old lass yonder in the north
country, and that put him up to going that way
and making enquiries. And so, what with
piercing things 	ogether, and ferreting things
out, he got at t’ truth. And I tell you what’s
struck me, Judith, and I’m glad of it, because
it clears up something I never could understand
and ’at I wanted to understand—bad. I’m sure
now that what my poor father was aiming at
when he asked Markill them questions was to
make a will for himself, leaving me what he
meant for me in my proper legal name, which is,
of course, my mother’s. That’s what he’d been
after. Well, I’m thankful to know it. I knew
my father ’ud never forget me. And if he hadn’t


THE LAW: AND HUMAN NATURE 303
mouth shut. D’ye see what that ’ud ha’ meant,
Judith ? ”
“ You’d have been at his mercy,” she
answered.
“ Mercy, aye, and a pretty sort 0’ mercy, an’
all—as I telled him ! ” said Michael, with a grim
laugh. “ About as much mercy as a hawk ud ~
give to a pigeon when it’s gotten its claws in it.
I’ve heard 0’ that sort, such as Markill. He’d
ha’ tried the squeezin’ game on me—he'd ha‘
sucked up all he could as a sponge sucks up water.
I wouldn’t bargain for silence with a man like
you on no account l—I’d as soon go and hang
myself to one 0’ them mill sails. No—I knew it
were no good, as soon as ever Markill said that
he’d found t' secret out. No good trying to keep
it any longer—it’ll have to come to light now.
So, my poor lass, instead of having what I'm
certain sure my father meant me to have, I’ve
naught! I’m a poor man.”
Judith flung her arms round his neck and drew
his face down to hers. And presently Michael
laughed—cheerily and confidently.
“ By God, but it’s a rare good thing to feel
strong and young, lass, when trouble comes!”
he said. “ There—wi' that kiss, and wi’ you an’
the young ’un, I care for naught—I’ll make a
fortune for young Michael there, see if I don’t!


THE LAW: AND HUMAN NATURE 305
believe it for a minute ! Sherratt’s not the sort
to share with anybody. What do you suppose
she cares for what your father intended ? N aught !
She’s always hated all of us, always! ”
“ But—I always let her see that I’d good intents
to Stephen,” said Michael, wonderingly. “ I
was always kind to both on ’em—she’ll none ha’
forgotten that. Nay, nay, Judith !—you don’t
mean to say that a woman ’ud be that mean and
selfish that she’d——”
Ann Piper came knocking at the door. There
was a man at the mill, and Devery Ball had not
yet returned. So Michael hurried away, and left
Judith still shaking her head at his simplicity and
innocence.
And suddenly a thought struck her. He had
spoken of their turning out; their going away.
Ah, if that came to be, then Hobman’s Hole would
be left behind, and the further it fell to the rear
the nearer a new life would come ! With Michael
and the child, far away from these scenes and
memories, she would be happy. She turned to
the cradle at the thought, and snatching up her
son awoke him with fierce kisses.


THE LAW: AND HUMAN NATURE 307
silk, and had added to a new bonnet and shawl
the further magnificence of gold chains and brace-
lets. And she smiled in a fashion which denoted
a conviction of superiority.
“ Remain where you are, if you please, Mr.
Markill,” she said with dignity. “ This is my
house, and if I choose to bring you as my solicitor
into it, I could like to know who’s to say me nay.”
This time Michael rose from his seat.
“ If you aren’t out of that door in less nor a
minute,” he growled, facing Markill, “ you’ll go
out quicker nor you came in, and with a broken
head.”
Markill retreated behind his companion.
“ You’ll assault me at your peril,” he said.
" I’m here in accordance with the instructions of
the rightful owner of this house, and I’ve the law
behind me. I dare you to touch me, Mr. Wal-
gate.”
Michael started at the sound of the unfamiliar
name. For a moment he felt dazed and bewil-
dered; then he felt something soft touching his
hand and holding it tightly, and he became aware
that Judith was at his side, his hand in hers.
? “Don’t, Michael!” she whispered. " What’s
the good ? Let them say what they have to say
—-it’s far better.”
“ I’m sure it’s far better to have no unpleasant-


314 THE MARRIAGE LINES
step, a large roll of paper under his arm. Michael
stood aside.
“ Oh, good evening, Muscroft,” said Sir Thomas.
“I just walked across the fields to show you
something—I've managed to get hold of a plan
of what these colliery people are after. It shows
just what they intend to propose about mapping
out the land, and I thought you’d like to see it.”
Michael, lamp in hand, led the way into the
parlour.
" I’m much obliged to you, Sir Thomas,” he
said, “ and I take it very kind of you. But—
no plans nor aught of that sort have aught to
do with me now, sir. The fact is—me an’ my
wife’s leaving here to-night.”
" Leaving ?—to-night ? ” exclaimed Sir Thomas
“ What does that mean? Going away for a
while, eh ? ”
“ Going away for good,” answered Michael.
“ We shall be off in less than an hour, and we
shall never see this place again.”
Sir Thomas dropped into a chair, resting his
roll of paper upon his knees, and stared at Michael
as if he wondered whether his mind had suddenly
become affected.
“ What does it mean? ” he asked.
Michael laughed.
“ It means, sir, that according to the law,


THE LAW: AND HUMAN NATURE 315
I’ve no rights here—nor anywhere!” he said.
“ You see, my father and mother, for all 'at they
happened to love each other, were never wed by a
parson, and so I was born without rights—that’s
the law. And as my father died without will,
why, I come into—naught ! Not even his name.”
Sir Thomas stared harder than ever.
“ God bless me ! ” he said at last. “ You
don’t say so ! Dear me, and—Tell me all about
it,” he exclaimed suddenly. “ Perhaps I can—
but tell me all—all ! ”
Michael told him all—there was little to tell.
And while he was telling it, Judith came into the
room with a bundle of clothes, and remained,
at a signal from the visitor.
“ And so there it is,” concluded Michael.
“ And—we’re going.”
Sir Thomas smote one fist upon another.
“ What a woman! ” he exclaimed. “ She
might have had common decency. But—I’m
afraid she’ll stand to her rights. What are you
going to do, Muscroft P ”
“ I’ve thought it all out,” answered Michael.
“ I’m for Canada. I’ve read and studied a deal
about that of late, and I shall do well there.
I’ve no fears, sir.”
“ But—money ? ”
“ I’ve near hand close on a thousand pounds


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